Friday, May 02, 2003
So fukn x-men 2 comes out today. I know I’ve kinda been dorking out with the x-men covers, but if you wanna see something else, go somewhere else, banditcho, fuck there’s plenny web, lemme do what I wanna do with what little space I have. And yes I’m making up imaginary enemies that are trying to censor me. Yes I’m aware that no one is trying to do that, but if I build them up in my head, then maybe, just maybe, I’ll win a hero sandwich. I’ll be a “freedom fighter” and I’ll thank all the people of Afghanistan that I “freed” cuz now they’re totally free to eat flies and crusty horse-meat sandwiches while the newest warlord bangs his harem. Cuz that’s what freedom means to me. And yes I’m talking out of my ass, deal with it.
All that talk of freedom is givin’ me a hankering for some fondue. So x-men 2 looks like it’ll be pretty “tight” as the kids like to say. Blah de blah I won’t bore you with details, you know I’ll be on it like ac on oj. Or is that down with it like ac’s down with oj? I guess on it would be like a peanut butter jar lid on a jar of peanut butter. Shit, bet no one ever came up with that analogy before. Fuk yeah, I’m the shit. Watched some cops after the lakers ROUT last night, and drunk rednecks drinking fukn tall boys while the cop interviews them is pretty funny, especially when their name is cletus. It’s so refreshing that I can rag on rednecks without fear of reprisal cuz I’m white too. You know, how it’s like Chinese people can make fun of other chinamen, and it’s cool. Oh shit I just said chinamen. Wait, I didn’t mean it like that, I meant it like Chinaman’s Hat, that famous island that looks like one of those circular pyramid hats that all the peeps over there in rice-paddyville like to wear.
Shit now I’m sounding like mr. Racist joe. Whatever. Here in h-town, you gotta understand, it’s pretty mellow on the racial tip, unless you’re talking about Hawaiians. Gotta respect the aina, or kimo will straight rip out your spleen. There’s this local comedian, whose name escapes me now, who’s whole act is ragging on the stereotypes of the different local races. Portugese are called “Podagee” and known for being stupid. Chinese are called “pah-key” and known for being cheap-asses, haoles (whites) are known for wanting to take over everything and thinking they fukn know everything. But that’s so not true, I mean, I’m haole and I don’t know EVERYthing. Just almost everything. There’s so few Hispanics they don’t even have a word for it. Everybody thinks Mrs. P is some kind of Phillipino/Portuguese mix or something. They guess what race she is on like the 85th try. It’s all good, you can talk like that here, just don’t step in my key-lime pie.
So where were we? How many people can I offend? See the thing is once you open the door talking about race, if you even mention that you’re not a racist, people immediately assume you ARE a racist, because, you know, you’re denying it. so I won’t deny anything, you can call me an orb from the planet zooba if it makes you feel better, just don’t be taking my cap’n crunch beyatch. just like in the salem witch trials, they’d be like “bitch, are you a witch?” and if she said yes, well they burned her at the stake, one less witch ya gotta worry about, and then if she said NO well then, what did they do? Oh yeah, they’d put you out into the water and see if you’d drown, cuz you know, witches float, and if you drowned, they’d be like, “well shit, I guess she wasn’t a witch, dang, that sucks, but at least now we’re sure,” and the girl would be dead, but well, peace of mind was something the local townspeople, or the people that had brainwashed the populace in a McCarthyan scheme of totalitarianism, valued higher than individual life.
So what was I saying? Oh yeah, local names for races. And black people are called “popolo,” but there’s not really a particular trait applied to them, you know, like a stereotype. There’s really not that many black people here, most of them are military. The locals are so oblivious to black culture in fact, there was a big scandal a couple years back, where a high school yearbook had a candid shot of some guy in a kkk outfit for Halloween, carrying around like a noose, and it was supposed to be funny. Now that would not fly even for a second on the mainland, but here it slipped under the radar until a black kid at the school, his parents saw it, and were rightly outraged. So sometimes the laizess faire attitude towards race comes back to bite the locals in their ass and shit has to get toned down. Overall, even though fucked up shit like that happens, I think it works, especially in a small island environment, cuz shit, what’s to get so pissed about, everybody’s different right? Let’s celebrate our differences, and if you can’t have a sense of humor about it, well shit then, fuck off.
