Friday, October 18, 2002
well it's almost time to skeedaddle out of this popsicle stand. we're all out of fukn popsicles but due to bizarre corporate procedure handed down by some penguin i have to wait out my time, even though if a customer were to bust in here wanting some frozen flavored water i'd have to tell him, sorry bub, all out. damn. no fa real no beef, i mean i shouldn't complain. we would have plenty extra popsicles if i didn't always steal them and eat them in the break room and watch saved by the bell repeats. fukn screech, that guy KILLS me, i mean, damn i can't believe that guy didn't make it as a big time actor in like serious action movies. he coulda been as big as that guy that was in remo williams.
ah sheets. i do have stuff to do my pretties, and i know that you do to, cuz no one has come into my little blog for like 2 hours. i think i'm getting a little obsessive about my referral logs. it's like, whoa it's been 15 minutes, who's come in? and no one's come in, yet why am i writing more?
dear alfred, this is a letter to you, since no one reads this crap. you need to write more crap and then people will come. the crap that you are writing does not rule even half as hard as the goddamm rulons. get your shit together.
baggie pants jones.
editors note: upon further investigation, it seems that maybe there was no such thing as rulons in star trek, i think i was thinking romulans. the problem herein is that romulans does not rhyme with rule, which kind of fucks up my whole system here. i think there were some rulons in dino-riders though, and if i remember correctly, they were pretty tough, seeing as they had to battle dinosaurs and stuff. so, um, carry on.
so anyway, holy smokes, if you are ever in Kailua, HI you must run and not walk to kevin's rib crib, i mean those baby backs fall of the bone and dagnabbity shlingiding they are the bombastic boomshastic. the louisiana gumbo is superdupercrip as well.
ok seeing as probably nobody reading this lives in HI i should move on. back to bud ice. now, really, not to go too deep into it, but what the frik? and remember bud dry, and didn't they even have a bud dry ice? and for that matter, people that drink budweiser, regular old bud, i'm curious as well about that. i mean it's ok, but i'm an import man myself. moosehead, corona, st. pauli girl, steinlager, those are usually what i pick up. sam adams is the only domestic that i really dig. what's the mentality of kicking back 10 budweisers? i'm not dissing, i'm just wondering. fill me in, let me know.
so my bob's big boy bobble head is pretty chilled today. no major psychotic episodes like yesterday. and as to whoever in the comments section called bob "gay" let me tell you as far as I know bob is a straight up hetero, i mean, didn't he have a girlfriend, dolly, or dottie, in those comic books? remember those comic books that they gave the kids when you went to bob's big boy? were those not the shit? they were the frank castle of punishing journalism as far as I was and still am concerned.
anyhoo. i read a review of knockaround guys, that new vin diesel flick, that said it just absolutely sucks ass. for some reason i am still curious to see it. does anyone have any pertinent info on this that they could supply me with? i am at a crossroads and need guidance. i don't know why but sons of various mob figures going around beating the crap out of people and no plot whatsover sounds like a good use of my moolah.
i went looking for an angels hat for someone i know who's a big angel fan outta corona, CA, and i could not find one frikken piece of anaheim angles paraphanelia in all of the mall. no one, repeat NO ONE, not even the 350 pound guy with his whole body painted red swinging his rally monkey in the bleachers at Edison Field all season, expected them to be in the world series. even though i'm all dodger blue, being a so cal boy i think it's kind of cool. i mean, the angels have NEVER done shit. ne-ver. and here they are. i'm not getting on the bandwagon, here, but let's just say i'm standing on my skateboard holding onto the bumper, maybe i'll go for a ride. i mean, i hate the fukn giants anyway, so whut the hell.
ok, dammit, go halos. you can watch me flip like a flapjack again at the end of the nba season when the clippers lose in the first round of the playoffs and suddenly i'll have my laker warm-up suit on and be talking about how Shaq is the modern day combination of Walt Whitman and Jim Thorpe.
ok i've run out of random crap to say for now. oh yeah, cal vs. ucla tomorrow. GO BEARS.
well i posted something over at the media juggernaut that is blogcritics. click here to check it out. it's a little dillio about hanging out with randy rhoads' ghost. there's lots of other cool stuff to peruse over there, so go nuts!
as for me, i'll be back. and you know this.
Thursday, October 17, 2002
Ok you little ronald reagan haircut having goatless mother, I'll go down the street, put my head in the standard gray and metallic blue lined mailbox that I KNOW that uncle jack left his octopus stew in overnite, and I'll fill it to the rim with pig snouts from Foodland, and I'll hang out by it and throw it at passersby like a modern day street urchin. I'll slip and slide and smear that shit on my shoulder blades in a ritual last seen in a fukn Danzig video, just for your kicks, word? Will that finish your sick sick little fantasy? will my public humiliation fill the gap in your soul? will my misery cure your inability to love yourself?
