Friday, January 17, 2003

How bout those muthafuckin cal bears? Aaww yeahh. If you didn’t notice, 3rd Leg is back in the heezy, and he mentioned staying up into the wee hours watching pac-10 basketball, but he didn’t mention the mighty golden ones. Could it be he’s avoiding the topic because he’s checking out the same crystal ball as me and foresees cal beating up on his dookies in the tourney in a replay of the classic j-kidd led defeat of the blue devils back in the early 90’s? is there any truth to that mr. Leg? I think you see it too. No yes you do.

Wellie wellie anyhoo. Always nice to start out a post on the manly topics of sports and etcetera and then throw in an “anyhoo” just to keep people talking. Talking bout shaft that is. What? I don’t know.

It’s early out here in h-town, cut me some damn slack. Fukn c-monks over at utter wonder had me shittin’ my drawers again with his analysis of that Garth Brooks Dr. Pepper commercial. You gotta read it.

And if I forget to mention it again – go RAIDERS. Sorry Ryan, but you and I both know that the hype surrounding the Jets was just that – a bunch of fuckin’ hype. Everybody was scrambling around trying to find the next version of the pats, well the jets ain’t them. They don’t exist this year. The road to the championship goes through oaktown, bitches, and the fukn pundits and talkin’ heads can tout fukn air mcnair and the titans like they always seem to want to playa hate on the og raiders but FUK THEM they’re going down like everyone else and gannon is gonna lift up that superbowl trophy and al davis will come out and literally I’m thinking defecate on the 50 yard line. See that’s what raidernation is all about, taking it up a notch. So FUCK all the haters – raider nation, al davis may have never paid us but the raiders are bringing it home for grandma so it’s all good.

Aaahh. That’s nice. One high quality blog entry in the bucket & my coffee is still piping hot. I love Fridays.

Thursday, January 16, 2003

well here it is 3 in the afternoon already and i haven't even spit a single solitary verse. i should be drawn, quartered, nickeled, and dimed for keeping it that artificial. in light of my unplanned soliloquy on the state of affairs in h-town, will you forgive me for a babble attack? i thought not. thou art sweeter than a maui onion my audiencia. so what the hell is up? have you ever stared at a blank page and envisioned it filling up with knowledge and wisdom and then accidentally vomited on it. yeah, neither have i. Actually my brother told me about that. i would never have the ineptitude to fathom that idear.

this is getting dangerously unknowable. it's like there is no direction and i'm in serious danger of veering off the road of... of.... what's the word i'm looking for? even though i'm digging this album, i can see why iron maiden dumped their first lead singer and hooked up with Bruce Dickinson. massive more amounts of range and hollerage. the guy on this first album is kinda just yelling, but it has a rawness to it unseen since murphy first searched the bush for love. it's old skool and appreciative of a delicate ear and highly recommended and musically genetic, i mean genius.

I didn't even realize it until mrs. p pointed it out yesterday, but the cat in the post below looks almost just like my old missing cat oliver. whut's up oliver, wherever you be, heaven, hell, or any and all points in between. I highly doubt you're in hell, but you were something of a trouble maker and who am i to know the rules of the pearly gates, ie entrance requirements and all that good stuff, so anything in reference to that would be pure conjecture.

i would bank almost any amount that my old dog lindsey is in doggie heaven though. now that was a loyal mountain dog that kept it heezy on each and every feezy no matter what greasiness was involved. remember those books from when you were a kid that were like "the book all about me" and you filled in all your info, like your height, weight, favorite toys, and your best friend? well i put in that my best friend was a dog named lindsey. and it was true. whether this means i had an inordinately cool dog or was totally socially retarded i have yet to figure out, and if i ever do i have a feeling i'll block it from my conscious mind, just like a conveniently forget what happened to that drifter that i picked up on I-5 ten years ago in the middle of the night.

what was i saying? oh nothing. well, that looks like an appropriate amount of crap to write for today. i bid you adieu. oh and thanks to tone-dogger for the new banner up top. getting pretty swanky around here. gonna have to wear my lynrd skynrd t-shirt without the bbq sauce stains if this keeps up.

