Friday, August 15, 2003
Some of the major moves in my life, that have got me where I am today (whoop de frikken doo, sitting behind this desk like a goddamm fukn robot and doing the herky jerky at half past 72) have been due to the need for a change of scenery.
Berkeley? Yeah I wanted to get the best public education available, but also it was basically get me the fuk out of LA.
Hawaii? Yeah I wanted to get all tropical and shit and like worship volcanos and live out a tiki dream but basically it was, once again, get me the fuk out of LA.
And now, like that old Neil Diamond song where he talks about how “LA is laid back, but I keep thinking about making my way back” to NYC, well sometimes I catch myself thinking about making my way back. Back to cali. Booze, bitches, billiards, blimps, brigadoons, and backstabbing buttcracking bastard biters of boatpeople’s bloated beehives of badass boondocks. Or some random ass dogshit like that.
You must know, or probably don’t, that whenever I get indecipherable up in this thang it’s totally a fukn defense mechanism. You know, like, if I make it vague and only I know whut I’m talking about, and you, the hidden audience, the horror stricken masses, don’t know whut the fuk I’m talking about, then it didn’t really happen. It hasn’t been solidified yet.
Fuk I don’t know. I’ve been struggling with this crap ass crapsterpiece for going on 83 parsecs, cap’n, and we’re losing juice in the flux capacitor, like, big time. I’m juggling all these like ideas on where to be and the roadmap to buggerville. Learn French and move to paris, train as a mime and shut the fuk up and sit in an invisible box. Start taking roids and beef up and be the next fukn whatever the fuck you call it and take over bollywood, learn hindu, slap hoes, eat all kinds of strange bratwurst soups, look out the window at the pentagon and realize, shit I took over this game.
I have the damn right to spit random thoughts, doubts, insecurities, etcetera, and not be quoted on it later. I can say, fuk Hawaii, I’m over it, now, and then tomorrow, be like, I will die on this island with a big ol shit eating grin on my face surrounded by hapa haole Mexican children and a fukn tsunami comin in just off the radar to wipe us all out but thank god I’m a fantastic swimmer & so is Mrs. P and our children will be brought up in the water and will float over to rabbit island and we’ll start a new society when these random portagee children show up on the island, the only other people in the pacific left after the devastation, and these children will intermingle with our children, start a new society and I will be named the high chieftan of pennyworthville, the official center of all that is sanctioned and proper in the Micronesian precinct.
Or maybe I’ll just go home & eat a goddamm fukn chili dog.
Thursday, August 14, 2003
Gotta love the word apropos, it’s so apropos of joe and frank and moe. Yaddie-doe.
Ain’t got much to say and lots of time to say it. actually I really should be kickin in the productivity right about… now. But when the cake is away the candles will play so they say. They being the third parallel contingent group by which all of these words are edited and approved for not-so-mass consumption.
Ever started writing something that about like into the third or fourth semi-sentence you realize that the dogshit store called and you’re stealing their material?
Cool thing of the day: I scored a $1 sir mix-a-lot cd during lunch. Seminar. Damn that shit is dated. Beepers, gortex, but shit “I got game” still has some bounce, and you gotta love “my hooptie.” It’s almost as down as the word “apropos.”
Fukn Arnold running for guv. Tony did a super-keen (hold on, I’m being strapped to the rack and tortured for about three hours for using the word super-keen) ok I’m back. Where was I? Oh yeah a su… um, really good photo-essay on ahhhnnnooolllddd running for governor, or something like that. Anyway, whatever it is, you should click here and read/view it, you’ll be mighty glad you did.
I don’t know, as much as his dad is a nazi and he’s like cheated on his wife his whole marriage (gasp! A kennedy cheating on his wife?? Never.) I’d probably still vote for Arnold for guv. Wait scratch that, I think we need a different stroke. Hmmm, actually that term would be apropos of two parties running in this circus. No, I won’t spell it out for you, it wouldn’t be apropos of high-brow humor in the third circuit. Did I use third circuit already? Damn writers, they’re leaving me nothing, nothing I tell you. I want to be like Bob Hope and be the kind of professional entertainer that credits his writers, which I heard he was good about doing. So the one that came up with the insanely amusing “apropos” theme of this post as well as the joke about mary carey and Arnold Drummond (Jackson) ah shit I wasn’t gonna tell you! dagnabbit willis, um where was I? Oh yeah, the writer for that section was rhesus monkey #72 otherwise known as voltron-fucker, cuz his “girlfriend” ie masturbatory toy is an old voltron action figure. I don’t know if that shit is inspiring the old boy or what, but shit is getting about as hilarious as jack ass magilla gorilla up in this hizznazzle.
