Friday, March 07, 2003
Sooo how bout those clippers? They’re kicking ass. Damn what is it, 7, 8 losses in a row, ya know, who’s counting really? It’s just about having fun, right?
Hanging out with Captain kangaroo later for a couple brewskies to mull over and grieve a little for the dearly departed Fred Rogers. A hell of a guy. Ya know whut, I hereby take back my statement that he was a weirdo. He was an a-lister on the first mate’s private cabin on the Goodship Lollipop. Where bon-bons play. Where they frollick and dance in the cool breeze while galloping winged stallions play accordions to the town of “beat it, just beat, beat it, ooohhh!” from the one gloved ones ultimat classic thriller.
There were these twin redhead kids when I was in like 3rd grade or something that they both knew all the words to all the songs on thriller, and would sing it up and down the schoolyard. It was revolutionary because up to that time everyone was into metal. The guys at least the girls were into duran duran which is rock but not metal, see they were all faggy seeming to us whereas metal was tough and rugged and meant something. Not that the guy from judas priest was like that or anything.
There was this swim coach in high school who that was his pet expression instead of “holy shit!” or “jesus Christ” he’d say “Judas Priest! Can’t you kick you legs any harder than that, c’mon bazelduderanch, let’s get it in gear. Seriously that was what he called bazaldoua, bazelduderanch, to get her speed up and through our sets. Fukn set. Have you ever had to swim pyramids? They are long. Long and long, and then you swim even more. They suck but dammit do they melt away the hours & pounds.
So the other day my neighbor came up to me and was like “we’ve got a problem with your cat Alfred. She’s on the loose and eating up all the neighborhood’s stationary. It’s really getting out of hand. We didn’t go overboard on the first few cards and envelopes, but she’s found the kits keith, the stationary kits, and those cannot be uncovered by you or no animal”
At this point I was backing away sloooowwwlllly from my neighbor and then basically ran in my house and called up the cops and said he’d threatened to kill me. Gonna press charges on that fucker too. Bastard.
Basketball is a high flyin game and the clippers are flying low, beneath the radar, but I think they’re on espn this weekend, so let’s see how they do.
I think they’re gonna win.
i snuck one of the company motorcycles out for a couple rides yesterday, the second one with Mrs. P riding on the back. Riding up the quarry rode with the wind in our faces, no helmets, no protective gear, just the theory of manifest destiny guiding us back to the shop and safety. I kind of like that feeling when you're like "shit, this is dangerous," and yes I mean we weren't exactly bungee jumping or anything or diving off the empire state building into a tin can, but still, ya know? ya know? no? yes.
Riding motorcycles is tha bombizzle. I'm down with it. yeah I'm white but cut me a break i'm hooked on rap music.
Where the hell has Randy Rhoads been lately? He hasn't come out of the woodwork to haunt me for at least a couple months it seems like. I miss that goofy guitarist feathered-hair foolio. good guy, really.
this blog is really going nowhere, isn't it? it's like, keep writing keith, and it shall grow, but sometimes I wonder if I'm overwatering it, or giving it the wrong food, or just plain am a bad blog-daddy. maybe i wasn't cut out for this game. maybe i'm just a little whiner that wants some sympathy today. I'm tired of ending every post with some clever little saying like "ok i will shut up now" or "and then all the kings horses raped all the kings men" or "long beach" or "glendale" or "west side playaz rollin dubs club." It's so played out, and I played it, it's all my fault. every last bit of it. useless.
puhhleeezzee. nobody asked you to write this crizop. you write it for you and the secret society of mice living in your desk. just because it doesn't work properly at times or your readership is stagnating at the same rate no matter what you do, short of bastardizing goat cheese, don't take it out on your fine loyal readers that accidentally bump into this place looking for kool keith and accidentally finding joe johnson. it is not their issue.
am i really doing all i can do? maybe it's time for drastic measures. maybe i need to start talking about my gun collection or my tsetse fly obsession, topics of which i swore would not be broached. maybe it's time to talk about my broach fetish. maybe it's time to start tackling the tough issues like guns in prison.
maybe it's time to shove it all up my ass and hold my breath. the sun has to come up, and then my skin will sizzle, burn, and melt, and all will be well. come sacred jewel of the nile and percolate my blood as was written in the sacred shakra.
Thursday, March 06, 2003
It is so pathetic yet outrageously uninformative that no one gives the rats asshole burger. See I use the same damn lines and the same damn lies to convey the same ass crap to the same ass people the same ass time the same ass day the same ass computer the same ass ass.
