Friday, September 24, 2004

Yo yo yo & take yer bottle of brass monkey and stick it with the jurk storr’s private reserve collection. You know the one. The one whut with it’s in the back with the extra special sauce. You know, sauce money and the 5 large crew? Yup. That kine. It’s on long beach, so don’t doubt it doubt it that I’m bout it bout it.

And so it is was shall be ad infinitum not having even an ounce of wherewithal to have proper burial rites nor rights in this vicinity. Now you may look at that sentence and think “meaningless” but the funny hilarious antithetical thing is that it makes perfect sense, I mean, here we have a person that not only did they not get or will not be allowed to receive the standardized ceremony associated with passing on into death, er, well, the ceremony to celebrate (or mourn, hmmm) this person’s death, but they didn’t even have the dignity of being given permission to be physically buried, you know, vis a vis local laws as to location, timing, all those details that seem so trivial at the time and then when the big moment comes upon us, oh shit, yeah bitch, we’re sweating the details, believe it, more and with increased moisture than that which Richard Simmons emits when an oldie but goodie is playing.

And there’s like somebody beating down his door for a snickers bar. It’s all very very real.

Thursday, September 23, 2004

I steal glances at you every now and then and I notice it. You're there, but you're not there. And it bothers me. It's not that I want your full and undivided attention, although I will admit that it would be relaxing and reassuring. But I can remember back when I could look into your eyes and know exactly what was on your mind. Now, we're living amongst a cloud of total uncertainty.

Every little thing you say to me I now analyze and reanalyze to figure out what you're really trying to say. I monitor your actions, your reactions, and everything you do and say. You've spent the last week listening to me tell you exactly what's in my heart, followed by crying, followed by more of what I've been thinking and feeling, followed by even more crying. You know exactly what I've been thinking about. What I think about you. What I think about us. I'm trying to look into the future, because all of this happened, that's what I thought about when I thought about us. Now I know that we both can't see ourselves together in the future because the whole idea of "us" has been shattered.

I guess all I can do is sit back and wait for "us".

"... On just such a day you let me go
and as the raindrops began to flow
I go walking in the rain
Hiding my tears in the rain...."

Wednesday, September 22, 2004

Hi, I'm Dan the Goose, and I know what you're thinking. You're thinking, "Where da math posts at?"

Very well. Here's what's been irking me: the invention of the number zero. I think I read somewhere that the concept of zero was developed by the ancient Chinese, or Mayans, or possibly Republicans. Beyond that, I have only questions.

For instance: Did the inventors know what they were looking for? If not, they probably missed it the first few times. "Guys! I've got something here," one mathematician would say to the others. "Wait, nevermind, it was nothing."

But more likely they did know what to look for, and zero was an elusive dream for them. In that case, I can't help but wonder how that research proposal went over at Primitive University (PU):

"You want a 25 cow grant for what now?"

"Well sir, we'd like to put the 25 cows in a field, then take 25 away, and see if we get any interesting symbols."

"What, like a cross? It's only the year 455 B.C."

"Actually, we're hoping for something round, hollow, and bite-size."

I don't know how it really happened. I just deal with the consequences. For one thing, we're never allowed to divide by zero. This has never been explained to my satisfaction. What happens if you successfully divide by zero? Is it a guarded secret? Would oil prices plummet? Would Napster become free again? I've seen the error messages my computer gives me; they're not pretty.

The very need for a zero is dubious to me in the first place. If you've got nothing, I say don't write it down. So it's the opposite of blogging.

I suppose some good has indeed come from zero. Like, thanks to zero, there are more phone numbers possible. But even that's a mixed blessing, for with more phone numbers come zillions of area codes.

Don't even get me started on negative integers. In the words of Beavis and Butthead, "I hate numbers." "Yeah, there's, like, too many of 'em, and stuff."

Wow, I’m serially werking. Uh, indy, pass me the whip. Uh, submit to my submittals. Er, pitbull m.i.a.m.i. money is a major issue, and, uh, I’m Berkeley j.o.e. meaning jehosophat orthodox envyism, shizzles.

By the way it had been so long I didn’t even recognize their voice at first but believe it or not the jurk storr called.

The other thing that most likely the world will blow up if you don’t know about it is that the jurk storr called.

Oh fuck, I already said that. Uh, fuck tampa bay. Oh, shit, wait, that’s not nice. They just had a hurricane. I’m sorry, I meant fuck the tampa bay buccaneers.

Regular citizens of tampa bay florida I have nothing against you. Seriously. Like, I would eat cereal while testifying about it.

Goddamm, I just offended a shitload of Floridians. That’s mad orange juice they’re gonna try and deny me.

Don’t hate the fader hate the crossbearer. Oh yah, deep, huh? Shit, you know you’re like, FUCK, this guy is on some other level bushwick bill type shit.