Wednesday, January 15, 2003

two guys sit in a room. no lights are on, but the tv emits a soft light throughout the room. splashing light here and there. the two guys are on opposite sides of the room, both staring at the tv. Mama's Family is on. Both of them hate Mama's Family, but Beverly Hillbillies reruns stopped at 4 AM. All that is left besides Mama's Family is the Philipino guy with the get rich quick real estate program. That and bowflex. Bowflex is for pussies, they both know that. Neither of them would be caught dead on a bowflex, no matter what the circumstances.

Mama seems pretty damn irate about something or other. Her son Cletus or whatever his name is spilled some jelly on the kitchen floor and is pretty adamant that as the man of the house he should not be responsible for clean up duties. Mama is a little more adamant and Cletus ends up scrounging for paper towels, beginning the clean up, and then being booted from the kitchen in a swirl of obscenities appropriately altered and edited for ma and pa kettle america.

There is a large coffee table in the center of the room, filled to bursting with empty chip bags, books, ash trays, and an open pizza box with 2 slices of pepperoni & pineapple. A window is partially open on the far side of the room which boasts a 70's green carpet. The window looks out onto a courtyard with a small swimming pool. The guy closest to the window sometimes swims in the pool, but the other guy has so far successfully avoided its tempting waters. They are both happy with their respective decisions.

Although they are both exhausted, neither of them makes any indication of going to sleep any time soon. After Mama's Family, NBA Inside Stuff comes on, and soon after that, the nondescript truck will pull up in front of the apartment complex and drop off a bounty of newspapers, none of which are addressed to either of the two gentlemen in question, but that will not stop them from sneaking out there and kiping a pair of them so they can concurrently read the Sporting Green section. After which if they are feeling charitable they may return the papers to the lobby but said disposable literature will more likely take a place of honor on the steadily rising and marginally dangerous teetering stack to the left of the front door to the domicile.

The guy closest to the window has a class at 10 AM. The guy closest to the door has a class at 10:30. These concerns are far and away inconsequential in comparison with the debate as to who is making the jack in the box run. Cuz the sun will be up in a couple hours, and it's bad karma to go to bed on an empty stomach.

The latest Scarface CD - The Fix - is really good. Cop it.

fuckety fuckstick. I've got this clear and open window for maximum bloggage and i really don't have jack shit to say. I don't know if I'd call it writer's block, because, well, I don't really get that. I can always babble. the problem is I've got writers flood, and it's not all good. Is it any better than blockage when you can write but it all just comes out crap? Substance levels approaching negative quadrants captain stubing, prepare to man the life boats. I was gonna do a little bitch session but I'm just not in the mood anymore. I was gonna write about the average air speed of an unladen swallow, but math makes my head hurt. I had thought about pontificating on an ode to a romulan orb, but that's played out.

Well at least my Cal Bears are out there kicking ass. Unbeaten in the pac-10? me likey. but you are not a jedi yet, young brehs. Tally ho, and bring me the head of a huskie and a cougar. Then you will be that much closer to your goal of the unseen schwann.

There's a lot of people in bloggerville that apparently, like, plan out shit to write. That's very admirable. That just does not happen here. The only exception might be my Dark storyline, which apparently 3 people give a rat's left cheek about. The amount of feedback I've gotten on it is quite. yeah, quite. Quite what, I don't know the fuck, but it's definitely quite. Yeah, dammitt, that's it. Quite. Ever heard anyone describe anything as quite? Well now you have Dr. Calibrosis, so get out there on your Honda scooter and spread the word. Pile.

What do you do when you have a blog that is not growing at the exponential rate that you have so inclined? The premise has been that quality verbosity will lure in the appropriate number of serenaders, but that proximity has not been to the parameters that were incrementally invested. Do you go out with your bell and stand in front of blog entry whatever the fuck they're called zonars wearing a santa hat and the stink of last night's bourbon, five a clock shadow lurking and beg for traffic? Do you start talking massive amounts of yang about every other kid on the block, hoping that their wrath and associated lightning bolts will bring about expanded attention? Do you fuck around with google and put in popular words like Wang Zhizhi hoping that the associated word vibe will have b-boys & girls banging down your door for the next dosage?

or maybe you just mope and scrape around in your own salt-water tears, wondering what could have been if you'd only sold out to the man that one time. If you'd only tasted that jewel of gravy just that single solitary instant, you could have lived the rest of your life making up for that moment that had brought you from the depths into the light. the light of what would definitely be up for discussion and possible debate, but the rays of popularity would have definite higher chances of shinage.