First you invent the double decker hamburger and then you think you have the fukn right to order around innocent glendaliens like you're some kind of fuckin god or something? Who the fuck do you think you are? Buddha? You're no fuckin buddha, you're just a chunky little cowlick impaired boy with a special sauce and cheese fetish. Ok, so Grimace and the McDonalds crew bit your style, took the credit for what SHOULD have made glendale the center of the fast food universe. Get over it goddammit!! I mean shit, you went the family diner restaurant coffee shop style, how could you have known? How could you have known that quality would be thrown out the window like yesterday's beans (thanks sai-lo) to be replaced by ever expanding americans stuffing their face at the drive-through, slamming fries in every orifice in an orgy of consumerism before they've even had a chance to savor the first sip of Mr. Pibb?
How could you have known you fat fuck? You couldn't have! So don't try to take your bitter salty tears and left over butter spray out on me and a whole generation of mass media-holics whose only crime has been to listen to the man and stare at the glowing box. Don't fukn do it bob, that ain't g-style. That is NOT g-style.
You're better than that bob. I know it. You know it. Goddamm fukn colonel sanders' rotting ass knows it and so does chuck E. cheeze. Those guys worship you. So you're not bling-blinging like the hamburgler. So you don't have the newest lexus coupe in your driveway like that bitch wendy. So jack is doing a sleestak on your ass. Deal! And don't persecute one of the only people that truly appreciates you. You've got the backwoods, you've got the heart, you've got america by the balls and you don't even know it. Rise, goddammit, rise and take the throne that a fukn clown kicked out from under you. Change the game, don't cry in your beer, slam that shit and order another one. Shit goddammit, bob, you are the ultimate player but you're face down in a bowl of minestrone. It don't have to be that way. The glass is half full. Half full you goddam bobble head piece of SHIT!!!
Ok. Big Boy is still looking at me. He's still smiling. But I don't think it's a sarcastic bitter smile borne of years and years of heartache and failure. I think it's a smile of true friendship, cameraderie and heroism.
You go, bob big boy bobble head. You fukn go, boy.
Wednesday, October 16, 2002
Libraries had certainly fucking changed in the last ten years. The last time Rion Dark had done research in a public library there had been no computers in sight, and now they were everywhere he looked. He eventually found what he was looking for, though. The big green books. Annual records of any magazine or newspaper articles. Dark decided to start at 1975. Wasn't like he had any pressing engagements or anything, he had time to start a long ways back. He looked up Chan and got about a page worth of names, a few Roberts. The Roberts only led to some asshole from Kentucky that had discovered a revolutionary way to give a horse an enema. Year by year, he kept going, looking for the elusive Robbie Chan.
By the time he got to 1993, he had just about given up. He didn't even know if that was the guy's real name, what he was even looking for, anything really. All he had was that fucking name. He decided to keep going for the fuck of it. What did he have to do anyway, get back to the lake and stone-skipping practice?
Then he hit something.
It was a picture of an Asian man in his mid sixties, standing on a beach with a young girl wearing a bikini. The man was clothed in shorts and aloha shirt. The picture was from Westways Magazine, February 1993 issue, in an article about Robbie Chan, a transplanted Californian business man now living in the Kahala district of Honolulu, Hawaii, and the amazing house he had built on his beach front property. Typical puff piece. The picture was a small one on the second page of the article. The caption read: "Robbie enjoys dipping his feet in the sand and spending time with island locals."
The girl in the picture, who looked about seventeen, bore an exact resemblance to the one he had been watching dance in his dreams the moment that Tony had woken him the other night.
Dark could feel a cold sweat seeping from his brow. At first he didn't recognize the feeling, because Dark rarely if ever broke a sweat. The man was a cool customer under almost any circumstances.
Dark was not a cool customer at the present moment, however. The girl in the picture was the one from his dream, there was no doubt. He remembered every curve and line in her face, her body, her hair. He realized he was popping a boner.
Shaking his head to clear the cobwebs, Dark checked if anyone was looking his way, then tore the page from the book. He would have to follow up on this later. He needed some time to chill out and digest the theological and philosophical ramifications of his little kodak moment here.
He thought he'd seen an Arby's on the way to the library. Nothing like a roast beef with horsey sauce to help you mull over arcane messages from the great beyond. The saliva generated by the Arby's urge momentarily broke him from the mild shock he had settled into, and Dark subtly slithered out the front door of the library.
