Friday, June 27, 2003

So the clippers picked chris Kaman outta central Michigan at #6 in yesterday’s draft. He looks pretty solid actually, this is a good write up about him. now everybody talking shit about the clips, even the sports guy, but fuk that, I’m gonna say that Kaman is gonna be a big star in this league, hoes, shit, 7-footer with skills, yo! Whutsup yao, wanna piece? Shaq? Who owns the muthafuckin staples center now, bitch?

Thas right is Kaman time, shit hammer was a taco bell slangin chumpola compared to yours truly. I am going to crush this league. I am going to make large men cry. I am going to deflate egos and destroy the will of those who thought themselves invincible from threatening defamatory intelligence. That’s what I bring the table, you better bring the salt and pepper cuz we’re grilling up this slab like it’s the 4th of jUly, aight? Shit. an fukn get me a beer.

And then the fukn warriors, what did they do? I don’t know, maybe joe’s got the dillie. But the warriors are fukn jokers, and that’s on long beach, beyatch!

Fuk yeah, doc dre, his last album was the chronic, they say rap’s changed, they wanna, um ahead of the game still not loving police, reppin 213 (actually I’m reppin 818 beyatch) – doctor dre was the original worker that hath wrought these rhymes, even distorted, I don’t wanna try to papa hate and like, take cred. Even though jay z more likely wrote the lyrics. Ya know, ice cube write the rhymes, that I say, muthafuckin muthafuckin rappin ak. Ok that was easy, but again cube wrote it, and cube don’t write dre’s rhymes no more. Eminem does. Or maybe even fitty drops a verse out when they’re on the road, downing coqui 900 dogs and just throwin them bones. Wit they fly bitches. For the gangsters all across the world. Dre again. That last one. The part about coqui 900 ya know, 9 ball, that was all me loco. Got a prollem, shit, c’mon down to set-tripperville, formerly known as jack’s house. And it ain’t a muthafuckin bistro, aight larry?

Thursday, June 26, 2003

sometimes I wonder if I really have any deep thoughts of consequence anymore. Day after day, hour after hour, we creep in this petty pace, shining a flashlight through the ether, making our way along the path that was designated but always adjustable, taking time here and there to look at the leaves on the trees, the trash on the side of the road, the clouds in the sky, the clever license plate frames on the VW vans, all along thinking to ourselves, this is it, this is depth, the depth is in the details, the meaning is in the realization that we are just an infinitesimal part of an overlying universe that in all truth does not give the slightest fuck about us regardless of our overwhelming views of our own importance.

And then I think I’m probably full of shit. just looking a little to hard for something to tie it all together, something to give the whole shibangle a theme, a hypothesis by which I can go out and either prove or disprove. Lather rinse repeat. Stop drop and roll. Duck & cover. Wake up, take shower, drink coffee, hop on the bike (oh wait that’s something kind of cool) turn the switch on the fuel line, engine switch to on, turn the key, hit the ignition, feel the power of the machine between your legs, rev it a few times, make sure it’s not too cold (no need for overkill, this is Hawaii after all, playboy), pull in the clutch with your left hand, left foot pushes down on the gear shift, ok you’re in first, masta ace, pull it out of the driveway, watch out for those pebbles over there, ok you’re going down the street, clutch in again, lift up the shifter, you’re in second, turn right, pass the liquor stores, over the hill, pop another right, shit it’s a nice morning, nice breeze, nice trees, come to a stop at a light, find neutral, kick it and breathe in the morning air. Maybe it all does mean something. Maybe life is in the details. You’re not stuck inside an air conditioned environment listening to Frank Sinatra bang out Manchurian Candidate propoganda, your soundtrack is the tradewinds blowing in off Kaneohe bay. Your band is the mongoose scuttling across the road, desperate to get to the other side. Why did the chicken cross the road? Yeah there’s chickens in Hawaii, contingent, plenny kine. Fighting chickens, slaughter chickens, they take em to the market they take em to the backwood old skool spots to square off against each other. Winner take all, loser ends up with rooster stew and/or some gristled out filet o’ lil’ jerry seinfeld.

Why did kurt have to blow his damn head off? Shit.

Hmmm. Everyone wonders that though. That’s nothing new, keith, that’s typical horseshit, you were on a roll there, and you lost it, what’s the problem, what’s the paradigm, what’s the schizoid, ain’t nobody gonna look at that and get all jack handy.

Fuck jack handy.

Well that was the ending, grand as it is, but I went to publish this and apparently I’m being transitioned into the new version of blogger of which I have heard, well, I guess not that much, it’s all been good actually, except for ya know, quirks of learning a new system, um, whatever, yes fascinating stuff.

