Friday, February 28, 2003

from Charley Rosen's column today, in which he breaks down every NBA team in the western conference:

The Clipsters are living proof that talent is not enough to win. Andre Miller, for example, who used to be mentioned in the same breath as John Stockton, Gary Payton, et al., is completely miscast as a playmaker on a team of guys who want to make their own plays. Yet it's almost understandable that because so many of the Clippers are free-agents-in-waiting, they're more concerned with the hope of a bright future than with the dismal present.

Don't blame Alvin Gentry, a realist and a workaholic. Do blame general manager Elgin Baylor for assembling such a mismatched squad. And above all, blame Donald (Less Than) Sterling's penny pinching for the mess.

What can the Clippers do? Trade the entire organization -- lock, stock and barrel -- for draft picks and paper clips, then declare themselves an expansion team and start all over.

so that means there's hope, right?

All is well in the world because the coffee in my Gloria Jean’s coffees Mele Kalikimaka travel mug is still hot. Not percolating, but the temperature factor is definitely engaged on the good side of the spectrum.

I just had a really good feeling, because something I thought I’d fucked up on by not verifying a schedule early enough yeterday was actually already delayed by another party, so thus I am oh so appropriately on time.

It really is all about time, isn’t it? I was thinking about this yesterday, while I was also thinking what an egotistical bastard I am for using the word “I” so much. The understanding that, really, time is the thing that really holds the cards. This guy, let’s call him Joe Johnson just for the sake of argument, because I used Baggy-Pants Jones in last week’s nuclear disarmament treatise. So anyhoo, saw this guy all pissed off, looking at his watch, like “fuck” and probably cursing the name the lord of the sith, the emperor, who is in some very indirect way his boss, but because he’s so associated with evil that you just need to say fuck him.

Fuck I have the crappiest old mouse, and I could get another one, but I don’t like the new rollerball mouses, well at least the one I had for a little while gave me like hand pain pretty quick, so I just deal with sliding the fucker around, even though it gets caught on something behind my desk sometimes and drags it.

Yes, fukn fascinating. Oh, you know what I heard? I can’t think of a goddamm thing. I’m scanning my mind for some kind of interesting tidbit of news for you, but ya know what I didn’t even watch the news last nite or even check the internet before writing this little thing to you this morning. Almost 9 AM Hawaii time, no matter what it says on that piece o shit. I tried to set my blogger for Hawaii time, and it has an option, but it just fully palsied my computer and blog and, let’s just say I don’t think blogger likes Hawaii time. Hawaii time is for people named Hawaii 5-0. Really GUY?? Fukn stupid.

I have a fleet of cars going right now, due to circumstances outstanding but unrevealable, am rolling like I’m zooted and booted. Gee’d up from the feet up. Bitch, my glass cost 800 dollaz. Add me up.

Snoop dizzle with the kay u are up tizzle fa shizzle with gizzle clintonizzlle. I had a bizzl with big bizzle this mizzle.

Ok I'm stopping right now. Sorry about that.

Thursday, February 27, 2003

Wow. Mr. Rogers died. I actually received the news from he of the ever-informing important shiznit Tony Pierce. Before you read this or after becuz you must read what Tony says about Mr. Rogers becuz it’s important to let the philosophers of our generation first crack at serious generational hook-ups like that, ya know, passin shit down, and homey is 109 years old, so he knows whuts up, his first 3 grandkids used to watch that shit back in the day. I think we talk about different, ya know, angles of this phenomenon in television and probably it wouldn’t really matter. Before or after go read it. But you’d get the real feel of what I felt when I wrote this and then you might understand the moment that led to this, um, paragraph. And the next couple. Anyway, moving on…

Mr. Rogers was a super cool dude but a little freaky. Not like you thought he was a child molester or anything, just that he was so calm and chilling and his very particular ways, like his routine at coming and going in his house, taking his shoes off, putting his slippers on, etecetera. Nuthin wrong with that, nuthin’, just a little odd that a bachelor coming home and ya know, making sure nice nice everything in place. But maybe that’s more a reflection on my own lack of cleanliness and organization, and maybe… wait, damnnit Mr. Rogers, you went and taught me another lesson from beyond the grave, you crazy old feller. Thanks Mr. R!

