Friday, April 04, 2003
this all day long.
good job tone-dogger.
So it was super chill, cuz I don’t know how I did it, but I was basically allowed to chill out in the kitchen & watch everybody work while I kicked it waiting for deliveries. My duties were answer the phone, take orders, and deliver that shit. That’s it. the boss was even like “damn, when we hire another guy, we’re gonna make him work, but I understand you’re used to this now, so I wouldn’t make you do that,” and I was like “damn straight, I might get all nutty up in this bitch if you did that.”
But later I had to bust ass, cuz I left for a summer, and when I came back in the fall, he had a new delivery guy named “Ride.” I’m not kidding that was his name. He was this like 40 year old hyper-active “alternative” type dude that lived in his Honda civic. So but the Kraut cut me some slack & hired me on as a pizza cook and part time dishwasher, and I worked my way back into the driver rotation with Ride, who had some good stories about people fucking with him while he was sleeping in his civic. I guess when you live in your car, the nightly challenge is to find some chill place to park where the local flavor won’t jack you for your grits, especially in the Iggedy-Oaktown. I’m assuming he usually drove over into Berkeley, a little more peaceful.
The boss was this German guy with a really heavy accent, and he had a weakness for tall American hoochie-mamas. He always had some conquest he was working on coming into the restaurant. The cooks were chill, and the waitresses were all down ass cool chicks. It was a hep environment to hang out & make some papah.
There was a back door in the kitchen and a little stoop where you could kick it & smoke a cigarette. Plus when the boss wasn’t around there were known to be bonghits in the walk in refrigerator. And plus the Kraut would let us chill out after work, even after he left for the night, and drink all his beer. He said it was cool as long as we didn’t come back later, but we would go close down the bars and then crack open the restaurant again & drink more of his beer and party on Wayne.
It was a pretty regulatin’ little crew, and we got to eat all the food we wanted while we were working. Damn that job was pretty phat.
And the moral of this story is that, um, fuck I don’t know, I just felt like reminiscing.
Oh and for those fans of my fish Wacko, he’s doing an autograph signing tomorrow at Border’s books on Ala Moana between 3 PM and 4 PM. His new book, “Life of a Playa” is burning up the racks. SHIT. I’ve been typing this crap for whut, 9 months now, and this little goldfish pumps out a book & lands a deal within 2 weeks of being the last surviving participant in the Mrs. P Biology Experiment. Whutthefuck?
But hey, I ain’t about playa-hatin’. Play on Wacko, play on playa.
Thursday, April 03, 2003
So I am legal and really I was riding that bitch before I was legal on the down-low, and will continue to do so, see when no one’s here, and ain’t no one gonna be here for a while, I take that fucker out, and raise HELL. Ya hear? Werd.
So the other thing I was gonna tell you, you being my monitor I guess (fukn psycho) is that I have a fish named Wacko. That’s the first time I’ve typed it and thought about the spelling, but that looks aight. It’s name used to be Heckel, like as in Heckel & Jeckel, those cartoon magpies, but the other one, Jeckel, died, and Mrs. P kept mispronouncing it as “Wacko” cuz she ain’t never heard of no heckle & jeckel, she’s from Mexico, and they had that cartoon when she was a kid, but the birds were named something else. Anyway, so wacko as I decided to rename him, cuz it was depressing having a heckle & no jeckel, is the last surviving fish from Mrs. P’s first round of her science experiment. She’s got all these jars of fish, 3 jars with one fish each, 3 jars with 2 fish each, on down the line to 3 jars with 6 fish each. Then you weigh and feed the jars each day and keep track of which one’s live & die, and it’s a scientific analysis of the life of fish in relation to how crowded they are with other fish. Wacko was in one of the jars with only one fish. Now he’s down with the fam and has full privileges, including the remote control on Tuesdays at 10 am when he watches judge wapner.
I found another pretty good kool keith interview.
Over & out.
Oh and one more thing, the jerk store called, and said they’re running out of you.
Wednesday, April 02, 2003
Rion Dark had thought about staying in Kahala, there was the Mandarin, but Waikiki was a better fit. He could get lost in the frenetic pace of Oahu’s tourist center for a couple days, than start planning his visit to the Chan estate, still owned by the San Francisco underworld boss, but strictly a refuge for just a few weeks a year. When the Westways picture had been taken, Robbie Chan had apparently been taking a little hiatus from his duties in the bay area. According to the further research he had done, none of which had turned up any more pictures or references to the mysterious girl he’d dreamed about, Chan had been planning to retire from his life of organized crime.
That had all changed about three years ago when Chan’s youngest brother, Johnny, was killed by a hit man who had apparently mistaken him for his more notorious brother. Johnny was visiting Robbie from Austin, where he’d been studying Anthropology at University of Texas. Johnny was proud of his oldest brother for walking away from crime; he was a young idealist who had broken off contact with most of the rest of their family, who were all connected in one way or another.