Why don’t more people blog so horribly horrible? We could start a club called the stupid fuckhead club featuring your president Alfred pennyworth and his dog spot. If you want to read some crap, go see alf, if you want to barf in your hat, go see alf, if you want to eat some drool if you want to act the fool if you want to mow some wool, go see alf. We got black ones blue ones red ones and yellow ones I’m at 227 tehran street in the middle of Tehran tell em billy bob sent ya, we’ll see ya hear.
When I was in high school we did a group project on Iran. There were four dudes in the group and we made a video presentation and we were like this fake news crew. So anyway we each had to make a commercial to have in the newscast. Well I guess we didn’t HAVE too we wanted to. And I did a bogus version of the “go see cal” car commercials except it was “go see hal” and instead of selling used cars I was selling concubines. If you don’t know what a concubine is, it’s a woman who’s like in a rich arab style dude’s harem, his stable, so to speak. If you don’t know who Cal Worthington is, he’s the famous old-school southern California used car salesman that had these commercials where he’d ride elephants and shit and he had this super cool song that I used to always sing on my way to school while waving around my Captain America lunchbox. Even then I was such a patriot. They used to call me patriotic joe. Ok they didn’t but I always cried myself to sleep wondering why not. But that’s a story for another day.
So in my concubine commercial I had on this turban and robe, which was basically a couple bed sheets, and some really cheap sunglasses, and I was all pimped out and had my concubines running by, which was just the other dudes in bedsheets covering their faces and it got a big laugh from our 9th grad history class.
And I was the hero of the school. And all of a sudden, I wasn’t this dorky little dork, I was like this really popular dude, and all the football players took a time out from making out with cheerleaders and we’re like “hey Alfred, um, I don’t mean to bother you, but how about coming to our party tonight and being the guest of honor?” and I was like “sorry dudes, I got a prior engagement of hanging out at greasiones house watching skinemax with the rillio crillio and the htp posse. Yeah dammit by choice. Go drink your beer and party with the crizew, I’ve got the rillio crillio with billio and fillio on the real dillio, ya quillio on my galillio ya shillio bobillio? And fukn joe football was like “dizamm! Can I come over too?” and I’m like sorry jock-o, private party, but send the hizzles, na mean? And he did. And it was a hoo-bangin’ party even before the days of WC and the mad circle. It was og showtime before the show even started. It was big daddy kane before he knocked up his first bitch. It was ice cube before the tray had even gone in the freezer. It was real. It was htp.
Don’t try breaking down what htp stands for if you actually know me and are like “wtf?” it doesn’t stand for anything. But wtf stands for what the fuck in case you didn’t know.
One of the funniest things I ever saw was Santa get run over by a car. Back in the day these dudes had this fake santa that they stole from in front of someone’s yard, ya know those plastic statues? Well they kept it in trunk of their car, and when they wanted a good laugh, they would stand it in the middle of the street, get a good bunch of speed going for about a block, and run it over. It was really loud, and santa would go flying like 15 feet. Jeezo peezo you had to be there it was so fukn funny I’m pretty damn sure that urination was involved.
Fukn santa running over motherfuckers. I forgot about that shit. Imagine the mentality of carrying a santa in your trunk, just on the off chance you might feel like running it over with your car. If you can capture that essence you will know… something, but damn if I know what. That is a memory I would not trade for all the lint in an 80 year old narcoleptic’s sock though, and that’s on Glendale, beyotch.
well you may have noticed that comments are NOT back up, and now it is because of my fuck ups & technical difficulties. I can't figure out if I redid the template wrong or if the template just ain't loading. I also obviously can't figure out how to write something more intersting than technical dogshit that only me and ray allen's butler give a mongoose's buttcrack about.
Took my first sick day off of work in a fukn long ass time yesterday because I felt like a ground up rat's asshole burger with no fries on the side. I actually came in in the afternoon just to see whut was up, hung out and did some werk, and was outtie like kirk gouttie.
