Friday, January 09, 2004
toonces the cat that could drive a car.
Once again I sit here staring at the screen, deep thoughts hidden in the recesses of my mind, pondering the ponderations I pondered last nite this morning while I slept and now that it’s time to spill them on the screen all I can come up with is a feline barreling vehicles off of cliffsides.
You must be terribly disappointed in me.
Since it’s January it means it’s time for my annual calendar recommendation. Famed for like, 50 years, people come to me from far & wide for sincere advice on which calendar they should grace their wall with. I take this shit very very seriously folks. So for now, just for one minute, I must ask that all levity be set aside to deal with this quite pertinent & vital issue.
My calendar recommendation for the year 2004 is…
(and please remember that this is the wall calendar category. My desk calendar recommendations had to be discontinued in 1996 due to the Goldberg affair.)
the official HR Giger calendar.
Hope the buildup wasn’t a letdown, or, rather, hope the result wasn’t a letdown from the buildup.
The reason that HR Giger’s art is perfect for the calendar medium is as follows. If you’re gonna look at the same picture for a month, it’s gotta be something that offers you something new every day. it’s gotta be something by which you notice a little different feature that you didn’t notice during the first 29 days of the month. And Giger is perfectamundo for that. trust me. Disregard the fact that I’m failing miserably trying to sound like some kind of crusty sophisticated art critic. I know, well, some shit, and, but, when it comes to calendars, I’m like MC hammer, and not in that I like taco bell, which I actually do, but in that you can’t touch this. This being my skills at discerning quality timekeeping literature.
For those not in the know. HR Giger is the world renowned artist that created the alien monster in the famous movie called alien. Was that an echo? Anyway, the detail in his shit is like out of this world, and add to that the factor that his official museum is in Gruyeres, Switzerland inside a little village surrounding a castle and that there are really really good authentic restaurants serving incredibly delicious fondue there, well, you really can’t go wrong.
The only issue that I have with this calendar is it’s black color. This may cause problems with writing in pertinent appointments like “dentist at 4 PM” or “manicure at 2” or “sadomasochistic torture techniques club meeting at 8:30, in Joe’s garage,” you get the idea.
But that will probably be easily solved with the purchase of a white pen, or some other bright color which can offset the black background.
And if you don’t care about calendars, well, fuck you then, cuz you don’t care about order, and then you don’t care about days and weeks and months and years, and if you think about it, without this structure in our lives, we’d be, well, we’d be lost, we’d be without knowing what time to pick up our laundry, we’d be in the void, we’d be, jeez, I shudder to think about it.
Thursday, January 08, 2004
This would have been a SICK concert to be at.
Def Leppard is the greatest rock band ever. Sorry to any who disagree. But you’re wrong. Don’t look at X. don’t look at Euphoria. Look, but only briefly, at Hysteria. Completely ignore Adrenalize.
I know that’s a lot to ask, exception, etcetera, in light of my lofty claim, but bear with me.
Listen to High n Dry. Then listen to Pyromania. Then tell my you’re not feelin that shit. Then feel the weight of my fists crushing your sternum. I can disarm you in 83 ways from this position. 5 kill, 8 maim, 4 will have you never walking again, and 28 really really really hurt. Yah I stole that from frank miller. Sue me.
Kind of all over the place. Forgive me. So just to review. Kool keith is the greatest rapper ever. Def Leppard are the greatest rockers ever.
But Brandon is still the best.
Heebie heebie heebie.
Wednesday, January 07, 2004
After I ate a sandwich I bought with a shiney new Kentucky quarter some of those chiclet gums out of a machine and it gave me a nice little handful and I put half in my mouth and started chewing and it felt like a lot of gum and I thought “if I put the rest of this handful in my mouth, then my jaw will get sore from chewing it, cuz it’ll be such a big wad,” and I thought about it for a minute, considered the option of putting the remaining gum in my pocket, where lintballs and dirty money would be nestling up next to it and then without even a word to allah I put the rest of the gum in my mouth and started chewing and sure enough, within like 3 astromedallions, my jaw started hurting a little and now it’s really hurting.
Which just goes to show that I am a jackass.