Does it make you feel better, damn spot, to feel like some kind of unsoiled warrior, out there on the brigades for truth and justice? who the fuck do you think you're kidding? You're playing with legos with delusions of building the trump tower. buck up and keep pumping the bile of your subconscous out or get the fuck off this boat. we're sick of your whining. oh yeah? yeah. ok. (shuffles off sniffling).

And this, ladies, is why you don't let your sons grow up to be cowboys.

Tuesday, January 14, 2003

A lot of people (ok, nobody) ask me why the hell I like the Clippers so much. I grew up in LA, Magic & the crew were winning championships left and right, why the hell the clipper love? Well let me explain, I have this bad habit of rooting for the underdog, especially when I’m at down points in this journey called life. And my love affair with the clippers began at a point where a dirty dog scratching its hairy ass in a fly infested dump looked like an envious lifestyle compared to the warped view of my own existence at that particular moment.

I was just out of college, living in my grandparents’ poolhouse, which in and of itself was a pretty phat setup. It was just my mindset. I had no vision of my future. I was stuck in a warp of warped warpness. The magical Disneyland of dollar bills getting thrown everywhere and beautiful spokesmodels standing next to lamborghinis that I had imagined must be the post collegiate degree holding lifestyle had never transpired. Maybe my decision to stay in Berkeley and buck tradition by delivering pizza rather than kissing ass at corporate get-togethers like the rank and file of the business school grads wasn’t the best call in the world. But I wasn’t ready to leave b-town and enter corporate craphood. I had this strange idea that holding onto my “alternativeness” was much more valuable than slurping suits at martini luncheons and discussing the economy. Yet after a few months of drifting in the nether I eventually packed up and moved back to la-la land.

And there I found, after a while, a corporate zombie job at this huge company in the entertainment industry, that from the name of the company, which I shouldn’t tell you but it was Warner Brothers, was not nearly as glamorous as you might think. It was full of people that seemed depressed and beaten down by life under their shells of snappy comebacks and office politics. It was social misfits and social butterflies. It was a microcosm of society but seriously distorted by greed and manipulation. It was Ronco hair spray paint and people stuck in neutral and jealousy and mediocrity.

While in Berkeley I’d kind of become a Golden State Warriors fan. This was during and right after the whole Run-TMC thing with Mullin, Hardaway, & Mitch Richmond, when the Warriors were actually good but always choked in the playoffs. I really only turned into a sports fan in college, which explains my nonchalance at the whole Lakers dynasty. I wanted to be different. I didn’t want to root on the team that people actually liked, I wanted to be that annoying fuckbag at the party hogging the dip and spitting out epithets against the popular choice. I wanted to be the guy that no one really understands what the fuck motivates him, they can’t figure that guy, he’s one leg short of a walrus but damn if he doesn’t swing a mean two-by-four.

Anyway I got back to LA and the Lakers were cool, but I needed a team I could identify with. A team of misfits. A team of losers. I found the Clippers. They were so, kitschy, if that’s a word. I mean who else has Bill Walton as their official color commentary guy? Who else brings in the human highlight reel Dominique Wilkins for one season just to boost ticket sales? What other team is owned by such a wackjob that really doesn’t give a fuck if his team wins or loses as long as he has something cool to take his friends to?

So that’s why I’ll be rooting for the clips when they go up against the lakeshow this week. Even though Elton Brand likes to pull his shorts up real high like Pee Wee Herman when he’s throwing it down on Robert Horry.

Monday, January 13, 2003

Dark - part 6 (see links on sidebar for other chapters)

The Arby's had hit the spot. Something about the combination of fries, roast beef, and arby's sauce had also managed to clear his psyche for the serious brain-wrangling he was expecting to come on. Who was this girl from his dream? The picture from the library (which he still had thank you very much) had sent him back to the dream almost. He couldn't stop picturing her perfect breasts, the nipples full erect despite the girl's fearful expression. Her face had appeared almost a perverse Mona Lisa, an expression pained yet pleasing hidden behind that strange smile.

