Wednesday, January 21, 2004
Hoseman makes a triumphant return to bloggerville, nailing all the pertinent info necessary to know on some speech that George Bush apparently made yesterday. Don’t let the fact that I didn’t watch it or know anything about it affect your opinion on my statement. I wish I had some kind of rationale to back up that statement, but, well, logic and reason were never my strong points.
Can I tell you that I’m listening to Neil Diamond without you running away in boredom? Not over neil, but over the fact I’m telling you about it? hope so. Cuz I am and I am. It brings back, yea, verily, harkens, memories of long drives with the parentals and the sisters on the way to faroff destinations like the mountains of Yosemite & Lake Tahoe and Palm Springs and, um, the hardware store. Ah, the hardware store, the bastion of adventure, beats the bank for a kick any day of the week. The grocery store wasn’t so bad cuz you could go read the magazines. But shit, the hardware store only had those bob vila mags about putting together your own backyard doghouse or some shit like that, and even from a young age I knew that joey fixit was not to be my middle name. Hmmm, self fulfilling prophecies R us? Will have to ponder that over rounds of drinks at the blackjack table tomorrow evening, as well as the state of east European politics.
I like music that sounds really meaningful yet you have no idea why. Like it has the Darwinian twist of fate threading through it like a salmon swimming upstream. (ok I made that up.) but c’mon. “you are the sun I am the moon you are the words I am the tune, play me” ok neil, really, is that like about, um, playing scrabble? I won’t even go into the various possible sexual connotations, but somehow it seems so much more. Hmm, you are the sun, ok, so I revolve around you, but, ok, if I’m the moon, then, um, I don’t revolve around you, I revolve around the earth, which revolves around the sun, so um, is it like, you’re playing me by controlling that which I revolve around? I’m confused. Maybe he meant it in a more simple way but was just really deficient in his understanding of basic astronomy. I guess I’ll give him the benefit of the doubt, but, I mean, I don’t wanna put words in his mouth if he really meant it to mean that he is the thing that revolves around the object that revolves around his lover. But, hmmm, that’s kinda weird, yeah? Was he like a two degrees of separation fetishist?
And don’t even get me started on “forever in blue jeans.”
Tuesday, January 20, 2004
If you’re at the stardust waiting in line for the wayne Newton show and out of the corner of your eye you catch this like really playalistic looking cool kind of fella with an old skool San Diego clippers shirt on with bright blue white striped skechers on it’s not me it’s my stunt double megatron 7. he’s a robot, and a cop, but don’t call him Robocop, cuz nothing pisses him off more.
I’m betting on red for Darren & black for anti (cuz Wesley Snipes said) and, well, basically my bases should be covered. But fuck covering bases, put it all on purple. What, there’s no purple? Well fuck this place then. And then I’m gonna grab all the chips and throw them in the air like Sharon Stone in Casino and Sam Rothstein will just look at me in fascination and wonder and I’ll walk out the front door with this shit eating grin on my face & music will be playing and the roulette wheel guy will be like “shit, that crazy kid” and everyone will love me and I’ll be almost as famous as that damn Pringles backup dancer that haunts me with his big time bravado.
Sadly, however, reality will set in quite violently as I wake up out front with my skull bashed in and blood trickling down my face and Japanese tourists looking down at me and laughing at my ineptitude & idiocy, cuz, ya know, Vegas don’t fuck around.
But, then again, neither do I. Except on Tuesdays & Thursdays. Beyatch.
Monday, January 19, 2004
Um, I was gonna write something herein that you probably wouldn’t care about, but I decided that I wouldn’t put you through that. the ironic thing is (wait, lemme check if it’s really ironic. Hold on. Brrrring. Yes, ethan hawke? Hi, is it ironic if I, um, whut? That was just a character? You’re tired of people checking with you every five minutes on irony factor analogies? Um, well fuck you too Mr. Hawke. Yes, fuck you very much, and you’re a fucking misogynistic piece of shit for perpetrating that you’re like mr. family man and diddling some model while uma’s out there bustin’ her ass throwin down karate chops and shit, yeah, go be fukn meaningful, you fuckn sellout piece of shit. fuck. um, wait, is this thing still on?)
I was gonna say that the ironic thing about writing about how you don’t care about crap that I write is that usually it just leads to me writing crap that you care even less about than if I’d just gone into the subject matter that was originally intended. And then I got into this whole thing with this guy on the phone checking on whether or not it was ironic. You know how it goes.