Friday, June 24, 2005
Damn, my contacts are drying out like a rulon’s forehead on labor day. You’ll have to excuse me for a sec. Oh yah, speaking of labor day, it’s like whoah, there are mad tickets on e-bay for sox yanks tickets on or around 9/11 which is when I will be in NYC living it up like a gangsta. And here I was like a dummy thinking I had to settle for yanks rays or mets nats. DUH. Thanks tony, you reminded me about that lil’ thing called, uh, yup, already mentioned it. Anyway. Oh yeah, my contacts. Right back I will be. Yup. In meantime, use the force or some shit like that.
Ok, I’m back. I know, you were worried. It’s ok. Seriously. Only 3 rulons were harmed in the making of this production, and they’re actually doing alright now. Fuck. I gotta either wake up really early or rush it over the hill from work to return this movie that originally was a good deal but is now costing me two dollars by the day. It makes me want to get on my bike and ride down a snow covered mountain yelling about it. I mean this is serious shit.
Bah. that’s more than enough for now. Have a “nice” day, whatever the fuck that means. No, really. I mean it. The sarcasm you hear is actually the reverberations of my neighbors blasting Miami sound machine and beating the living hell out of their pet goat gregor. I know, it’s fucked up. I called the humane society but they were like, is it a Guatemalan goat or Zimbabwean, and I was like, well, I think if I had to guess, Guatemalan, and they were like, oh, well fuck it then, and I remember thinking to myself, damn, yup, that’s fucked up alright.
Wednesday, June 22, 2005
My dream last nite, it’s right at the tip of my tongue, or, finger, hmmm, that’s an interesting relation I hadn’t thought of up to this point, the similarities in one vein and then also the other, ooh, and there we go again. I’m learning as we speak, right now, to type without my left pinkie. Pinkie. Shit, 3rd strike and yer out? Thankfully not. Yup. It’s fairly easy to cut out the pinkie, just a little slower, and, strangely the lack of speed may be causing me to ponder my words more.
Shit. Back to the dream. Scary ones last night. And I was gonna get up & write it down and was too lazy, and I remember thinking about it & thinking, eh, it’s really not that great of an idea, like many dreams, they sound much more interesting and intense when you’re in the dream, the moment, than if you write it down and see it later. Dammit. I can’t remember. Something to do with death, with a strange way to arrange death. Fuck, it’s right there. It was freaky, and I remember never having heard of it being done before. Ok bandaid off, it was holding me back.
Think dammitt. Think. You just remembered that it actually occurred in your mind, that’s step one. Ok, I’mm keep cleaning up this crap & see if it comes to me. You know how that works. Fuck! It was good. I think. Some kind of arranged arcane death club type shit. Dammitt.
Sigh. Still nothing. It was cosmic shit too. That’ll teach me. Put a goddamm fucking pen and pad by the goddamm side of the bed, doctor pile. That’s me, doctor mofoing pile. I’m not even worthy to hump your leg, let alone sniff your terrier’s patootie. I make myself sick.
Eh. What can ya do? It really grinds my gears though. Something about restriction, on a dark plain, with vampire like monsters? But there was something unique about it, something that when I woke up I was like, well, I already told you that.
I really must avoid the PS2 tonite, as just yesterday I acquired from an associate’s storage facilities, with his blessing and in his company, of course, four games, one of which grand theft auto san andreas, which is basically the digital version of crack. No. I must write. I will write. And clean house. But write. Sit down at the machine and get crackin. Cuz aunt gertle ain’t gonna come in and churn that butter herself, I gotta put the pedal to the metal and get those words down. Because, um, it matters? Yah.