Sterling wrote an amaaaaaazing post today about, fuck I hate describing shit, just click here and read it will ya?
Damn, fukn the east coast has a major fukn blackout and europe’s on fire. Now you’re gonna tell me def leppard broke up.
Um, fuk, I guess that’s about it for now.
2000 – Threshold/Funk Ass
F-U M. F.
So what you got your first deal?
Who you signed with, nigga?
I don’t give a fuck if you’re with warner bros.
Who you signed with, nigga?
Interscope, columbia, sony, 550
Fuck it if you’re with dreamworks
And if is, your in-house commercial-ass producers
Can suck out the interior out of my dick
Y’all still 75, that ain’t no new shit
Fake-ass wanna-be hip-hop shit
Don’t worry about who the fuck I hang with
I’m tired of niggas fooling muthafuckas
Actin like they drug dealers
All you rappers fantasizin that jewelry and car shit
You can pull the speedos and suck my dick
Tell your corny fans who believe that shit
Lick the back of my ass quick
I’ma shut faggots down
Especially muthafuckas with that gay-ass production
New millenium homo sound
Smack the shit out of you for doin that wack-ass shit you do
50 bodyguards surround you
Keepin men that fuck you in the ass around you
Standin like you runnin shit, you ain’t the fuckin president
Posin with ugly bitches in your video who take aids medicine
You don’t wanna fuck with me or rock with me
Or rhyme on any block with me
Fuck the rap museum
I should be on the wall next to run-d.m.c.
Between public enemy
Some assholes jealous me
I don’t care no more about your lyrics
The average mc is bullshit, I don’t hear it
Fuck you talkin about you rap with a good spirit
I make rappers intimidated
Over wack-ass beats they get motivated, some have ministrated
Even suburban kids copy your shit and duplicate it
My balls you now cherish
By some new-ass mc about to perish
Type of muthafucka to eat a lotta celery
Your cd was butter-soft - what you tellin me?
A bunch of ’n sync type of fans hyped you up like bill bellamy
A bitch like you would rhyme with a curfew
Niggas with real shit will hurt you
The girl scout club I refer you
Your man rap, new nigga, he’s wack, fuck you
Stay low, I’m above you
Erase your shit, I don’t dub you
You been rappin for 20’000 years
And you ain’t got your fuckin deal yet?
What the fuck
Don’t take your problems out on me
And the rest of you muthafuckas
Walkin around lookin like some old alien niggas
Muthafucka, I pull your face off
’bout to show you what the fuck you look like
Cause you keep it real
Too real muthafuckin broke
Nobody was sayin that shit when I was payin for them fuckin hot wings
Hope you burn your fuckin lips
Wednesday, August 13, 2003
The illusion is that there are a good number of things in this life that you can truly rely on.
The truth is that the majority of the things in this life you rely on can suddenly become illusory and therefore be pulled out from under you at any moment.
Your job? You could suddenly lose it. as in today. Your love? They could be gone, packed and on a plane, train, automobile when you walk in the door after a long day’s work. Even your damn dog could run away, leaving you with nothing but a six pack of Sam Adams and your MTV, providing you paid your cable bill and don’t have a crazy alcoholic uncle living in your guest bedroom.
This is not to say that life is a big pile of crap. Far from it. Neither is it to say that you should assume the worst. I’m a firm believer in rose tinted glasses and keeping a stiff upper lip, but rose tinted glasses are not necessarily blue blockers, and straight up, no matter what preconceived notions you have about this that and the other thing, all of the above and more can do a backflip with a triple lutz before you've had a chance to say yahtzee. The theme here folks is you can’t control what other people, agencies, animals, forces of nature, whatevers, do. You just can’t.
Expect the best but be prepared for the worst. Reality can be a harsh little hoo-ah.
Ok now before you start sending me e-cards with cute little dolphins saying pithy things like “stay up tiger” or subscribing me to the fruitcake of the month club so I can properly wallow in my misery, please believe that none of these observations are necessarily applicable to my current state of being, even to my future or past, but are simply harsh facts of the world we live in that must be faced if you don’t want to get whacked across the head with a two by four without at least being braced for the impact.