The picture and the dream had also brought about a profound physical need he had been neglecting the last few days, which he promptly took care of upon getting back to his cabin on the lake. As he touched himself, he thought of her, dancing on that table, but he switched the desperate look on her face for the casual smile appearing in the picture from Westways. He came almost violently, his muscle spasms matching the twitching feeling going on in his mind.


The next afternoon he was on an airplane headed for Honolulu. He’d already caught a flight to Seattle that morning, and luckily the layover had been minimal. Dark didn’t really care for lounging around in airports. The travel papers were drawn up under his Mark Jensen alias, one he had acquired from a skinny software executive from Washington. That was definitely one of the fringe benefits of the torture business: all kinds of useful information that your employers didn’t need but you did. The trick was in learning how to take advantage of it. This guy, Eddie Sudlin, had been into Dark’s employers for about 20 grand. The guy was a mover and shaker in the rising software/computer industry of 1996 but he was a sucker for a black jack table and a vodka collins. The long and short of it was that Mr. Sudlin had fallen way behind on his loan when Mr. Scalari, resourceful gentleman that he was, knew that the guy had money stashed away somewhere. Scalari had politely asked for payment once, then twice. Sudlin blew him off. Well three times may be a lady, but it sure ain’t Scalari’s magic number. If someone blew off Scalari after two warnings, that was one too many, and he was, how shall we say, fucked.

Amazing the tactics people will use to try to get out of telling you something. One of the most common is to tell you all kinds of stuff not related to what you’re getting tortured for. I mean, let’s face it, anything to stop a guy from taking a cheese grater to your nipples (and yeah, they had done that), anything to stop the show and get your captors to listen for a second.

Well one of the gems Eddie Sudlin had spilled was his alias and cover identity as a retired lumberjack in Idaho who was supposedly living off of a disability pension. He’d even gone as far as to set up a pension fund under the fake name as a shelter for money. The only hitch was it was a steady income stream over time, and boss Scalari wanted his cash now. Right now.

So eventually, this guy had dished the goods they were looking for: a safe in his Seattle condominium, the opening to which was behind a fake section of bricks in the fireplace. After Scalari’s men had checked the safe and found over $40,000 worth of diamonds and rare coins, the boss gave the order to kill the guy. Which was great for Dark, because he had enough information to go take over this guy’s other identity in Idaho. A few fake identification documents and he was on his way. He even intercepted the guy’s pension payments.

He wouldn’t have even risked using the Sudlin cover had it not worked so good for him during heated times in the past. He’d had plenty of covers that seemed good as gold fuck him over. But Sudlin had set this thing up perfect.

So he traveled as Mark Jensen, retired lumberjack, off for some Hawaiian rays and maybe a luau or two. The decision had come to him immediately upon waking up that morning, after a long and deserved ten hours of sack time. He could feel the heat coming in, still a few days away, but someone was on his ass, he knew it. He rented a car under another, more disposable fake alias, and drove to Butte, which was a few hundred miles away from Flathead. Bigger airport to get lost in and maybe it would throw off his pursuers if they tracked him down to the cabin he’d been staying in. He didn’t know how anyone could, but he had found people pretty well hidden, now hadn’t he. Oh yeah and they had come to know old nelly in the belly yes indeedy. Dark knew what would happen to him if whoever was after him caught up. Being the bad guy, although it may keep you up nights, (less every year he was in the business) sure did have its professional insights.

After a six-hour flight, the captain ordered the flight attendants to secure themselves, and the plane came in for a landing. Dark waited for his luggage and stepped outside to flag down a cab. Within minutes a green and white cab came to a stop in front of him. He threw his bags in the back seat and got in.

“Where to?” the driver said. He was a dark fellow with a sizeable belly and a friendly smile, probably Hawaiian/Filipino.

“Waikiki. The Sheraton, I guess.”

“Well, there’s three Sheratons, brudda. You care which one?”

“As long as they put a mint on the pillow I’m golden, pal.”

Dateline: 1-12-03, Raider Central, Kaneohe Division

Raider game is in 2nd quarter about 6 minutes left – Raiders up 10-3. Boot Bill and Hiawatha are here tanking coqui bottles. They just showed up around 10 talking about juji and manju whatever the hell that is. Well back to the game.

