Friday, December 20, 2002
The night before Mrs. P and I got on a bird for the mainland, I went out and had some drinks with Aquaman, G-dog, & his buddy Justin, who is visiting Oahu from Maui. Justin is a DJ that worked the club scene of NYC for ten years and said fuck it, i'm ready for some island action. Now he's chillin like a villain.
We went to this cheeze-ass bar in Kailua called Tropics, home of the worst jukebox selection of all time. The few gems we were able to find included Kenny Rogers and the Cars. Absolutely nothing with any kind of hip-hop flavor. Not even like a smidgen of Beastie Boys or like some Hammertime up in the heezy. Long story short we get wilznasted and were kickin back dranks like they were back in style and had then gone out of style again. Beam and cokes, so the beamitude was in full effect and then Aquaman busts with the totally uncalled for Yeager shots, so it was slightly out of control.
There are a lot of pretty damn depressing people that hang out at little dive bars, and you just know they're there every night, scouting out the same old scene, forever haunting there unsuccessul hunting grounds, looking for that magic moment that if it ever came they'd be too bloddo'd to even realize it.
hmmm. interesante, si?
so it's briskly chilly here in la-la land. I mean, it's probably a day at the beach if you live in like wisconsin or some shit like that, but I'm an island boy now with some thin-ass blood, so anything under 75 and I'm reaching for a jacket, and it's way colder than 75. Brrr.
Well my brand-spanking new personally autographed tony pierce blook was waiting for me at the folk's casa, and it is tha shiznit. It was pretty damn cathartic and one of those "yes, this is some good shiznit" in that i got to take a shiznit and read some busblog. Yes, Tony, I couldn't even wait 24 hours without taking my blook into the crapper with me. Hope you're not offended or anything. Me, I'd take it as a supreme compliment. Only the pinnacle of literature makes it into that forbidden chamber. Only the brave, the mighty, the well-written documents are welcome while I'm dropping the kids off at the pool. And that's on Long Beach.
Looks like I'm partying tonite with the old high school crew. Sweeeeeetttt. Gotta love the old high school crew. They were down from day 2 and are kickin' like chicken. Whatever the hell that means. If there are any CV 91 peeps out there reading this, party at Salad Bar's house. If you don't know, now ya know, beyatch.
oh yeah - saw Two Towers today. crip. i think i liked fellowship more though. This one, like the book, was basically a big frikken war. but crip, don't get me wrong. crip. cripply crip cripplicious. with crispy cream captain coocoo congo puffs. and you know this.
Wednesday, December 18, 2002
dizam it's nutty block gettin all yer shit in order on a professional and personal and theoretical scale prior to embarking on a vaycay of extra ordinary magnitude. Basically gotta finish up all my shit in the office today, make sure any potential fires are thoroughly doused with water, sand, or fire extinguisher crap, whatever analagy fits best, so I don't get chewed out for my lack of presence on my return to babylon.
Got to hang out with my good buddy Aquaman on Sunday, who is in town with his wifey hoaloha, another good friend and not-frequent-enough blogger of substantial eloquence and charm. Aquaman is my closest compatriot in the art of hating all things bronco & saluting and cheering on those of serious oaktown raiderness. So we were bumming after the loss to Miami, especially since Sgt. Joker and his crew of dolphin fans were acting the verbose loud obnoxious clowns up front by the big screen at the Shack sports pub in Enchanted Lakes. whatevers. Woulnd't let it ruin our fun, I mean who can complain about $2 bloody mary's and football playing on tv's everywhere? After the raider game was over, we switched areas and caught the end of the San Diego loss to Buffalo, which at least kept the Raiders in first place going into this coming weekend.
Which brings us to round 2 against the shitco's. FUCK DENVER. This one's at Oaktown bitches, and Bartley, I know you're reading this, your ponies are going down in flames, don't even bring that yang, cuz ain't noone buying.
all right that's it for now, i've got the aforementioned mad shit to do.
Tuesday, December 17, 2002
That’s what a customer just told me.