He had that pretty cool little train that went off to this miniature world with this like despotic king and this girl and the train always went through this tunnel & you were like, “whooooaaaa, this is an effed up train dawg…”

When I think of Mr. Rogers, I can’t help of thinking immediately of David Robinson of the San Antonio Spurs. It took me a minute to figure out why. Remember on the old school Saturday Night Live, there was an episode where Eddie Murphy did a classic send-up of Mr. Rogers, and the character was called Mr. Robinson. So it was Mr. Robinson's Neighborhood. And he took you through this ghetto-ass effed up area, and his guests were like gangsters and pimps, and he was all “this is a crack rock, children, you sell this to anybody and everybodys”. Ok he didn’t say that I made that up, but he said stuff like that. and this is related to David Robinson because years and years later, the Spur did a series of advertisements for one or anotha shoe company, and once again the name "Mr. Robinson's Neighborhood," off of the old SNL skit. Like if you tried to drive to the bucket or dunk in Mr. Robinson's neighborhood, you ain't muthaeffin welcome in that hood g-ridah, cuz they ain't down with it. that was the punchline of all this information, not that in it was supposed to be funny, but that it was the resolution to the reasoning of my inner thoughts and chronological brain clock.

I’m experimenting with not cussing right now. I read one of my entries out aloud to myself and the profanity sounded a little harsh. A little over the edge and I started wondering if there are a lot of people out there that might read this blog and be like, ya know? This guy has some interesting stuff to say, and then see an eff and be like ya know what, this guy is going a little overboard, I think I have to take Aunt Martha to the good section of town, where such evil starf is not allowed or condoned or even tolerated. But I also think of the old geezer watching his tv & like “maybe I’ll read a blog” and coming here and thinking ya know what? Fuck this guy. Fuckety fuck fuck off this muthafuckin dick slapping goatless bastard 2x4 sodomizer!!!! How dare he mess up the patterns of super 357????”

And then the loony bin wagon would show up and crate that stupid old fukn deuschole that I bleed red whit & blue and it’s all about saying bitch ass fuck, I mean that’s what Luke Skyywalker said, ya know, Banned in the USA, and dude those guys were fukn poets, especially fresh-kid ice, the half black half Chinese bastardized step uncle of ODB.

Oh and Mr.Rogers R.I.P.

Fokken Clippers lost like little hobags last night to the not quite so lowly Golden State Warriors. And of course I talked yang, so now I must eat crow to Joseph in a blog entry per our little bet.

But not right-this-minute-now. No. later-today-now. And, really, the proper place for that kind of diatribe is clipperville. For one day only it will be warriorville. For ONE day only, and I swear that on a babylonian jug of goats blood.

Farken arken more busy crap ass crap to do today. It almost makes me want to climb up a building and (ah HA you thought I was gonna say shoot people, didn’t you? Didn’t you dammit?) eat some donuts. Just relax and feel the wind as the blueberry seeds get stuck between my teeth.

Well I just don’t have much to say right now so I’m gonna end this charade with a g-style shout out to effrom and the gang over at 25th street. Hey yo, fredo, keep a yoo-hoo on ice for me homey! Eace-pay.

Wednesday, February 26, 2003

ok, well, welcome to horseshit acres. dagnabbit it was a busy morning, but it looks like it's tapering off. fires are getting put out, old women who were up to this point bleeding profusely from the jugulars have received medical attention, and your neighbors dog has been put down like the little bitch that it is.