Dark hadn’t been able to find any juice on the identity of the killer; it seemed like he’d never been caught. The result had been the full-bore return of Robbie Chan to the interworkings of the San Francisco underground, and for the next two years, he waged a reign of terror against rival bosses, bringing the city the highest level of gang violence and unexplained murders the area had ever seen. Robbie Chan was now pretty much high mucka mucka in SF, thank you very much, and you did not fuck with him, it simply wasn’t done.
If only that piece of shit Edgar Bryant had remembered that, maybe he wouldn’t be on the lamb, tracking down teenage girls across the pacific ocean that he’d seen in his dreams and turned out to be real. Maybe instead he’d be back in LA balling that nasty stripper he liked/hated. Maybe he’d be getting ready for his next acid trip.
Ah well, he was in Hawaii, what was to complain about? Palm trees and surfboards, all that good shit. The cabbie dropped him off in front of the Sheraton Moana Surfrider, a huge white structure right in the middle of touristville. The hotel was beautiful, immaculate, but he barely noticed the scenery in his exhaustion. After registering under a new alias, he went to his room and fell on the bed without even brushing his teeth or checking out the view from the lanai.
Save the ghost hunting for tomorrow, he thought, half wondering if the dreams would come, maybe giving him more clues to what the hell was going on. He hoped to see that beautiful girl dancing in his mind’s eye again, healthy hips swaying, brown skin glistening with a slight sweat, eyes full of panic and unknown wisdom. He hadn’t shaken her face out of the periphery of his consciousness, nor had he wanted to. He hungered for even an illusionary apparition of her, some shared experience, something to hold him over until he verified her existence in the physical realm.
Sleep came shortly, and with it dreams, but nothing memorable. Just some random throat-slashings and video-game schizophrenia. Standards that had gotten him by for years now, justifications for his wicked ways that paved the way for breakfast and the emptiness in his soul, both of which he usually welcomed.
Tuesday, April 01, 2003
blogs any more.
I shall not write about the la clippers any more.
I shall not vocalize the from-the-dead messages of the greatest guitar player of all time aka Randy Rhoads any more.
I shall no longer represent Glendale, Berkeley, and Kaneohe.
I shall never again split my consciousness into three disparate entities and write down their verbal sparrings for the consumption of you good folks.
I shall no longer shoot baskets in the warehouse at my work.
I will never again ride a motorcycle.
I will no longer listen to Kool Keith or the Chemical Brothers, and I will smash my Scarface CD.
I will set my neighbor’s dog on fire.
I will eat fish-head stew and give up drinking beer forever.
I will sit down for a pleasant dinner with Jesse Jackson and tell him what an inspiration he is.
I will urinate on a fire hydrant right in front of Honolulu Hale. (city hall)
I will take the Hose Monster off of my links list and replace him with the Drudge Report.
I will be leaving Hawaii and moving to Alabama.
I will announce my retirement from blogging tomorrow at oh nine-hundred hours.
Monday, March 31, 2003
who am I, Bill Nye?
You know what I mean? I mean I’m green. Green with envy over a dog named Brandon and a little girl named Peggy Sue. Together they formed the little known mid-eighties version of the Mod Squad. It was Thursday morning cartoon featuring smurfette as their government contact. No other smurfs were in sight. None. Absolutely zero. (Except that muscle smurf guy with the tattoo, was it handy smurf? He comes in as smurfette’s love interest for part of one episode, but it was like maybe 2 minutes of screen time) so this mod squad cartoon was also featuring a character named OG ratbone who was down with the 8th avenue moneyhandlers, also known as CGL (critical ghetto law). It was morecore division, with a parameter of insanity.
Damn I miss that cartoon. It taught me a lesson every Thursday. The first lesson was don’t go out of the house today, Tuesdays neither, cuz you know whut happens on Tuesdays and Thursdays….
That’s them days that they’re out on the sweep, NOPD, up in a homey’s face like what(?). yeah whut? Whut is nuttin but a butt of fruckaduck.
The second thing they taught me was that Brandon the Dog should never be fed artichoke hearts, because the juice was known to make him lose his MIND.
The third thing I learned was that the little girl called Peggy Sue was secretly the devil’s niece. The was only part devil-blood, but still pretty evil. No scratch that, she was very evil.
The fourth thing I discovered was that this mod squad was going to be nothing like the 60’s version in which these really hip hipsters saved the world at the whims of some super secret government agency because the feds had dirt on them. Well they did have a super secret government agency connection whut with Smurfette, but she never gave them assignments. She just giggled and threw pig’s blood at the wall. It was really weird but at the same time interesting. The other odd thing is that I was only 4.8 years old and should have never known about the mod squad. Damn, did my parents tell me about it, or wuz it implanted into my memories, or even my conscious brain when I was a baby. All that information, whut if there’s more I don’t know about? Damn. Damnitt damn what am I going to do?
The fifth thing I learned wuz that Twinkies last a really long time.
The sixth thing I learned watching the 80’s mod squad cartoon wuz that the clippers will always beat teams from elvis-ville.