Friday, December 06, 2002
Bumpin’ Mana and getting jiggy with it. Mana is this rockin soulful bunch of fellers from Mexico (I think? – they might be from some other South American country – my wife would know) ANYway, they rock harder than the rock-ons. (got you there, there’s no such thing as rock-ons, but they’d probably be pretty bad ass. Too bad Dino-Riders isn’t on TV anymore, I could recommend that to their creative team, it’s a natural fit, I mean frikken frakken fro) So anyway, when I write Mana, please be aware that over the last “a” there’s supposed to be a dashy line or something to emphasize the pronunciation, but since I don’t feel like wasting a half hour of my time scouring my computer for that little dash or whatever the hell it is you’ll have to use your imagination.
Yes. Ok. Well I have a lot of crap to do, so I guess that’s it for now. If I don’t check in on you again, remember that the Raiders are America’s team (eff the cowboys) and the Bronco’s suck dilapidated donkey dicks.
If you can retain that knowledge, you should be able to find the forbidden crystal, and all your dreams will come true. Well, maybe just the naughty ones.
Peace, love, and Mana to all. And to all a good night, er, afternoon, (well it’s still morning here, you fucks are probably one foot out the door out there on the east coast – goddamm bastards.)
Which reminds me of the story about the time I once had a little trick-or-treater come to my door and I said “well aren’t you a scary little bastard,” and then he got a sad face and looked up at me with a mixture of anger and resentment and shame and said “I’m not a bastard.” And then I said, “here kid, take everything I’ve got, I’m gonna go call my therapist.”
Thursday, December 05, 2002
Guess who’s back the ultrablognetic.
Takin’ more shots than pete frampton’s frenetic
Pace on a song with bell bottoms loose
On a three martini luncheon with his uncle jack bruce
It’s simple in my mind and it’s simple in my tummy
I whips it out and flip it like a game a gin rummy
Smooth copacetic and a captain of the team
Chillin in the cabbie with a Escobar lean
All to the left like a choking Chinese chicken
Talking lots a shit cuz I’m never bullshittin’.
East side fooh.
Listening to Makaveli yesterday and this morning, and I think it’s pretty fukn funny how many rappers that he fukn ripped apart on that album kiss his ass all over town. Tupac would be rolling over in his grave I think, seeing all these rappers he hated using him to sell records. Being heavenly (or hellishly, or purgatorishly, or earthbound walking the plains of Iowa and haunting cornfields, wherever the fuck he is) omniscient, it’s interesting to ponder that he probably knows now whether or not his suspicions of a conspiracy by New York rappers, most notably Puffy and Biggie, was founded or not. If totally unfounded, I wonder if he gives half a fuck. I think he probably does, while at the same time thinking “Darwinism, bitch.” The duality of Mr. Shakur may have been his biggest draw. Hmmm.
Yes, indeed, yes? Hmmm frikken goddamm hmmmm.
Oh and the new snoop disc is pretty dang good. And the last song is a dis on Suge Knight. Snoop has got some frikken balls to be going on record saying fuck Suge. I mean this is the same guy that Vanilla Ice described his encounter with as “I needed a diaper that day.” In fact, I’m getting a little scared even writing this. Hmmm. Yes, hmmm indeed.
Wednesday, December 04, 2002
Dark - Prelude 1.5
There were two things in the world that Rion Dark loved unconditionally. These things were pain and money. The pain of others was what he really enjoyed, although Kylie had taught him the pleasures of his own agony as well.
Two things that Dark loved quite conditionally were the two main women in his life at the moment. Could he even call what he felt for them love? In some ways he despised Bonnie more than he cared for her, but that was what made the relationship so special to him. As for Kylie, he supposed that if he'd ever loved a woman, she was it.
Kylie Dusk was the kind of woman who took the word “bitch” as a compliment. She was a stripper at the Box, a skin club in Hollywood. Kylie made her money shaking her ass and bouncing up and down on desperate "gentlemen's" hidden hard-ons - lapdancing they called it. Dark had gone to the club a few times to check out her gig, and he had to admit, she was damn good at her job. She really drew the sadomasochistic freaks from their masks of domestic stability. Her whole trip was that she hated men. It was on her promo poster - "come see the slut that loves to hate men and whip them till their asses turn rosy red." Literally, that was her slogan. Maybe it wasn’t catchy, but Kylie made more tip money than any two other girls in the club combined.