Yeah you. You really need to catch up with Hunter S. Thompson. He's been gambling again. And read this, cuz Bill Simmons is at his best when telling you about a really shitty movie, and it sounds like Undisputed, with Ving Rhames and Wesley Snipes, is about as horrible as they come. Plus it's got the scoops on the second Shaq celebrity roast, in which Jamie Foxx apparently ended someone's career.
Then, I want you to go outside, I'm not interested in what kind of weather you're having, what time of day or night it is, or what animals may be potentially out there. Well, actually, there's one very dangerous, small-penised and severely oedipal complex challenged animal out there, with a gun and a white van, so if you're in Virginia, DC, or Maryland, why don't you just sit inside and watch Powerpuff Girls on tv. Far away from a window. And if you have milk and chocolate sauce, make yourself a sweet beverage. Ok, for the rest of you, are we outside yet? Well then. Find the nearest plant. I don't care if it's right out your door, or if you have to walk 50 miles, but you can't use your car. Bikes and skateboards are OK. Smell the plant, I don't care if there's a bee buzzing around in it, or if you're on private property, or even if there is like an attack dog chomping on your leg. Smell that product of the earth, be it tree, shrub, or flower, and take down some information.
What does that smell remind you of? What memory, from what year, at what age, in what city, in what level, if any, of sobriety, and what religion were you practicing at the time? Take each letter of the beginning of each answer, line them up on 3x5 cards along the length of your driveway, and tell me what it spells. Sometimes vowels might be missing, so fill in the blanks like you would on wheel of fortune. Except there ain't no Vanna White to turn the letters for you on this mission. It's all you, homey. It could mean so much more than you think. It could mean nothing at all. What you find on the journey, however, will be with you like a flask of jim beam, always there, always ready, always available for consultation, consolation, and consternation. always.
I'll be waiting for your answers, cuz I want to compare notes. I won't hold my breath, though, cuz I doubt your conviction. Prove me wrong. Please. Peace. Aloha. Smiles.
Tuesday, October 15, 2002
hosemonster once said, (and I paraphrase, don't sue me for libel), it's funny how life in the blog world works out sometimes. After a glorious week of praise and thanksgiving, I was removed from my perch as the featured link on the ultimate forum in the media world, tony pierce's busblog. It was like christmas at the orphanage, being so honored. I laughed. I cried. It might have been just about as g-style as I ever approached without actually being in Glendale.
The reason that it's like funny, and I'm not sure if it's funny weird or funny ha ha, is that it appears that at the same time my link was replaced with yet another fine blog as the featured blog o the moment in tony pierce-ville, I noticed he put up a little section on his sidebar wherein he linked to some of his posts from two weeks ago, two months ago, and six months ago.
One of the links listed under "six months ago" happened to be my very first appearance in the blogosphere (outside of the comments sections). It was my coming out party, and I didn't even have a blog yet. This was before alfred and berkeley joe and randy rhoads' ghost, before any of that stuff that is now legendarily lame. It was just me, kool keith, stalking the busblog comments sections.
I remember that day fondly, there was a slight bit of moisture in the air, which had dried out by 11 am. I was, even back then, reading the Malcolm X autobiography, which I actually just finished the very last word of this morning (holy shit, are the planets in alignment or WHAT?) Tony had written a post about dean martin with a picture of Sammy Davis Jr., and I recalled how Malcolm X had expressed his negative feelings about black people that conked, or straightened out, their hair. I mentioned it to Tony in his comments section and headed off for a phat Mexican lunch with the office crew. I had Carnitas. They were delicious. With guacamole and salsa and beans and rice which was nice. And two or three coronas, my boss was in a good mood, it was a good day, there were good vibes and the waves were smackin. Ok I don't know if the waves were smackin, but dang that sounded good didn't it?
So anyway, I get back to the office, a nice little beer buzz going on, and I head over to Tony Pierce land, and son of a goatless mother, Tony Pierce himself, supreme overlord of bloggerville, had answered my query in a blog entry, and even referenced, me, kool keith. I was like so honored that I put on my silver and platinum tiara and stripped down to my bikini and paraded around the skunkworks singing Miss America under my breath while taps played softly in the background.
Now it wasn't really 6 months ago, it was June 7 of this year. And exactly two weeks later, the very first day of this blog manifested itself. Now here I am, about a week away from my four month anniversary as a blogger, and I still suck about as hard as a frikken vacuum. But that is ok, cuz I'm good enough, I'm strong enough, and goddamm it, I've used this joke already. The cool thing, though, is I no longer have to explain myself at the end of a post that doesn't mean jack shit. Any of you that have hung around this long already know that these are the ramblings of a deranged lunatic talking out of the ulterior orifice. But, hey, as long as the royalty checks keep coming in. wait, what royalty checks? Alright, where's my fuckin agent? Fukn dead man walking boyz, get out your pitchforks cuz this hay needs bailin'.