The newer happier generation has been displaced by the jaded and skeptical hopheads currently running MTV and YM magazine. Totally reliant on over-the-counter medications of various strengths and types, they trudge on through their daily grind and pump out whatever mongrel diatribe seems fitting for that exact moment of public consumption.

In short they accept their roles as media whores and relish it like catsup on a hot dog. Without living high on the bastille or anything like that, i feel i can safely say that i speak from some level of authority on this matter. no explanation will be given for this statement and any requests for such shall be met by a hard fist to the nose or a pick-axe to the spine.

Do you know how many times I say "aloha" every day? A lot more than you would fukn think. After every message you leave on a professional level, you go "so gimme call at 555-5555. Aloha." Just like that. After a while those alohas add up. Now don't get me wrong, (note to self: STOP saying "don't get me wrong" so fukn much, just say it you fuck) I like aloha just as much as the next guy, but after a while, even aloha can grate on your soul like a fukn fork tine scratching up against a chalkboard.

Now that's just not true. I'm down with aloha like down town julie brown is down with leeches sucking all over her old craggly arsehole. and that, my friends, is down like the deepest levels of hades combined with Fab-Five Freddy's wardrobe organizer.

Long Beach bitch!

Tuesday, February 25, 2003

I am truly a blessed individual in many ways. Probably the BIGGEST single factor in my massive amounts of success and good looks and overall vibe of positivity that surrounds me is the amazing genetics and upbringing provided me by my wonderful and fantabulous parents. And although my Pops is truly one swell dude, today’s spotlight falls gently yet unwaveringly on she who gave birth to me… my Mom.

Hi Mom! If you’re reading this, yep, I’m still alive. I know I don’t call NEARLY enough. I’m even eating my greens, and in fact I even ate asparagus last night. Have to say, still not a big fan, but amazing the adaptations the human stomach makes over the years. Anyway, thanks for being such an amazing source of inspiration & support throughout all these years. I know there were those periods where I might have seemed just the slightest bit ungrateful (oh I am dreading the years when my future unborn children are between 12 and 15, because if they put up half the attitude I did, then dark days are truly ahead) but please believe that during that time whether I told you or not I really appreciated all your sound advice and unwavering willingness to at least hear out my insane arguments of how a 13 year old kid should be able to do and say whatever he wants because, um, what was my reasoning again?

So anyway, this isn’t nearly as structured as I’d hoped, and since my loving mother is also an English teacher, I’m already dreading the score I will get on this particular essay. Did I tell you that my Mom was actually my middle school English teacher for a couple years? Oh the tortures I put her through drawing pictures of Batman while she struggled to instill in our young minds the knowledge of centuries of literature. I had a bad attitude you see, the basis of which was that I knew just about everything, but I didn’t did I? (did I?) no. So anyway, my Mom is an incredible teacher, as anyone who’s ever been blessed with her wisdom will tell you. And that is definitely a factor in my unparalleled writing skills which you witness here so often. And if you think I am not so unparalleled, well then, think how parallel this would be if NOT for her. Hmmm? Then you’d really want to run down the street screaming.

One of the really cool things about my Mom was how she could make seemingly boring stuff seem really interesting if you just gave her a chance. She’s probably the most accomplished museum hunter in the seven hemispheres, and if there was ever something old on display in the greater LA metropolitan area during the 70’s or 80’s, you can safely bet that I saw it or was told about it. I think my favorite was the Getty, the one out in Malibu; I think we camped out for three days at the door prior to opening. Dang, that is a cool museum if you ever get a chance you should check it out. All those greek statues hanging out in that garden overlooking the pacific ocean. Mom was always in full support of anything that would expand my mind in some beneficial way, be it going to the library or bungee jumping off of a Cliffside. (well, maybe not the bungee jumping). To this day I can't walk by a bookstore without stopping in to soak up some knowledge, and that is a good good thing, yes? Thanks Mom!