A little expose on Kylie had appeared in the back pages of the LA Weekly a few months back, a neat little column sandwiched in between the horoscopes and the phone sex ads. "The allure of Kylie Dusk is not in her appearance, though she is undeniably beautiful in a macabre sense. The true draw of Ms. Dusk is her ability to make men feel good by treating them bad." And it was true. She had so many stories of sad sacks walking into the club. After a few hours of being berated and verbally abused by Kylie, they had gushed a secret load in their pants and left the club a happy man, ready to go home and deal with wifey and the brats for another week, that dark need for domination satisfied again. For the time being. They always came back, and that is why she had so many regulars and made so much cash.
"It is my experience," she had been quoted in the column, "that men love to be treated like shit. Especially the kind of scum that crawl into the Box. Men scurry around the world, attending to all their important business, blowing up their own egos, but at the heart of every man is a spot. This spot is the black ulcer that can only be treated with abuse. I serve as the most effective medication for this ulcer."
Dark loved the blackness in her, the fact that she cared almost nothing for him. He loved the violent, enraged sex they had together, which often resulted in minor injuries to either or both of them.
The sex with Bonnie was less exciting, almost tender. Bonnie was nearly the complete opposite of Kylie Dusk. With Bonnie, he was in charge at all times, which often bored him. He didn't know why she stayed with him, perhaps desperation. He had never really cared enough even to ponder it.
With Bonnie, he was the one inflicting pain, mostly of the mental sort. Dark didn't love Bonnie, didn't even really like her. Dark did love, however, the hatred he felt for Bonnie, the paradoxical nature of that hatred in the whirling mists of her unabashed, unrequited love for him. In a way, really, he cared very deeply for her, but for purely selfish reasons. There was nothing for Dark like the joy in abusing someone who loved him.
Enough uninvited thoughts of the fairer sex, Dark mused. He should be keeping an eye on his surroundings.
brand new Snoop Dogg CD, which I just so happened to pick up on my lunch break today. I will reserve my ultimate judgment until after the first few listens.
Ah, something I’ve been meaning to do. As Dr. Doom, longtime foe of the Fantastic Four, once said, “all words of Doom must be recorded for the posterity of all.” Or something like that. Anyway, I noticed that for one reason or another, one of my posts which still appear on the main page is not showing up in the archives. It’s just a little baby post, but still it is a word of Alfred and therefore we cannot tempt fate and let it be lost in the wilds of the gigasphere.
So here it is, dated November 30th, while I was in LA:
yo yo yo. super quick note in the midst of checking e-mail here at the g-town HQ. Thanksgiving was a chronic feast of enormous magnitude. Actually had two turkey nights in a row with two segments of the fam, so the estomago is muy enormo y full. It's been good times being back in my hometown, been catching up with some old friends and hanging with la familia, which is always good. Hope all of y'all in bloggerville had a good turkey time and all the wild travels, whether cross country or cross town were safe and fruitful. (frutiful? really guy?)
anyway, I"m outtie, we're gonna go check out my Grandpa's gravesite and say what's up to him. Hope he had a nice turkey ghost feast up there in cloud acres.
Alright that's it for me, till next time. adios and aloha.
Now just think if that had been lost? Holy shit, you think maybe it wouldn’t have been that big of a deal, but think like if you got in a time machine and a fly came in there with you and you left it in the year 125 BC, I mean, we might all be giant barfing toads right now.
And I just can’t risk that.
Wasn’t that just the most interesting shit ever? Yes I know. I could make it even more boring by going into the fact that notifying blogger about the problem would have been about as effective as shooting a squirt gun at a bonfire, but, well, I’m all about being intensely fascinating. Mmm-hmmmm.
Oh for clarification’s purpose and since I don’t have much of substance to say, I know what a change from a forum that usually tackles the gravest of world issues, I meant to say in the last post that I rarely DISagree with Tony Pierce. I mean, we don’t agree on everything, but we don’t necessarily disagree on many things. Uh yeah, so what the fuck ever.
One thing we do disagree on is the best album of the year. He says Jay-Z BluePrint 2, which honestly I haven’t heard yet, but any album whose first single is a blatant bite off of Makaveli can’t be better than the latest DJ Shadow album, Private Press, which may be one of the best albums ever, regardless of genre, and although not quite the classic that was Endtroducing, is still a jewel in the rough that is popular muzak.
Blah de fuckin blah.
Over and out. As in I’m over it and out of here. As in the internet, as in that middle finger you see ain’t pointing you to the sky to see the pretty red balloon, it’s saying fuck off beyatch.