Tuesday, September 21, 2004

Howdy pards. Alfred pennyworth here. Yes, that Alfred p-worth. No, not the butler, well, yes, I buttle, but, well, you know, the one that if you know me you know me. Glendale’s not so finest. The original, uh, whatever the hell it is I am.

Clarification for clarification’s, ok, more than that’s, whatever, um, sake. I’m not the only one in this shack anymore. There’s plenny other writers now occupying the occupado from time to time, most of who I couldn’t shine their shoes if I had a gallon of that black shining shit and like the fanciest shine box this side of 7th avenue.

That being said and pride, modesty, whatever, serially, all that, but know something, that if it says Alfred pennyworth, it’s me. If it says keith’s uncle, it’s my uncle, who doesn’t really exist (oh snap) I mean, yes he does, inside me, my evil side, the side that is like fuck, uh, the, like, established metaphor, whatever, this is the only time I will say it, it’s me.

Any other byline, including blank, is somebody else. And you other peeps posting, don't stop on account of this post, please, i'm loving yer guys' verbage, on the rilly.

I hate to be so upfront and actually saying things in this espacio but I already got one concerned e-mail and I gotta set the record on the linear.

That being said may I also give up a one love to homey going through some shitty times. Hope the clouds clear up on the ASAP.

Monday, September 20, 2004

I'm still dealing with the aftermath of what happened that early morning and every little thing that subsequently came afterwards. I still look at it in all it's imperfection. Sure, I took it off and threw it against the wall, hoping to break it beyond repair. But look at it now. Still intact, not as easy to wear, and definitely not as strong as it used to be. But it still serves it's function. But is the symbol of everything we worked for in the past year obsolete?

I'm hurting. It's a pain that I couldn't even begin to describe. No matter how much I yell, no matter how much I cry, and no matter how much I think about how it will get "better", I'm living in emotional agony. Every single second of my day was spent thinking about what could have been, what should have been, and what would have been. We're supposed to live our lives day to day, but our relationship was supposed relieve the stress of an uncertain future. No, I didn't have everything planned out, but I definitely could envision my right hand interlocked with your left, rubbing your wedding ring with my ring finger, both for comfort and luck. But I guess you didn't feel the same way. For a long time.

Honestly, my first reaction was to make you feel the pain in the manner that I feel it. I wanted to hurt you. I wanted to hate you. I wanted to take everything you cherished and loved away. I wanted you to feel hopeless. I wanted you to feel useless. I wanted you to feel as if there were nowhere to run. Just so maybe you can feel a tiny fraction of what I felt and feel.

So I took my ring off that early morning and threw it off the wall with more anger and absolute pain than I've ever attempted to express in my life. Why? Because to me, my wedding ring symbolized everything I've sacrificed to make things work between us. It is also a symbol of my promise to do everything in my power, regardless of circumstance, to love you and make you as happy as I possibly could. And at some point, you didn't feel it was enough.

I'm still hurting. I'm still insecure. I'm still scared of uncertainty. Because like my ring, our relationship has suffered unprecedented trauma that I'm not even sure it will survive. When you ask me if we'll be okay, I tell you "yes" not because I truly believe we'll be okay, but because it's my only option. I have to choice but to hope everything will be okay, because there isn't an "option b" in my life. You were my only option. I put all my eggs in one basket and counted them before they hatched.

I still can't believe what's happened. I still don't trust you. I still don't believe everything will be okay. But I still wear my ring in all it's deformity. The ironic thing is that now that it's bent, it fits better.

Go figure.

Sometimes I think my jackassness has the potential to be infinite. Other times I know it. Sometimes I rhyme slow sometimes I’m a right twit. Sometimes I feel like a nut, sometimes I bang a gong, if you think I’m the cat’s meow, let’s go join falun gong. Serially. They like meditate and find internal peace and the only dillio is every once in a while they pull some tienamen square shit on your ass but it’s usually polite.

ps: that's my cousin elroy on the left. he doesn't use that kind of gun anymore.

Howdy pards. Whut up. My car still does not run. This makes me non happy. I wrote a review of some dvd which you can click here & read. Tell me whut you think. Or not. Whutevs.

Also you must click here and read all about people taking pictures of people giving the middle finger. Not just to the establishment but to anything in particular, in one case the very blog itself. It’s like a prism inside a rainbow inside a prism inside a Cadillac. I think MC Shy-D would be very proud.

In fact, I think he’d cry gigantic salty tears of joy just knowing about it.

Sunday, September 19, 2004

UH might go 0-12 but Timmy Chang is gonna break Ty Detmer’s career passing record, goddammitt!

Yeaaaah. Great. Great sandwich.