I’m gonna go take some drugs. I’m still just a little under the weather and the plain wrap orange crap sounds like a proper sedative, especially with big al rambling on in the next office. At least if he comes in here and tries to talk story to me I’ll be ready with visions of daffodils and pegasi (pegasi? Is that Pegasus plural, is it like cactus & cacti, did I take my drugs yet, oh wait, no, ok, hold on, well I mean you don’t have to hold on literally, but if you want to experience the effect, you can wait and count 1, 2, 3, before reading the next paragraph.)

Ah HA tricked you. I didn’t go yet. Ok now I’m going.

Ok now I’m back. Jesus fukn Christ, big al is full of shit. I don’t know who he’s got on the phone, but he started telling them about his trip to the mainland and now he’s telling the old crappy story about how fukn charming him and his brother were back in the day and how it wasn’t a party if him and his fukn brother weren’t there. It’s probably someone he knows, but seriously, this guy has cornered like travel agents on the phone before telling them these old BULLSHIT stories, like about his fukn high school football team from like the 1920’s or some shit, or every single job he ever had, or how fukn he went to every 49er game during the years they sucked ass, but you’ll never ever hear the story of how he got his blatant and “what the fuck” level combover which graces his bald head. Ok look, I’m losing my hair, I’ve still got a good amount up there but I’ve faced reality numerous times that one day there will be nothing on top of the ol’ noggin. I will never ever ever ever have a comb over, ok, because I will not wake up from freaky dream in the middle of the night and wander stumbling to the bathroom to splash some water on my face and look in the mirror of the medicine cabinet and see some guy with short hair on one side and like hair hanging down to his shoulder on the other side and nothing up top and this confused look on the guy’s face in the mirror, like “what the FUCK happened here dude?” like your modern persona is facing the persona who originally decided to start the combover and like having a battle of wills, all within the same medulla oblongata, over the unbelievable self-delusion that must come with the rationale for thinking that if you comb a few strands of hair over your bald head people will somehow think that it’s growing out of the top of your head.

I just deleted this long diatribe about this conversation I had with this bitch on the phone after which I slammed down the phone and gave it the bird (it didn’t seem offended, damn inanimate object) and thought about punching my bob big boy bobble head statue but, ya know, he didn’t do anything, so instead I wrote this and hopefully somewhere she’s not reading this (she won’t recognize it now cuz I took out the details – hey, you can never be too careful, just cuz you’re paranoid doesn’t mean there not watching, etcetera, hey ask Trevor, they’re watching him) and calling the cops and sending a fax and fukking me over like some other people in the blogosphere are getting fukked right now vis a vis (and YES I know I used that French or whatever the fuk delineation phrase it is yesterday) the dramarama of bloggerville. Fuk it probably no one is going to read this far down on this crap ass post anyway.

But if you did make it this far I’d like to recommend that you go check out 8 3 5.

Aloha. Oh and remember, trust in Allah but tie up your camel.

Tuesday, June 24, 2003

I’m feeling much better today, thank you. a combination of my preternaturally efficient immune system and day-time plain wrap cold medicine has produced a nice feeling of happy non throat pain inducement vis-à-vis the Canadian contingent not sending over their best men to do the job.

Yup, they’re all dead. Every last one of them. Thought just cuz I was a little under the weather they could take me out, but despite their years of training and weapons skills including a 3rd generation nunchaku master, they were totally unprepared for someone with my skills and experience.

Their bodies have been disposed of by an EPA approved corpse handler. Not the environmental protection agency, though, you pilon, but the extranormal parasitical anachnronists, you know, the guys who control that small piece of dynamite that resides directly beneath my medulla oblongata, of which I have no recourse but to do their bidding, except for Tuesdays and Thursdays, whoaday, those days I stay duck down, off the block, I may be a razor sharp precise killing machine but I ain’t crazy enough to fuk with the new Orleans PD when they on that sweep.

Somebody should take trent reznor to like a chuck e. cheese or a farrells ice cream parlor or something. Somebody, anybody, needs to give that guy a frikken hug already. It’s like, ok trent, you’re a beacon for all these depressed ass, giddy to be counterculture automotans, and I know there’s a certain amount of pressure to stay bummed out, but doesn’t it get just a little old after a while. Don’t you EVER crack a smile while reading marmaduke on a Sunday morning? Doesn’t reruns of Webster wandering through his back alley sally maze in that old house with the ex football player and the dyke amazon just give you a little case of the willies and have you pondering what other things besides self-loathing and basking in the immoralities and inequities that are an integral and irrevocable part of this world and society may be out there?

Don’t you ever want to just go outside and walk down the street and catch a matinee showing of say dumb and dumberer and just, you know, enjoy something plebeian and ordinary and dumbed-down more mainstream society. We know you’re complicated, we know your thoughts are shuttered and private and that no words will properly convey the pain and sorrow that lie deep in your soul, but does that mean you simply will not, cannot, and are not even considering appreciating let’s say, an episode of saved by the bell. I mean, sure screech is annoying, but it is slightly funny when lisa rejects him for the 85th time.