Vincent van Gogh was prepared for the impact. So much so maybe that he couldn’t stand the tension anymore and decided he’d save the world some time and do the deed himself. Shot himself in the chest at 36. the chest! What the hell? He staggered on, half alive, for another 2 or 3 days before he finally kicked the bucket. The chest. Who the hell shoots themselves in the chest? That’s like, ok I wanna die, but I wanna be able to hang out for a few days afterward to ponder my impending doom. I wonder if they drugged his ass up, how lucid he was for that short time. Did he regret pulling that trigger? Was he excited, scared? Happy? Relieved?
Jesus fukn Christ I sound like a pessimistic bastard today.
I read in sports illustrated today that it was Satchel Paige, famous of the old time Negro leagues, that came up with that saying “love like you’ve never been hurt, dance like nobody’s watching, etc.” and I think it works. I really really do. You have to. What other choice is there? Turn into a bitter old codger because little suzy Johnson wouldn’t go to the paradise under the sea dance with you in 8th grade? Shit no. you HAVE to be prepared to accept happiness. You gotta be prepared to fight for that shit, tooth and nail. But you have to also accept when life serves you up a turd sandwich, let go of the reins, take your whuppin, and come back for second, third, fourth helpings. Shit, whatever it takes.
Really people, my mind is just wandering away. Fuk I could do a face plant on my keyboard after a gran mal seizure, my ghost flitting away into the corners of my office, staring at my already decaying bod, and think, “well, that was a nice ride.”
First thing I’d do is fly over to the college and stare at Mrs. P for like a good two hours. I’d be like all ghostly and wouldn’t be able to touch her, make her see me, describe to her how much I love her, but I’d be able to at least watch her. See her one last time before I head up to the pearly gates or down to the pits, whatever Joe-Bob the master of all he surveys has planned for me. That’s really about it, maybe float over the ocean and have a sniff of an in-n-out burger. Can spirits smell? Good question.
I'm gonna go to lunch and find a fukn flower to smell or something cuz the noggin is headin' in some weird directions. peace.
Tuesday, August 12, 2003
In order to keep it “real” I posted something over at blogcritics, for the lofty cause of keen analytical insights accompanied with the fine art of hawking stuff.
Click here to check it out, but since I’m probably the coolest person ever to step foot on the planet, I cut & pasted it in this space as well for your reading pleasure. I would still go to blogcritics though, if I were you, because, well, it’s a sinister cabal, and shit, what else do you need?
Ok here goes:
I don’t know how well this fits the prototypical “blogcritics” format, but Eric keeps e-mailing me (yeah, just me dammitt, ok everyone, but um, are we not supposed to discuss this in our posts? Um, whatever) to post something, and well, I’m reading people magazine, and it is the latest one, so here we go with something I like to call:
Notes while reading people magazine, August 18th issue, (see that’s current as hell, hasn’t even happened yet, I am from the future, here we have toilets that flush without you having to touch them) you know, the one with j-lo and ben on the cover, affectionately and hilariously called by the clever writers at people “bennifer” hahaha, oh cripes, let me calm down for a minute, that was really funny.
Ok now I shall proceed.
I don’t really care for seeing mick jagger and Justin timberlake on stage together. I mean, that old guy is bringing down tim-dawg’s street cred big time. (page 8)
I didn’t know britney was a plumber! (page 10)
Why does tom cruise think he has to look like some stoned snow boarder, and furthermore, does he think that this will change my opinion of him as a closet homo? Film at 11 (page 14)
OK did I see this straight? Don’t, please do NOT, tell me that LL cool J is pulling a marky mark & demanding that we call him by his Christian name for purposes of his film career. James Todd Smith, starring in S.W.A.T.?? no. no please. You are LL cool J, ok? James Todd Smith might be able to get an underwear ad or two, but he ain’t running down a street with Colin Farrell without “I Need Love” and “radio”. Aight? Aight. (page 35)
I don’t even have anything funny or lighthearted to say about pictures of 10 year old kids shooting each other in Liberia. It’s pretty fucked up. (I think the eff-word is justified here. Editors: feel free to disagree.) It’s nice to know that it was worth going in & booting out Saddam, but this is cool, ya know, we’ll let the locals handle it, but seriously, the lack of oil on the premises has nothing to do with Dubya’s decision. No, really. (page 53)
I’m not even gonna mention the J-lo story. (oops, too late) except to say: media, ahem, um, get a fukn life already. Ben ain’t even married yet, they’re gonna be history in a year and a half anyway, get over it puhleeze. Merci. (page 60)
Ok so let me get this straight, one of saddam hussein’s daughters was married to a guy named Hussein Kamel Hassan (who ran Iraq’s weapon’s program) and the other one was married to Saddam Kamel Hassan (head of the secret police). Um, was this just a coincidence, or did they change their names to form a duo that equaled “Saddam Hussein” or did Saddam just search all over the country for two guys with the same middle & last name that happened to each have one part of his name? Is this something that everyone else besides me understands? And if they changed their names, why? I mean, ok, years of power and influence, but you gotta know you’re gonna fuck up eventually and get mowed down by some uzis, buried in an unmarked grave, and mentioned in people magazine years later while your ex-wives say what a great guy their dad (the guy that ordered your death) was. (page 69)
I’m over it. fuck people magazine.