And yes I know I’m white and I could never understand the persecution that minorities go through and yes I know. But here in Hawaii I’m practically the minority playboy. Actually I guess maybe I’m not, it’s all hapa. Hapa means mixed up, there’s like plenny kine mixed up peeps out here. Mrs. P volunteers at some elementary schools, and all the kids are like any kine shmany kine. They don’t care about race, they know they mama is half haole half podagee and daddy is half Hawaiian half Chinese, so they’re like, um, sign me up for kindergarten please, cuz the melting pot is percolatin’. It’s a pretty word place to live for our future mixed up children. Nobody will point at them and say half-breed. And if they do they’ll have to deal with “the hammer.” But they won’t, cuz everywhere the future is now, and papa hate Johnson is in the back with a bag of whip-its just pretending the shit ain’t happening. Well it is hobag, the hounds are at the gate, no more beaver cleaver and his wife beater, straight up don’t tell me. we can do this. Like brutus.
If the people from marvel comics come by and see this verbal diarrhea seemingly being associated with their comic books my feeling is they will be very happy and probably offer me a job in the front office. Dear Stan Lee: I am for hire, just like Luke Cage, gimme a call, we’ll do lunch.
Peace out and go lakeSHOW.
Thursday, May 01, 2003
Well maybe I won’t write anything worth reading, but I’m finna write somethin’. That’s right, I’m finna do it. finna is like ghetto style for “going to” and no I’m not black and no I don’t live in the ghetto. There’s a little ghetto around a few blocks over, though, bars on the window and everything. Right by the liquor store. See on this island, you can be at the million dollar houses and walk about five blocks and get hit over the head with a tire iron by Kainoa the happy crackhead. It’s just, um, like that.
Probably the most ghetto place I ever lived was my short lived adventure as a town side living haole. Right on the slopes of punchbowl, playa, and it was like, chronic boobonic and the Tongans had the goods, each and every night, na mean? Even if you don’t, it’s aiight. Lots of people might playa hate on my ass for talking like this but bill gates can kiss my ass, fa sho? Gyeah and hellz bellzyeah. My house was so ghetto, my mom din’t even want to come in, yo, she was just like, get in the car Alfred and lets go grab some dinner, na mean? It was like that, it was not a place to bring your grandma. There were like 5 houses crammed into one driveway, and one was back in the back in the tall grass (not with Fleetwood mac) and like, there was this crazy Hawaiian guy that I never saw, but I heard him talking to Harvey the rabbit (I think – Harvey never mentioned him, now that I think about it) about “killing all the haoles.” Ha ha, that guy was pretty cool, even though I never even saw him let alone met him. Still though, the aina.
There were these really dorky guys from seattle that came and lived in the ghetto house, and they really wanted to relive the movie north shore. So every day they would ride their scooters up to north shore from town, for if you know oahu, is an insane ride cuz you can’t take those little sprees on the freeway. Fukn stupid asses. Even when I dropped this one jackass off at the airport, he’s like “thanks rabbit” or whatever line he was trying to redo from the movie, maybe it was “rick” like the main haole from north shore. And they bought custom surfboards and wrote “joe and ed’s Hawaiian hogshit” or whatever they wrote, but they made it look like that da hui symbol. Da hui is this old school Hawaiian surf gang, and if you’re in the water and they paddle up to you, they probably aren’t interested in what time it is, they’re about to beat some haole ass. Nah, some of them are cool, not that I would know, the last time I tried to surf, I caught one third of one wave and scratched up that shit on a reef, and fucked up all my duck dives and drank some salt water and was like fuck this. Well that’s a lie, cuz I tried it out a few more times, but never with much success. I bet if I rented a long board at Waikiki though and went for it, I could kick ass, cuz that’s super easy, but I wanted to do it the hard way and learn on a short board, which would have been great if I’d kept at it, but I don’t know, I didn’t feel like spending all that time cuz sometimes I’m a lazy pile like that.
So that’s what I did this summer. Or wait, that summer. But maybe it wasn’t summer, all the seasons kinda blend together out here. So I’m gonna like, grab a pic or two off the internet and throw this up on blogger. Peace.
Oh and big ups to hoseman.
Wednesday, April 30, 2003
I just read a really inspirational story and was going to describe it to you, but it’s too depressing.
Chef Boyardee knows what he’s doing pretty good I think. He’s been supplying quality canned pasta for many a year.
One summer I worked at this pizza place delivering za, and this big huge guy worked there too. He was a football player for Northern Arizona U, but having his summer break in Cali and being a working slob like me. Except that he could destroy me with one finger if I uttered a wrong word. But we were cool, so I would always mess around with him, being like “hey you big ox, fold some damn boxes already.” Ok I wouldn’t say that. I don’t remember what the hell I was leading up to with this. Oh yeah, this guy, we worked at an Italian restaurant, but he didn’t really like the pasta there. He was like “I like chef Boyardee,” and the owner of the place, this big fat Italian guy with an insane temper would just go nuts. “what the hell are you talking about? This is home made from grandma’s kitchen,” or whatever the hell he would say.
But big football guy preferred chef Boyardee.