One of the stupidest things about being me is thinking way too much about dumb ass crap and racking myself with imagined guilt over shit I should just drop like a crackhead bitch. I will ponder and pontificate on a grecian urn until that mofo disintegrates into dust and then make myself feel bad that it ain't there no more. That is one the most un-long beach things about me of which i am not proud but is integral to the alfred/keith/joe mentality that provides both the schwann and the gone.
ho brah phone call from mana. i rang the bell beyatch! now ain't that a horse's patooty? well ain't it? Damn you know whut's cool about no comments? I got a fan letter yesterday. little old me, joey from berkeley, was blessed with kind words and a poetritic soliloquy from some dude outta the midwest sayin' he was feelin' my dogshit acres verbal diarrhea. and that is just like the icing on the cake. that is like the mustard on the dog. that is like the spark on the owl. that is like if charlie brown suddenly busted out of snoopy's doghouse with a full head of hair and the smell of the little red headed girl's action all over his cartoon ass. and the little red headed girl all swooning and pantin and thinkin "DAMN why didn't i let charlie brown hit that 75 years ago, i think i just woke up and had a klondike bar. shit!"
and yes, it's like that. soooo, whatevers mobetters. I am such a poontificating pooner. as I drifted off to la la land last night i wondered wondered wondered wondered who? who wrote the book of love. no I wondered what i could write on my blog this fine morning, and basically none of what i wondered is making it up here this fine day. the stuff that is making it up is the lunatic ravings of an inebriated ghetto bastard finally released from his political ties and moral conformity to santioned ping pong tables that no one can take away.
well I guess that seems as good a place as any to shut the fuck up. adios!
Tuesday, March 04, 2003
Comments are back up. Fuck it.
Of all the people on God’s green earth that could have given me a new perspective on blogging. Thanks Ronald, and I mean that. I saw the other side, the hope of generations to come, in that one foul swoop. and yes i edited this.
My stomach is all fucked up so I’m just having a jamba juice for lunch. Does that make me a big fukn pussy?
I had to buy Dr. Dooom, First Come First Served, even though G-dog has it and could dub it for me, but he hasn’t been able to find it, and I have no patience. Only $8 used so fuck it. Needs my Kool Keith goddammitt.
Hose monster wrote a very interesting analysis of the nature of comments on blogs today which you should read.
Fuck the clippers suck.
I think that's all i have to say for right now. I may be voicing my opinions on world politics and goat cheese elsewhere today, so if you know, then act like it.
Monday, March 03, 2003
fired coach Alvin Gentry. Part of me is like, "Gentry never had a chance, let him be happy that he at least got some dolla billz while he was in the game," and part of me is like "ya know what? fuck alvin gentry, i mean, he never made that team play at all beyond their capabilities or fostered an atmosphere of team over individual, even though YES it's virtually impossible with Donal Sterling as the owner." So the new coach is Dennis Johnson or something like that. yeah, he should bring the clips back to contention. fuk you could practically put in Coco the famous smart chimpanzee and maybe ingest some hype into that team. jump around and bash all their heads in, get them into the game. I watched the clippers dump the game to portland Friday nite and it PISSED me off. part of the clipper fan inside me died at that moment. part of the glory that i'd somehow promised myslef never imaginated itself in true corporeal form. it just never happened, and i guess i partly blame myself for that.
in other news, honolulu mayor jeremy harris came up with an annual budget including pick up of recyclables by the trash men. About frikken time jeremy, but don't think that will get you reelected you snake in the grass. Do you know how many bottles cans plastics that I and my brethren on this island throw away because we're piles and if they had pickup i'd recycle everything, dagnabbit. so it is and so it shall be.
in other big time news, i took a motorcycle safety class this weekend (first of three saturday meetings) at leeward community college, over da hill, you buggaz. so anyway, the name of the instructor is Rodd Johnson. I kid you not, and that is exactly how he spells his name. and he is intense but he knows what the hell is up with motorcycles, and if you ever have any kind of motorcycling issue you'd best take it up with uncle rodd cuz he will ensure that total badassness yet with an emphasis on safety is your modus operandi. so i'm like a pretty bad ass motorcycle rider. if you see me on a harley 1976 centennial edition with a dog named spike riding shotgun, then throw me up a shaka playa!
The fleet is soon going to diminish as all the chickens are coming to roost. ah well, poetry is motion and existentialism is simply a foothold into the world's consciousness. at least that's what a bum told me in from of johnny's thrift store this morning. he had a sign that said "everything ends." with a little can for change sitting there. i threw him a two dollar bill like a paper airplane, and he stood up and belted out probably the truest rendition of oingo boingo's "only a lad" that i've heard since the late 80's, rolling through descanso gardens after dark and frollicking like orphans on a get out of jail free day, floating like bees over the flower bed, checking out the birds before ice blocking down the south hill into oblivion and the jubilationized feeling that the whole enchilada was ahead, staring you in the face yet off to the side hiding behind a veil of choices and fears.