Did you ever envision something in your mind that sounded like a good idea, and then you followed through, and you realized, dang that really really sucks? That's kind of like this blog entry. Every time I actually make a conscious planning effort and try to like map out what I'm gonna write, it blows. And when I just type and crap comes out, it shines. And when I hear a whiffle ball bat swing, I still duck and cover. Duck and cover. Stop drop and roll. Don't forget the fireblanket cuz it's funny. Ha ha, not weird. And weird. And really shitty.
Monday, October 14, 2002
but enough of that, who can be salty on their day off? hell yeah, that's what i said. i feel like ferris bueller up in this bitch. another thing to consider, for those that have followed closely the pennyworth/keith/joe adventures. this is the first blog entry not typed in a fevered rush in the drippy and grimy bowels of the skunkworks facility in Kawanui Marsh. Normally i make these entries during the spare moments I can get away from the guy in the leather mask and three dollar pumps who runs around with a whip throughout the plant, keeping up production and throwing stragglers into the pit with the rorshach monster. I've been there long enough, though, that i've found sneaky ways to disappear from the assembly line for up to a half hour with little or no suspicion from the overlords.
anyhoo, today i am blogging from the safe environs of the university of Hawaii computer lab, care of a secret code entrusted to me by mrs. p. That's right true believers, i'm back to school like rodney dangerfield. except this time i'm not the student, but the teacher, so listen up punks. i've got some serious lessons to convey on this here monday morning. first off, did you know that columbus wore women's underwear? it's a little known fact, and without my time machine, I wouldn't know either. even with my time machine, you might ask, how on earth do you have such information, keith? well, let's just say i was travelling with certain representatives of a certain clothing manufacturer that has certain persons dress up like certain fruits in their advertisements, and they were doing a full earth and space-time continuum product inventory, and i was a journey manager. not journey the singing group, because legally i can't work with them due to my business relationship with Joe Perry, who i'm currently in negotiations for a pretty lucrative taco bell marketing and commercial venture.
anyway, that's another story for another day. the story i really think i should tell, since i have your unmitigated, or even mitigated, or even lack of, but the computer screen is on, flashing at you, as you drool incoherently, attention, is the story of the time machine and the little engine that couldn't. one day me and chuck woolery, this was before the dating game, mind you, chuck wasn't shit, i mean, he had had a few guest spots on three's company and I think a miller lite commercial, but shit, i mean, he was bumming money off of me for gyro sandwiches, and i was a pizza delivery guy. so sidetrack alert, so we're like fuk it, let's take the day off, i mean not like that fucker had a regular gig or anything, so i should say I said fuk it I'LL take the day off, and chuck's lazy ass tagged along, and we decided to hook up the time machine and go for a stroll down memory lane. but not our memories, which was what was so cool about it. we programmed the clock cruiser, as we liked to call it, but no one else did, for choo choo train goofiloofiness. you see, this time machine was like google, and you could program in any phrase and it would spit back at you various options and pukahs to choose from, so we're in warp speed and we get like only 3 responses, which was pretty small, but that only made it that much more intriguing, i thought. so before i can even read all three options, fukn chuck "oh i'm such a goddam pimp" woolery just pushes option # 2.
fukn bastard. so we find ourselves along this long run of train track in what must have been fuckville Iowa or cockscratcher Nebraska. Either way it was not okefenokee swamp or anything even remotely close. so, we're like, oh well, mr. pimp-daddy did it again, and i start bitch-slapping Chuck up and down the train tracks, i mean, really going to town on his face, leaving marks with my pinky-ring and everything. so he starts crying and i start feeling kind of bad, cuz, i mean, nebraska isn't that horrible i guess. so i hand him a tissue and all of a sudden this purple and red train with like this crazy glitter all along the side pulls up and honks its horn (i guess you don't call it a horn, but fuck off)
this psychadelic grandpa hangs his head out the window and is like "are yall headed to new yawk city?"
we're like "new yawk city?"
he's like "yeah, new yawk city."
and we're like "get a rope"
and he's like "ha ha ya fukn hippies, walk then." so chuck and i look at each other and decide that walking sucks ass so we get on the train. the shitty thing is that this hill came up and the train got stuck and it must have been a weak ass train, cuz it couldn't get up the hill. so we were like fuk this and jumped off the train and programmed for the time machine to come pick us up on our quadrophonic wristbands and we were like, so outta there.
dammit i never said it was a good story.