Wednesday, November 26, 2003

I’m not who you think I am. Not that I’m not unlike that guy or entity, just that, well, whatever preconceived notions you have, they’re wrong, dammitt, wrong, you got that?

Good. Now we can move forward with a more thorough yet vague explanation of the proceedings at hand. First off, I am a sham, a fraud, a charlatan, a trick handily pulled out of a bag by a magician behind a green curtain. He’s not a wizard, per se, simply a master of hand eye coordination and mental deception.

It was this man, this, how do you say, persona, that came up with the original idea to incorporate the butler rapper stoner lifestyle into the triumvirate of free will that has developed henceforth from these cyber pages. In other words don’t blame the playa, blame the game, well actually, the referee, I guess, or actually maybe the owner, or, um, facilitator.

It is this behind the scenes operator, sometimes referred to as the Kingpin or Carlton, who really pulls the strings around here. Me? I just follow marching orders. If he says jump, I say mack daddy. If he says warm it up, I say daddy mack. I mean, I was born to do it. now backwards pants references notwithstanding, this is a very serious business we are undertaking in this quadrant, don’t get it twisted. I may use a lot of technical parameters and double talk to keep you on or off your guard, depending on your chemical balance at the moment of embezzlement, but if you look under the surface, beneath the outer layer, you know and I know and you know that I know you know that you’ll find some deep shit, some atlantis style ponderings, and not just shit that a copied out of an old notebook written by another version of myself.

What I’m trying to get across to you is this. If it looks simple, it’s complicated. If it appears to be overly complex, it’s most likely a tic-tac-toe job. In a very real sense, you will be able to pull your razor blade lined bowler right off the top of your head, hurl it at whatever british or alternate ethnicity spy is criss-crossing the room in your general direction, and commence to defend yourself, not just against international intrigue and political realignments, but against the very idea of yourself as dictated by the smothered masses. Engulfed and caked in their own oil and elbow grease, long since deadened to the real callings of the world by bells & whistles & catcalls & false idols, they will be no help to you in this endeavor I hereby propose.

So gather your id & your superego, slide out from beneath your skin and shake off those bones and muscles. We are going for a ride through candyland and then back through the sidegate of Mr. Wiggley’s neighborhood, and trust me when I say, that when we arrive at the Artichoke Heart bake-off with our bags full of flour and sugar, we will be greeted with open arms and most likely revered and honored for our tenacity and good graces by which we escaped the uni-mind and tasted that first and sweetest taste of true enlightenment.

Tuesday, November 25, 2003

A new world. A separate entity of be in it ism that is the health nutrition bar of life’s everlasting opportunities and loves lost & lives led and gathered apples of johnny’s happy dappy joy juice in the crack macksterpiece dogshit acre known as happy crapperville. In long beach. So yeah so like the jurk storr called and there was a bunch of random shit going on and then, um, they got all drunk wasted and talking shit and then there was like uncomfortable silence that wasn’t and then the jurk storr called again but it was funny cuz they’d actually been looking for mr. Furley’s secret identity aka pat mcgroin. In long beach.

So yeah so heebie greebie and the melting fleebies were all up in the heezie like with wheezie and skeezy and like these cowboy folks all with ridin horses up and down some plain and I think a few prairies if I’m not mistaken and then being led to the crystal cavern of captain caveman with clavicles all hangin off their mavlicles, like totally long beach style.

Ok so yeah tha jurk storr called and it was captain (kirk, this time)’s second communion of his aunt gertle’s cousin’s stepmother. And plus it was really hot out that day, with high wind advisories and shit like that, totally and completely, like in the house yet totally out of it and down with it put hopelessly over it. like as in getting all Morrissey or some shit like that in the scene, like pulling backyard haircuts and nuclear Armageddon paranoia schizophrenic castle building gangster type shit.

And then, if the jurk storr calls again, if they have the fucking nerve to phone my casa even one more time, well I don’t know whut I’d do, but you can surely bet that it would be ugly, my friends and neighbors, it would be shameful in its indecency to the degree that you would want to filet your trouser snake in afghanistanian earwig stew.

Sometimes it can be inspirational to see like this really mystical bird flying by across the sky and in backdrop like this picture perfect skyscape with like blue sky on the right and dark black well ok not black but dark dark gray clouds gathering on the left and like this white fluffy cloud in the center and just like these dogs yapping and calling in the distance and then the jurk storr calls and you realize it was all just a plastic lantern’s suntanned ass staring you in the face once again on the 30 yard line 10 yards to go.

So fukn rock that shit homey and do the goddamm muthafuckin safety dance up in that bitch and like fukn ride the snake and like like fukn kick the groin with pat mcsomething or other. And then when they think that you’re done, that the man’s finally got you down, just suck up the hugest fukn loogie you ever even thought of or heard of or even to the smallest degree fathomed in any way shape or form straight into your brain, and then you know, you really really know, that maybe the jurk storr did call about that afterall. Maybe they did.