But, in a more metaphorical sense, it also describes how since the dawn of man people have done things that they knew were bad ideas from the get go just because, well, they wanted to.
The depth of this concept is currently paddling around the shallow end with floaties on each arm. I’m watching it, not literally of course, this is all occurring on another plane of reference, just in case it starts drowning, I’m gonna dive from the lifeguard stand (figurative) that is my medulla oblongata (actual) into the sea of tranquility (the outback of my cerebrum) and there possibly I’ll find what I’m looking for, and at the least, hopefully have a good story to tell my grandkids.
Monday, January 05, 2004
Ian Fleming (creator of James Bond) had a fascinating fucking life. Did you know Winston Churchill wrote his father’s obituary? And you thought Baby was a Big Tymer.
But I shouldn’t go into his dad’s or older bro’s escapades. Good ol’ Ian was in their shadow for years before he busted pop culture’s cherry like a fukn jackhammer with mr. double-oh siete.
And you know what’s a goddamm fucking shame? An example of the pathetic state of this nation & the world? Here we’ve got james bond, arguably the most popular character in the free world, (hey, 20 fucking plus movies & counting), yet you can’t find an Ian Fleming book at fucking Waldenbooks. Or Borders. Look. Try. I had to scour through a used bookstore by the University to get my copy of her majesty’s service, and it’s an original paperback copy from 1964. which makes me extremely happy because of the old skool factor and feeling the vibes of the hopefully thousands of people that read it and hopefully will read it after me if I ever release it from my clutches, but c’mon, people, this is good shit. are you telling me, corporate fuckbags out there, yeah you, that you’ve got room on the shelves for Doctors Phil & Laura, both of which can go take a flying shit and then bathe themselves in it and drop off the face of the fucking planet for all I care, talking story about how to lose weight & hold on to (or to use her vernacular, “train” like I’m a fucking dog. BITCH) husbands, but you can’t stock the OG shit of which is based the most successful movie franchise in the world? Check the fucking files people. shit!
I got a lot of stuff to do, so I’m gonna let this percolate. But it ain’t over motherfuckers. Frammalamma.
Oh & if you think Fleming is just some action novel shit and any fukn rhesus crew could write that shit by throwing a gun & a couple of titties in a blender & pressing a couple buttons, peep this line from On Her Majesty’s Secret Service. I dare say I’ve never heard a better description of a guy contemplating how he’s gonna get drunk:
“Encouraged by the prospect of this cosy self-anaesthesia, Bond brusquely kicked his problems under the carpet of his consciousness.”
Plus I’m secretly Blofeld. Shhh.
Sunday, January 04, 2004
tony’s and he’s got a link to the actual marriage certificate as well as like a wherewithal accusation-ville to the whole triple dub as to why they’re not reporting on that shit.
But, um, I saw it on my evening news, so, um, word is out. Apparently.
Yah, so, um, aquaman, not the dee-jay, and not the super hero, but actually, the cup, methinks from McDonalds circa the 70’s, is filled with crown royal and talking to me. It’s saying drink me. I am a polite gentleman thus I oblige. You’re welcome.
Yadda yadda yadda. Jurk storr. Lots of stupid crap. Etcetera and all that extra kine shit.
I went swimming in the ocean today. Good stuff. Kailua beach. While Mrs. P & I were chilling out on said shoreline, sis called and told me all about the delivery of her baby and all that good stuff. I am officially an uncle. Congratulate me at your leisure. Or don’t. still it’s fantastic news, and I want to sing it from the rafters, like that gay monty python guy but minus the homoeroticism. Ya dig? Ya better. In any event, congrats sis, much love from the islands. Yuppity duppity.
Um, uh, so, yeah, I was doing handstands under water and not to get all cool james on you, but I was doing it well, na mean? important shit. Yup.
Well tha jurk storr called and apparently it’s time to bid you aloha. So, um, aloha.
And to quote the infamous muscle68, word. Oh and by the way, he had a really, really, infamous audblog with bastitch, aka the pinoy perpendicular parralalagram, the other day. Due to my fame, I was mentioned. Believe that shit.
Did I mention I’m famous? Yeah, like, Pringles backup dancer-esque. Seriously. Freak that shit.