But no I don’t really mean that, I’m just a salty boy. Why? Fuck if I know, I’m a moody lil’ ho. Deal with it.
Peace out on a straight up bonumbo tip, kriss-kross style, loc.
Tuesday, December 03, 2002
phat rhyme that 3rd leg spit, for which I will now give him props, even though he neglected to give me a shout out. Oh well, maybe I’ll find my name somewhere in the liner notes of his first album. It’ll say something like “to that punk ass mark that bitched about not being on my album, I give a middle finger and a eff you – fuck off and die you lil’ bitch keith!” or something like that. Nah, fa real, it’s all gee, nah mean?
Fuck whut’s my deal today? I just feel like sayin’ thangs about other bloggers that are like compliments but also to which they will look twice and be like “whut?” don’t ask me why, maybe it’s my inner attention-whore coming out and having a to-do on the tizown. Or maybe I’m just keepin’ it rackneal.
One thing I’ll say, even though Tony doesn’t like her new design, I think Sarah’s mud-colored somber expression of something or other is pretty damn cool. In fact it prompted me to link her on my super special side bar today. Which is a serious honor if your name is Samson, and even if it’s not. I’ve admired Ms. Crabtree’s writing from a distance courtesy of my homey hose monster for a not so small amount of time, and whereby I almost never agree with Tony I gotta say, the new design is a bombucha frongucha, and for those that don’t speak Swahili, just know that that is a serious compliment.
What else? Ah fuck it I’m over it for now.
Props to Webster, whoever the hell he is, for leaving me a comment, even though he says I’m gay. He also said have another beer, which I like when people do that. It makes me happy because usually the next step after that involves me drinking a beer, which makes me happy. Fuck I already said makes me happy. That’s not good blogging. You’re supposed to like use different words. For example I should have said makes me gleeful. But gleeful sounds kind of faggy, which would go back to the people calling me gay part, which really doesn’t bother me that much, as long as they offer me a beer and don’t like attempt to touch me inappropriately. So props, Webster, who I think I know, but I don’t know. Yep.
There’s a new blog in town called madpony and it’s making waves in bloggerville and it’s these two chicks in Oklahoma and it seems pretty interesting, so check it out. I mean for something from Oklahoma, it’s got some very redeeming qualities. Not that I’ve ever been to Oklahoma, but it’s not high on my list of tourist destinations to tell you the God’s honest truth. In fact I think Idaho is higher on the list, and I’m not really even that into potatoes. But if you want the real insides scoops on Oklahoma and wacky sorority hijinx, well, tell ‘em Alfred sent you and, yeppidydeppity you’ll get hooked up.
Meesh seems to be on an extremely extended hiatus or very light blogging schedule and it’s really causing me some inordinantly high pharmaceutical bills as she is like one of only three blogs in the world that rule way way harder than the rulons and that is like a triumvirate that is very delicate yet powerful at the same time, and when the balance is broken my meds need to be adjusted accordingly. So blog meesh dammitt. Stop snowboarding all day, I mean all you have to do is take a 5 minute break from the slopes and Sven or whoever norse god of Colorado-ness you’re hanging with and his $80 haircut and thor heyerdahl kon-tiki wine-cellar action and nestle down in front of the computer and type for just a bit, just a teeny weeny bit. Please? We understand that you’re a local celebrity and in demand and you’re not working and it’s all play and no work and there’s mass snow and you’re the newly installed ski-bunny-goddess, oh sorry snow board bunny goddess, but BLOG, typety-typety-typety and I won’t lose my shirt in this Longs Drugs fiasco.
Is it me or are the holidays the time to get in touch with your inner schizophrenic? Have you ever felt like seriously offending someone just to see their reaction? And then just when they expect you to say, “ah dude, (or ah, dudette) just jokin’, ha ha,” ya know, you just leave ‘em hanging and walk away, like a total fuckin’ asshole. That would be really funny. I gotta find someone that I want to get rid of and do that. If only I’d thought of that in High school. Oh yeah, I did.
In high school, why was it that all the chicks I wanted we’re like my good friend that there was no way we could ruin our friendship and all the girls that we’re obsessed with me I was like, ok, um, it’s not gonna happen? For example there was this one chick that was on my jock like salt on popcorn but I just wasn’t into it, and there was this other chick that I was ultra-obsessed with but she saw me as like her funny buddy. Ah who gives a fuck, I’ve got the most bomb-ass girlie in all the land now, so the world is copacetic. All the peeps that thought I wasn’t gonna amount to shit and thought that my records wouldn’t sell and that I’d be on park row sellin’ t-shirts, you can new jack swing from my nuts, cuz it’s rasta-time, bitches.