The best. as in, not the worst, and not the mediocre. I am "el supremo." El uno que tiene los qualitias que es muy bueno.
It’s been a long time since someone on a professional level called me “the best.” They usually call me a bitch, a ho, a goatless bastard, but rarely if never "the best". They may indicate, "Keith, your service and extreme degrees of ineptitude are causing me a ruptured spleen." this is secret for I am kicking ass, but wow. good times.
I mean, I know it was partially a “happy holidays” type dillio, but still, my heart is warm. I feel vaklempt. The true spirit of Christmas is entering my soul and warming those chestnuts.
On the other hand, though, fuck Santa Claus, fuck Christmas tree lots, fuck Xmas Muzak, fuck mistletoe, and fuck the Broncos.
But all while embodying the timeless harmony of this wintry yuletide season.
And with all… due…. respect.
Except for the broncos, er, donkeys, they get shitcakes, and they’ll like it.
Bill Simmons' latest ramblings. Here’s a taste spoon:
“I never got the memo ... when did it become okay for Kermit the Frog to make a comeback? Why didn't they make the new Muppets movie just of Kermit urinating on Jim Henson's grave for 90 straight minutes?”
Why can’t I think of shit that funny?
I really don’t have much to say right now. LOTS of shit to do, gotta get all my ducks in order before I head to the mainland on Thursday. PHAT vaycay coming up. LA, Mex, next stop phattieville, thank you very much.
No thank YOU very much. No you. No you. How bad is it that my college roommate and I used to crack the hell up out of each other by simply saying “no you” back and forth to each other while watching Beverly Hillbillies?
The answer: 5. Five what? AstroMedallions.
Really guy? Yeah hah heebie.
Am I the only one that is sick to hell but vacillating with enjoyment regarding this whole having to listen to Christmas music every second you’re in a goddamm store right now? Part of me is annoyed to hell, but the other half just amuses myself all to death by singing along but changing the words so that they’re really dirty. Jeez I was just killing myself at the mall last night. I am the master at amusing myself. Now, the world will feel my wrath.
Hmmm. I really think that is it for now. Yes, I know, I suck, deal with it my peeps.
Monday, December 16, 2002
I’ve always wanted to start a post off with “due to the overwhelming e-mail asking me about x subject, I feel I must address it here.” Truth is I get jack shit e-mail in response to this blog. I don’t know if it’s because people don’t have anything to say, don’t think I have anything of substance to say, or if I don’t hit enough buttons to prompt e-mail, but whatever. I just see other blogs where people are like “well I just caught up on my 300 e-mails from over the weekend, and boy are my fingers tired.” The only e-mail I get is from guys that want me to hold their money while they escape their government persecution and need help watching their horseshit diamond mine and jokers that want to help me get more traffic with their super duperdy traffic magnet or that guy that sells over the phone auto-plastic-surgery. You know the guy, right? Dizam I fell for it once and my nose looks like, um, it doesn’t look good, so no more of that.
Looking back at that paragraph I’m starting to understand why I don’t get e-mail. I mean what kind of response is there to that?
Wow, you really brought up a serious issue. Your fictional self plastic surgery story was really interesting and the fact that you don’t get that much e-mail just forced me to send you this bit of correspondence. You’re so interesting that I just defecated myself.
Matthew, the little boy that lives in your throat.
Are you really Batman’s butler? Dizam that’s really fascinating. I can’t believe that people don’t e-mail you every day, because writing a blog about horsecock sandwiches is pretty damn controversial. In fact, I can’t believe CNN hasn’t picked up on this.
The subway guy
or even possibly,
Dear Berkeley Joe,
You suck. Stanford is the best school, even though we live on a farm. Berkeley is a bunch of fuckin hippies and I sincerely hope that you fuck off and die a gruesome death.
Hmmm. All legitimate possiblities. You could e-mail me and prove me wrong, but both you and I know that’s not going to happen, so I’m gonna go on about my day and keep scraping the rust off of this old 57 chevy, lock myself in the trunk, and wait for karmic consciousness.
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