There’s always time for toast. If you know only one thing, know this, it’s this, this thing, that I seem to have forgot for this precise instant, but know that it was important, vitally so, and without it, you just may never find true spirituality and happiness.

Ah but that shit’s overrated anyway, at least the celluloid incarnation. I had me some good coffee this am, but I’m thinking I’m due for a refill. You know, I was just thinking, like just this second, that a coffee delivery service would rake in some coin. I mean, if people are paying 5 bones for a fucking cup of joe at starbucks wouldn’t they pay another buck or two to have somebody deliver it steaming hot to your door and/or especially place of work? Gold, people, gold, and I give it away for free here at the farm.

Speaking of the farm, cal beat stanfurd’s bitch ass last weekend to hold on to the axe for yet one more year. Thought I missed that, right hoes? I miss nothing when it comes to the golden bears. Further sports desk stuff, peep chaminade versus UH in the maui invitational 2nd round, long beach has indicated that it is verifiably local style. You have been notified and sanctioned by my governing body. Sincerely. Ok sports desk out.

And now back to our regular programming. Bob is on the phone with a special report from alfred’s desk. “Yes, Frank, we’ve got reports of stacks of files and unmade phone calls awaiting the famous bat butler, and word is leaking down from the pentagon that due to this upcoming trip to the mainland, he better get off his ass and get on that shit.”

Well, it’s on the internet so it must be true. And thus I bid you adieu. For now.

Monday, November 24, 2003

I wasn’t gonna blog today but you, yes you, deserve the best five minutes I can possibly put forward. Following up on that logic, the best five minutes would involve lots of things not currently available at my desk, but you (as I’m wont to say) get the picture.

Whole lotta lotta going on at el trabajo. Seeing as how Mrs. P & I head out of here on one of those airplane thingies on Wednesday afternoon, there is of course a boatload of tasks to accomplish here in la oficina.

It’s amazing how much shit I can do when I actually like you know knuckle down and do that grindstone thing and like grind it and like throw rocks and stones at the wall like imitating um, cavemen or some shit like that.

Speaking of cavemen, Stanley Kubrick was a pretty bad ass film director, at least in my humble opinion. What I know about movies like in a technical sense or actually like in some film buff sense or like, you know, cognizance for actual quality rather than that popcorn retardo-culture manifestation of you him and the other guy plus his brother and their sisters and aunties and nephews you could fit in a thimble. Granted, it would be a fairly good sized thimble, maybe for use in like sewing denim or corduroy, but still a thimble nonetheless.

Well, I’m over it for now & you are too prolly. Go clippers.

Sunday, November 23, 2003


The following text is an unedited transcription of a few scribbled pages from an old steno pad I found today while cleaning house. If I had to guess, I’d say it’s about 6 years old, maybe older. Honestly, I don’t remember writing it, but it‘s my handwriting, so hey, either it‘s a big conspiracy involving massive amounts of forgery, or these thoughts went riding through my mental at some point in the last decade. So I guess it’s time capsule Saturday (well, now Sunday) or some shit like that.

I wait on the phone like an abandoned groom. I have the feeling I’ve been stood up, but yet bravely persevere. She must have got a flat, I think. Perhaps she’s stuck in traffic?

But deep down, I know that no one is going to come to my aid. The fumbling keystrokes of some pimply-faced hack echo insultingly out of the speaker-phone. I am on hold.

I am on hold, and I think I’m here to stay. When did childhood pass me by? Such a short time ago I was a bright-eyed student of life. The world was my playground, and, like a child, I didn’t even know it. Now responsibility weighs on me like an unwanted child. The product of a past indiscretion that has so far yielded no quantifiable or emotional reward.

Bills. Bills suck.

Sometimes I feel that I let the best times of life pass me by, looking forward to what I thought would be better.

Amazing how one second, you can feel so preponderously bored & disappointed with your life, and then, like the peeking of the sun on the horizon at dawn, the good things come into view.

Those times were good. The curse of life is wisdom. Hindsight is useless, in fact, dangerous. There are always things we would do differently. Those that say otherwise lie.

Or is it just me?


Good Lord, a voice in the cacophony of 4th rate instrumental chaos.

Hold-hell having frozen over, I conduct the business necessary and hang up, mildly annoyed over the bureaucratic interruption of my multi-level self-examination. Work can be like that.

Is ignorance bliss?

Sometimes I think it’s definitely a key ingredient. It’s truly a beautiful thing to be able to blindly live. To go through the motions without analysis. Or so I’ve heard. I wouldn’t know.

And religion - don’t let me even start - (Don’t worry, I will - later.)

Why can’t I just do things w/o thinking about them? Why do I care? Why are we here?