Ya know, that’s it. I’m done. I’d like to do more for you here on this one, but I really think that you and I both know that this is going in a direction that we hadn’t anticipated and frankly neither of us are comfortable with. I feel like it’s closing time and I’m that guy that is harassing the bartender for one last drink, and you’re that big muscle dude bouncer that is gonna stomp on my head and you back there, you’re that chick that was dancing with the marine all night but then said, ooh I’m tired, time to go home and watch deeprak chopra infomercials. Ya feel me? It’s time to pack up your boar’s head and skeedaddle. As for me, I’ll be here poking the fire and doing lines of drano. Not snorting them you sick fuck, I’ll be painting them on my wall, the stuff drips down the linoleum and makes nice patterns.
Perfect. Just perfect. I couldn’t have written it up any better. Oh, wait, I did. Ha ha. Bye.
Monday, December 02, 2002
I feel like a fuckin dumbass today. Every task seems like fuckin climbing frikken mount everest up in this bitch. Every other word is fuckin, which is the mark of true creative literature.
I’m number three on google’s list for searches for kool keith. This is number 2. Pretty interesting bio on the man known as Dr. Doooom, Dr. Octagon, Matthew, Black Elvis, and Spankmaster.
So yeah, there’s that.
I’ve got like 8,000 things to do and I feel like a fuckin llama that just smoked a pound of crack and who happens to had a brain enema. So in other words, I’m ready to rock.
When we went to Forest Lawn to see my Grandpa’s grave we happened to walk by Liberace’s grave. The L is missing, but other than that, pretty impressive. We had a conversation later about how he supposedly went on trial in England for being a homo. Not that there’s anything wrong with that. So if you see Liberace’s grave, my grandpa’s straight ahead and right around the corner. Go check him out and say I said wuddup. Wuddup Grandpa. Shout out.
Speaking of not being anything wrong with that, for some reason the subject came up at my buddy’s house in G-Town the other night, and I used that line, which is my standard line when the subject comes up, because it’s the perfect combination of being how I feel and being from a Seinfeld episode, and he was like, “ya know, fuck that, I hate when people say that, there IS something wrong with that.” He reminded me how when we were in high school, and I would give him a hard time on his homophobia and tell him like, “Dude, if I were a homo, would you like disown me and never talk to me again?” and he would say “fuck yeah,” and I would be like, “Dude, that’s pretty fucked up, I’m a homo,” and he’d say, “shut the fuck up” and I’d say, “dude, you’re like homo-bigotted” and he was like Mr. Future Military joe, and he’d say “fuck yeah I am.” So the point of the story is that I guess he’s mellowed with time, ten years in the military and now a couple as a civilian, and now he’s response is that he’d still talk to me, but not very often.
By the way, I’m not really gay. No, really. I mean, not that there’s anything wrong with that.
So anyway, back to going to Forest Lawn. It was pretty somber, but good. My Grandpa is in a cool area, like an enclosed little patio, with a bunch of other dead people to hang out with. Open air above, lots of company, he was a people person, so my Grandma likes to think that he’s happy chatting away with the other people in his area, keeping happy. So that’s cool.
My Grandpa’s mother is in the same cemetery, outside by the road, so we went to check her out too. Then I remembered that my aunt’s little baby, that died of Crib Death back in 86 was here too, so we hiked up baby hill and said hi to him. That was the one that really got me vaklempt. There were tears rolling down alfred’s face I’m not ashamed to admit. That little guy had less than a month, but he was a little trooper and we had him for one Christmas and my aunt was so happy, and she’s happy now years later, she’s got a really cool situation, but it brought back all kinds of heavy memories and rough times, so it was like one of those I’m sad, but in a good way because you know, it’s nice to remember somebody that is gone. I think that it really keeps somebody’s ghost happy when you remember them, and not that many people probably remember my little cousin, seeing as how he wasn’t around very long, didn’t make too many hookups in the world of men, well Joey, I remember you, and you’re in my thoughts, and you made a difference, and you were a dang good little guy, so carry your head hi up there at the heaven morning meeting or whatever it is you ghosts do on Monday.
Wu-Tang Clan is a dang solid bunch of rappers. Check out the W if you haven’t already.
Snoop Dogg’s new show on MTV is kinda funny.
I feel like a frikken retard today. Not that there’s anything wrong with that.
I think I’ll go to the bank now and count my duckets.