Ok bad example. But seriously man, lighten up.

I don’t know why I got on that trip folks. Blame it on my new random CD selection. I’ll probably be outlining the vagarities and hidden meanings of Sir Mix-A-Lot’s Chief Boot Knocka later this afternoon. And you thought “put em on the glass” was just a song about tits? Oh ho ho, my friends, it’s a blatant metaphor for the secession of the Ukraine from the soviet union, written as a third person 10 year postscript. Indeed.

Monday, June 23, 2003

I’m nice and medicated now. Halls mentholyptus plus plain wrap Dayquil equals semi happy camper. Hmmm, though, it’s almost time to reup my schism.

I remember one day back in Cali when I worked for huge entertainment corp through a temp company, I took some robitussin or Sudafed or some shit like that in the morning, but I didn’t eat any breakfast, and I went, like, crazy. The world was all giggly and slow motion, it was like I was all stoned out, slippy, slippery, dizzy like gallespie. I was acting so goofy and making inopportune comments on the phone and acting like a crack fiend to the point they told me just go home for the day. that didn’t happen today, but medicine is still nice. Makes me want to go get hooked on prescription drugs like all those old social security hugging home shopping network banditas.

Did anyone deserve their best supporting actor oscar more than joe pesci in good fellas? I think my favorite line in that movie is when the 3 amigos stop by pesci’s mom’s house to grab a shovel so they can bury batts, and the mom wakes up and cooks them all a bunch of food, and she shows them this picture she painted, and it’s this old man with two dogs, and pesci’s like “I like this one, you got one dog looking this way, and one dog looking the other way, and this guy here’s like, what do you want from me?” and then they laugh cuz the guy looks like the almost dead guy in their trunk. Great flick.

So much happiness and joy could be accomplished on the internet if people were just cool. And kool. And copacetic. Before you go out and flip out, ya know, drop somebody an e-mail, try to make a connection, it’ll pay off, even if you’re sure said person is gonna hate you. trust me. That’s really all we’re trying to do here right? Connect with each other in one way or another? It’s a barren landscape and we’re trying to find some kind of common ground by which to holla at a playa. Everything else is just gravy my grizzles.

Yeah maybe that’s a load of horseshit but it sounds nice so I’m gonna run with it, playboy.

I’ve got a sore throat. I couldn’t sleep for shit last night thank you very much. Woke up at 2 AM, woke up at 3 AM, woke up at 4 AM, finally drifted off at around 4:30, and then my fukn pager goes off like at 5:30, so I get up and turn the fucker off. Then it goes off again at like 6. so I get up and throw it across the room, and then go find it and really turn it off, which I must have been unsuccessful in doing correctly in my sleepy state of slumberville.

We leave for Europe in 2 weeks so of course I’m fukn sick. Of fukn course, gyeah? Well I guess better to be sick now and then get over it and then be ok when we leave.

Ah geez, I don’t want to be “that guy” that always bitches about how sick he is on his blog. I’m pretty sure c-monks mentioned that guy a few weeks ago, and I’m also pretty sure he wan’t talking about me, but I’m also pretty sure that I don’t want to be that guy and yes I already said that.

Well I would erase the above except for the fact that I don’t want to.

well the site is still kind of fucked up, but, I don’t know, maybe it’s not. It seems to come up here and there, but a lot of the times the comments don’t work, fuk I don’t know, I’m no internet genius, I’m just a rhesus monkey banging on a keyboard. Gimme a fukn break over here.

Props to Tony Z for blocking a remote link with style & grace. You may have noticed the teen titans cover with wonder girl giving nightwing the smackdown that graced this page last week. Well this morning I turn on the old computadore and find in its place a picture of a beefcake Gaylord and the line “my favorite site is I’m a fag dot com” or some shit like that. Now THAT is the proper way to fuk somebody over on a blocked link. Kudos, man! Anyway, check out the guy’s site cuz he’s got plenty cool scans of teen titans stuff and other comics crap and it’s a nice ol hub of the old triple dub to hang out at and shoot shit. just don’t remote link his pics, unless you like pics of big sweaty homos.

So anyway, I took the pic down, but you can see it here, if you’re curious (or bi-curious). At least until he switches the link again.

So don’t let it be said that I can’t take a joke goddammit. Just nobody better say shit about the banana in the tailpipe, cuz that ain’t cool. Wait, banana in the tailpipe, am I implying something? Oh well, I am secure enough in my masculinity to post links to homoerotic pictures and say things like banana in the tailpipe over and over again. Yes indeed. And is heterosexuality even any kind of a relation to the theory of masculinity? And what the fuk does masculinity have to do with theories anyway? Looks like I’m just talking out of my ass again. OH SHIT there I dun diddit one mo time. that's like, whoah.

Well that’s it for now, I don’t want to invest too much time on this CRAP if this page is just going to dump all over the land again.

Peace & aloha.