Raiders are the team to beat beyatches. What’s all this press about the jets? Who the fuck are the jets? A bunch of punkasses if you ask me. Am I tempting fate ragging with the game in dispute?

Ah shit nice pass to Santana moss on that beyatch. Best to stop typing and get to watching. Besides boot bill just spilled his 9-ball dammitt.

10:20 to go in the third – still 10-10, Janikowski just biffed a gimme from like the 13 yard line or some shit. Fukn shite. Boot Bill & Hiawatha are trading off vodka shots. That bottle’s almost empty, so then they move on to the plastic bottle of generic “Canadian whiskey” whutever the fuck that means. They are insane and trying to draw me in with them. But no. not today. The raiders must see the road in a clearsighted haze that would be overthrown by that kind of action.

Oh and ordered some za.

Fukn was walking in the kitchen yesterday and stepped on a nice sized chunk of glass. Somehow a glass that broke like a month ago left that lil land mine or somethin rassled it outta a crevice or sumthin but it was waiting for my foot and had me bleedin like a stuck pig.

Fuck yeah td pass to jerry porter the td came while the pizza guy was here. And I flipped out and was like “yeah, gyeah” and jumped up and down and acted a fool and I gave the dude 3 bonez for being a good luck charm for the silver and black thank you pizza hut ok time to grind.

Jerry porter is the fukn shit!!!!! Gannon with the pump fake, porter sprinting up the field 50 yards porter’s longest of the season, final 25 seconds of the third.

Beyatch! – Oakland up 17-10 and driving hos!!!!

Td jerry rice. Aaaahhhh yeeeaahhhh. Raiders up 24-10 about 14 minutes left in the game. Dang that pizza hut was good – the Tabasco pepperoni pan crust – trust me on this one. Go, call now, they’re waiting.

Fuckn romo – goddamm romo you badass mofo. Fumble recovery, turnover ho, romanowski. Nice. Oh & charles woodson is having a pretty damn good game. Fuck, interception jets, next fukn play. Damn fuck damn.

Fuck yeah another quick turnover – interception raiders. Raiders still up 24-10. boot bill has passed out woken up passed out woken up and is demanding the gyro stand on 5th street to deliver when they are in the next district and time capsule. Commercials thou wert made to blog. Well mrs. P gets back tomorrow so I’m a happy bloggin fooh whatever happens in the aforementioned and postmentioned raider shenanigans.

Raider raider raiders. 27-10 off a janikowski field goal, he’s 2-3 today. So boot bill is asleep again. Hiawatha has remained totally silent for almost the whole game. The only outbursts have been the porter td he grabbed his bow and arrow and shot an apple off of bill’s head, dead on shot too. This kid has got some skills that pay bills. Standup guy. Vouch for him to the end.

So where were you bartley? You’re so mia it’s like Chuck Connors up in the beyatch. Punk.

At 7:34 in the 4th, regan Upshaw outta university of California with the crushing sack on chad pennington. Next play: Yeah nice pass chad but outta bizzounds. Dogpound coulda told ya that. Well raiders seem to have this in hand but the way nfl games going lately, no guarantees. There ain’t no guarantees except at circuit city where you can count on them… to try to sell you horsedogger special warranty styles, like you just came off a boat from mainland china, oblivious to all but the wind. Immersed in a sudden and foreign American wasteland, wondering hither and thon to that ultimate apple pie.

6:20 left raiders driving. This one’s in the fridge. Jets just flubbed the 4th & 16. raiders moving more & more, running, pounding, hasta luega jets. Bring on the titans, come on over to oaktown and soak up the town before your ass-beatings Nashville jokers.

Well that’s about it folks. Raiders up 20 off another field goal. The jets on the sidelines have that look of “well, shit we got our asses kicked. At least tomorrow I’ll be in my Bentley and riding jet skis and won’t have to do pushups and situps and fukn all that other crap every fukn day. So I’m a bitch ass ho that got beatdown like a piece of fish at the fishmarket. That’s what I said, the fishmarket.”

Whatever. Raiders are fukn goin all the way this year.