Um, I mean, people magazine is a fantastic publication! (seriously though, you know you love it, even up to the moment you toss it in the garbage bin in disgust, as you quietly ponder to yourself what will be in the next gossip packed issue - it's like the national enquirer you don't have to feel guilty about) And you should buy all the other items listed below as well. on orders from Grandma Moses. disobey and sever paddling shall be administered.
See? Now you must go to blogcritics to satisfy the sudden urge to buy stuff related to what I’m talking about! If you don’t, it’s like, you’ll feel, empty inside. C’mon people, we’re talking gross national product stimulation here! Put those tax dollars that bush is giving back to you in action, prove that funny little fella right that tax cuts during a recession is sound business practice! I mean it makes so much sense it can’t be wrong, right?
This is the part where I say aloha.
Monday, August 11, 2003
Fukn ATL don’t get near the respect they should. fukn cold 187, damn dawg, where you been, keeping it real working security at the jiffy lube? Holla playa. I know you ain’t got that murda rap and shit, KMG is peepin the scene at tower records, jackin fools comin out with their MC eiht records, shit ain’t right…
It’s so not cool to end paragraphs with that three dot bullshit. I hereby promise I won’t pull that assclown dog tripe no more…
Doh! I guess my discipline is really for shit, eh? So anywhat, fukn grinded too much Mexican food last nite with wifey & the folks. They’re stayin at a pretty phat rental in lanikai. View of the mokes is off the hook fa sheezy so don’t say I never propped you on the werd. Don’t never.
Fukn computer at home is sooooo fucked. I think it was pissed we ignored it while on vaycay. Should have had the contingent come in & fire it up but fuk that, the writing is on the wall & it’s saying “buy another fukn computer you cheap fuk.” Fuk especially since I’m fukn payin for broadband & now I can’t even use that shit. once the shit is up you should see some posts from the casa though. Or not. Hmmm, that doesn’t read back so good. better have the rhesus monkeys edit that shit out.
Speaking of pythagorus I forgot to tell you (yes you) that we checked out einstein’s crib while we were in bern, Switzerland. Shit was tight, yo. Fukn albert was pretty smart I guess, for an amateur. And yes I know that he didn’t invent the pythagoreum theorem, it was that guy pizza head, you know, pumpkin head’s cousin? Yeah that dude. Oh and sorry those prehensile tail having mofos edited out the pythagorus reference thereby making the first sentence of this paragraph totally not sensical. Ya know, I can’t even remember what I said about pythagorus, I think it was something about, um, fuk, I honestly can’t remember. Damn that shit is totally lost. Fuk it was relevant too. Fukn rhesus monkeys get a little overzealous sometimes. most hearty apologies.
So fukn bern is a pretty sick town, you should chiggedy chilzneck it if you’re ever in that, um, district, and stop by the Einstein crib and tell em big daddy sent you. big daddy is my um stage name if you catch my um drift.
The relation or at least mental connection between pythagorus & Einstein though was that they both came up with a pretty famous theory. And I was in the damn house where he came up with that shit. both e=mc squizaired and his first son were born in that fukn flat dagniggedienabbit. Ferreal. Right down the street from the famous clock that you think it’s gonna do something really trippy on the hour and it’s not quite nearly as spectacular as you think. Basically this little guy bangs a bell and this bear like rotates and this little satan looking guy like shakes like a jar of mustard or something. Entertaining but not something to write home about. BUT something to write to people that somehow bump into frank stapleton’s hidden diary.
I want to end this as awkwardly as possible just to leave y’all with an uncomfortable feeling but I’m having trouble finding the words. Oh wait there they are. Nah, that ain’t gonna cut it. um, shark testicles? That doesn’t inspire comfort in me, at least, maybe I’m the minority.