I don’t prefer chef Boyardee, per se, but it’s pretty damn good for something out of a can.
I would say asta la vista right about there, but I want to have a nice size entry so I can put up a couple comic covers I found on the internet. They’re the two finale issues of the death of phoenix x-men story, from the 80’s, John Byrne, nutty block, history, comic book history you goatless ho’s. I only WISH I had these issues, shit, if I did, I’d be able to bitch slap Suge Knight. He’d be like “what the fuck?” and ready to hang me off a 19th floor balcony, but then I’d show him my mint copy of x-men 137 and he’d chill out and like try to change the subject or something, but between us we’d never forget that moment when I played him like the sloppiest hoochbag this side of Crapston Acres. Then again, if for some reason the site I’m pulling them from pulls a jinx bathroom and blocks my shit, then, well, I’ll look pretty stupid and maybe Vanilla Ice will be nodding his head giving me a look like “I told you so.”
So what else is there to talk about? Oh yeah Sadaam’s letter to the Iraqi people, heard about that on tv this morning. Yeah sadaam, c’mon back, we miss you living in your giant palaces while we eat dog food, and ya know why? We don’t know, you just had the schwaan or something, we just can’t get enough of licking the mud off your boot. Funny ain’t it? so yeah, c’mon back sadaam, as soon as these fukn American infidels get their democratic (democracy is for bustas) agenda bastard stepchild asses outta here, then we will welcome you with open arms. We’ll be like, “all is forgiven, saddie,” that’s what his friends call him, “and do you think you could shove this hot poker up my ass for ol’ times sake, seeing as it’s your welcome back party?”
Fukn sadaam. If he’s alive, he better hide in his cave and hope he can jimmy some kind of satellite and watch the laker game tomorrow. That’s what I would be doing if I was a fascist dictator in hiding. I would be solely working on getting SOME kind of uplink, cable (shit middle of the desert) some kine satellite, maybe get Ahmed to rig something out of the jeep’s flux capacitor, I don’t know, and get me live feed of shaq and kobe kicking kg and minnesota’s punk arses out of this party. Cuz they’ve been staying too long. Their ketchup and salad dressing is getting warm and they need to tend to that shit.
My CD player just switched from 50 cent telling me to fuck off and go to hell to Fleetwood Mac telling me to lay in the tall grass and let them do their “stuff”. I’m having a hard time figuring out which one I’d prefer.
Tuesday, April 29, 2003
Not the baseball player, dumbass, the singer, the gambler, the chicken-meister. (did I ever tell you the story of how I met Jay Leno at the Kenny’s Chicken place in Burbank? No? ah well, shitty story anyway).
Why am I like Kenny Rogers? Well yes, I do know when to hold them AND when to fold em. I know when to walk away, and I sure as hell know when to run. But the KEY, key reason for today that I AM the Hawaiian (location, not racial) incarnation for the day of the master pop-country joe, is that I NEVER count my money while I’m sitting at the table. There’ll be time enough for counting when the dealing’s done.
What the HELL you may ask am I talking about? Well without getting into too much detail, now is a veddy veddy good time for da moneys coming in via my sales of skunk merchandise. Back in the day we were strictly a skunk processing center. You know the drill, find vagabond skunks (who are illegal in Hawaii), brand they asses, put them in the reeducation center, remove their stinker genes and ship them to the Phillipines or Thailand, whichever one at the time is offering the best bulk shipping rates.
Anyway, about a year ago I came up with the idea of selling skunk merchandising, you know, fly gear. We gots t-shirts, socks, headbands, yo-yo’s, sunglasses, slippahs, tank-tops, and we’re even getting into surf gear, not necessarily boards (although we are experimenting on a body-board with a skunk-tail) but more like you know, surfboard wax, surf slippas, board shorts, that kine stuff.
Anyway, the shit is flying off the shelves. I just can’t take orders fast enough. And there’s lots of special orders, shit that requires my own brand of expertise, not just some fukn clerk saying “20 skunk goggles, thanks for your order” – hell no, this shit is custom, kimo. I give em that Pennyworth touch, and they’re like frothing at the mouth coming back for more, cuz their customers are eating it up. Hell yeah, we’re wholesale bitch, I ain’t got time to be popping out onesies, twosies, shit laddat. Na loc. Not this boy. So as mentioned, shit flying off shelves equals mad commission numbers for your boy keith equals scrilla frikken like a billa. Problem is, business is coming so fast I don’t even have time to count my future duckets for report to my boss for payment of my bread. But that is not a problem, playboy, as I’ll find myself a minute when the phones stop ringing off the hook, which I hope they never do, cuz the bell is about to crack I’ve been ringing that bitch so hard, and glendale is representing to the fullest, and Kenny rogers would be proud, cuz shit dog, I ain’t counting my money, I could give half a dolphins ass-cud. (ass-cud? Hmm I think I’ve coined a phrase, Johnny) – anyhoo, you know what I mean, and if you have a problem with anyhoo, you’ve got a problem with Johnny, and if you’ve got a problem with Johnny you’ve got a problem with scrilla, and if you’ve got a problem with scrilla then Kenny Rogers would be ashamed to know you and so would I.