So anyway, long story short, or long story long with many twists and turns and unnecessary information, my Mom is very very cool and I really do love her a lot. She taught me to respect other people, but don’t let them take advantage of you. She taught me to see the humor in any situation. She taught me that there’s always a silver lining, that bad times can’t last forever. She taught me that the world doesn’t give you anything, you have to go out and get it. She taught me so many other things that I use each and every day without even knowing it, and for that I am eternally grateful.

Happy Birthday Mom!

Monday, February 24, 2003

Well it’s Monday morning so I guess you’re all (hi joe and ed out there at the peanut farm) expecting me to write something or some shit. Notice how I threw in that “or shit” as in I wouldn’t want to write a sentence without some form of profanity because then I would leave chance at being taken seriously by some deuschbag blog reviewer trying to catalog the best blogs ever and literary works and shit like that and FUCK THAT I don’t want to be on one of his little “lists” ok? This SHITE you’re reading is beyond that. I don’t want a fukn oscar, I don’t want a Grammy, I don’t even want a goddamm pat on the muthafuckin back. I just want my proppas. And my Pop-Tarts. And maybe a glass of orange juice poured by a monkey named Coco. Is that too much to fukn ask?

I played some basketball this weekend. Actually “played” usually implies that you knew what the fuck you were doing so I guess I “embarked” on some basketball or “was present” while some basketball got played, or “got in the way of the game like a fukn turnstile at an orphanage” or something like that. I sucked so majorly that I think I hit 3 shots in 85 games. But I was a rebounding machine, that I must admit. I should have brought some goddamm fuckin windex I was cleaning the glass so hardcore. A couple people in the crowd that had assembled thought I was Dennis Rodman, cuz I do have a shitload of tattoos, most noticeable a chevy impala across my back that says “cruisin’” along the frame and also across my shoulder blades is written in gothic lettering “anotha day anotha dolla.” Just like that, pretty core huh without the “r’s”? yeah I know, I get a lot of compliments on that. So but I was getting a lot of rebounds but making no shots and if only I was black and 6’8 and with funky died hair and a nose ring it’s like I would have BEEN Rodman. A Hawaiian Rodman. Damn, that was close when you think about it.

Gotta give mad props to Kobe for lighting up the NBA like a muthafuckin Christmas tree as of late. Now if only they’d trade him to the Clippers and pick up like Bill Wennington to play point guard then MAYBE the clips could be the real team in LA, but fuck as long as shaq and Bryant are running the shizow the clips will be second string all the way. FUCK. The clips would have a genuine chance if their shitbag owner Donald Sterling would loosen up the purse strings a little, but that’s about as likely to happen as me suddenly growing 3 feet and being able to ride space mountain at Disneyland. That’s about as great as the sandwich at the end of that David Lee Roth video. And That’s fukn great as hell. Fukn Donald Sterling and Al Davis should go to a retreat together in the mountains above the Okefenokee swamp and drink hemlock and pass on the teams and all their money to someone from the planet zooba that has no concept of money & doesn’t give a rat’s bulbous ass and only cares about winning & getting the best players and coaches. Al Davis you ridiculous pile of frappachino compost, if you had only payed Gruden we would be doing the super-bowl shuffle with the fridge, but noooo you HAD to do it your way didn’t you, you old glasses hanging from your neck and LA Looks hair gell encrusted pile of goat excrement, didn’t you? You fukn reject from a weird al video, time to get back in your hamster spinner and do the Charleston with Zsa Zsa Gabor you goatless hobag.

Ok three solid paragraphs. You want more? Want to flow me mad cash for more paragraphs, more wisdom, more knowledge? Well unfortunately for you and the goat you rode in on money does not control this fountain of crap that spews forth from the union of the keyboard and my fingers. A secret dog in a secret lair with a secret name is running that whole fukn show and now it’s naptime and ain’t SHIT you can do about it, so you best gets to either stepping or shutting your goddam piehole.

Oh and happy Zimbabwean Ostrich Day.