So I’m outtie cuz the phones are blazing again. See how dope I am? I coulda counted my chips and instead I blabbed at you. can you feel the love Houston? Can you sense the showmanship, Charleston? This is a worldwide callout to ghetto birds everywhere. Believe it and it can happen. Just ask corky. Word.
Update written at the same time as the rest of this crap: this is how cool I am – someone just handed me a fax, and then the person that sent the fax called. I really, really needed this fax for some major paypa that will be coming my way probably on a Tuesday or a Thursday. This is what they said “hello Alfred, I just wanted to make sure you got my fax,” and I said “yes Elinor, I got your fax, and you really helped me out today, and if I had a picture of you I would put it up on my wall and bow down to you all day long,” and she said “wow you really needed that information,” and I said “oh yeah I did, so thanks again” and she said, “well I just wanted to make sure you got it before I leave for the day” – see that whole east coast – Hawaii time difference issues I have to put up with? DAMN I’m a pro. In any event, now you can see that I’m the man. And now I’m gonna go count my money.
PSYCHE! Of course I would not do that. SHIT! I’m still at the table. There’s mad more scrilla to bring in, shit I got plenty of time to count my duckets later, playboy. And so do you. remember that, Juan Valdez, next time you think you’ve got my caffeine-addled soul in a choke-hold. Fukn remember, you Columbian donkey escorting son of a goat. Recuerdo a todos! And don’t you ever forget it, or the hounds of baskerville will come calling for your ass. Yeah guy? Yeah guy.
Monday, April 28, 2003
Seventh Son of a Seventh Son
1988 – EMI Records
Infinite dreams I can't deny them
Infinity is hard to comprehend
I couldn't hear those screams
Even in my wildest dreams
Suffocation waking in a sweat
Scared to fall asleep again
Incase the dream begins again
Someone chasing I cannot move
Standing rigid nightmare's statue
What a dream when will it end
And will I transcend?
Restless sleep the minds in turmoil
One nightmare ends another fertile
Getting to me so scared to sleep
But scared to wake now, in too deep
Even though its reached new heights
I rather like the restless nights
It makes me wonder it makes me think
There's more to this I'm on the brink
It's not the fear of what's beyond
It's just that I might not respond
I have an interest almost craving
But would I like to get too far in?
It can't be all coincidence
Too many things are evident
You tell me you're an unbeliever
Spiritualist? Well me I'm neither
But wouldn't you like to know the truth
Of what's out there to have the proof
And find out just which side you're on
Where would you end in Heaven or in Hell?
Help me. Help me to find my true
Self without seeing the future
Save me, save me from torturing
Myself even within my dreams
There's got to be just more to it than this
Or tell me why do we exist
I'd like to think that when I die
I'd get a chance another time
And to return and live again
Reincarnate, play the game
Again and again and again
Births are cause for celebration. Death is cause for despair.
I’m not talking about anything too deep here folks. Or maybe I am. Let’s say that two people have partial ownership of something. An agreement is set forth that over time with proper compensation, said item shall be transferred in full from one party to the other. When time comes for the final paperwork to be stamped by Franklin the magic donkey, it is a distinct possibility that the first party may not be ready to totally give up the goat, the foothold.
Because endings are no fun, especially when their affect on the scrilla factor of said party is extreme and not of the compensatory level expected or desired. Especially when a pie has grown to a much larger size than previously expected and suddenly the slice owed to the originator has shrunk to the size of a crumb, then a scrap and then simply table scraps not fit for a dog.
But nothing is for free, my peeps. Unless the paperwork dictates, nobody gets a free ride, and even then chances are slim. You make your bed and you must lie in it.
It’s not deep, it’s just true. Endings suck ass. Not always but in many cases yes. When something is created it’s sis-boom-bah, when something is taken away, not necessarily destroyed, but given a new master and the role of the old master is cut like a paper-doll, (shitty simile, sorry about that) no fuk it I’m not sorry, it works. What? Dammit I lost track of what I was saying. Let’s just say, that sometimes people just cannot recognize when the party’s over. The dj is packing his records, the lights are on, the bouncer is grabbing your shoulder, but you still want to dance. Sorry Charlie, time to hit the bricks.
Feh. Bleh. Bah. Whatevers. I’m not too crazy about this post, but unlike anti, I’m not good at throwing shit away, so fuck it.