Well, once again, you’re welcome. For granting you the privilege of reading this fascinating horseshit. My houseguest read the first couple pages of my dogshit acre and said I’m a young jack kerouac. At first I thought it was cuz I was doing the dishes at the moment. And then I realized, and thought, eh, he’s kissing my ass. Thus I will never be able to take a compliment. So please hurtle some insults my way. Yes, this is the most interesting treatise you’ve encountered since discovering and reading all about that incredibly fascinating memo about how george bush junior was planning on going into iraq all along, way before the whole wmd dillio. No way! Jeez. Who’du thunk it? That’s like, discovering, um, I dunno, that a skunk will squirt smelly shit on you. It’s just, like, the biggest scoop since the 32nd flavor. Sigh. Yes. Au vois.
Oh yah I wrote a review of a kool keith dvd. Check it out. Yes I’m a corporate screwhead. Peace.
Tuesday, June 21, 2005
Yup. So. Shit. Eh. Doesn’t matter. The thing I was gonna say. Fark. So, yeah, in a bumbling midst of a conversation in regards to literature and books and writing I confessed to my houseguest last night that I’d been writing a donkey shit load, ie, a load of donkey shit diatribe, and he expressed interest in reading it and for some odd reason I handed him a copy of the screed, at least the first 70 odd pages, with the warning that it was very rough, and sucked, and that I was deeply ashamed of 90% of it, and that I would prolly be arrested if a literary agent got a hold of it, both to jack up their own personal gain and to prevent me from ever harming another keyboard. Gawd. Now I have to discuss it later and fake believement if he says it’s good and/or cry in bewilderment if he says it sucks or just look at the sky in pseudo abandonment of all reason if the subject is never broached again, which it will be. Ah, fuck it, that’s the way shit is, yah? If I’mma write, and have folks read it, which, fuck, why write otherwise, I could just think the shit elsewise, so, logically then, I gotta deal with people’s reactions. It’s part of the, um, inherent core essence of the that which it professes to and may actually be. Bah.
Jee-SUS! Why oh why do I not drink bud dry? So yah. Yup. And you’re just ecstatic over me saying “so yah” and “yup” again. crapola. I gotta do some shit now. Fascinating shit like invoices and cover sheets and, fuck, it’s just too depressing to go into. But even though we’re out of toilet paper, there are plenty of coffee filters, so I won’t complain too much. And now, I really should drink some water.
Sunday, June 19, 2005
Yo. I’m lounging in post chili dog ecstasy watching apocalypse now on the history channel and sipping on crown cokes trying to decide if I should hit the 50 cent movies for a 3:10 showing of kicking & screaming.
Tomorrow is game 5. yup. I got no idea how it’s gonna go. Could be meat, could be cake.
Whoah. Howdy again. It’s like, hmmm, how many hours later now? ‘bout seven. Yup. Went to go try & catch that will Ferrell shit, but ended up sitting at the row bar having couple beers and then watching, uh, Amityville horror. You know, the new one. Eh. Alright. Nice horror movie, but nobody dies. At least in present time. Plenty of backflash and fake fantasy gore. Oh and yeah, a dog gets butchered up. I dunno, I guess nice to see van wilder as a psycho. Whatevs.
So, um, now, yup, I’m drinking more crown and, um, watching that aforementioned apocalypse now, which I hit record on the VCR before I left. And glad I am I did, cuz, I’m trippin, it’s some director’s cut or extended remix type shit. Have y’all seen this shit? So far there’s two extended scenes that aren’t in the original. One in which the boys on the boat hook up with the playboy bunnies after the show, down the river, so to speak, they need fuel, ya dig? And then another even longer one with some colony of crazy French people in Cambodia and like marty sheen smokes opium and knocks boots (off screen) with some wacked out French lady, and they’re chilling out in some colonial fancy house in the middle of a war zone? Guess it was meant to show the difference in the attitude of the French toward the war(s) and that of the Americans. The French were there to make it their home, the Americans were there for (?), kinda like iraq now? Eh, uh, jinx bathroom, etcetera acres. Guess the French were involved in war with the area back to the 50’s, like 15 years before the US got into Vietnam.
Anyway. Yup. Just reporting the scene to you. Cuz it’s important. Even though it’s not. Tried callin’ mrs. P today but she was off somewhere and I was gonna be in the movies when she got back, so I’ll be able to hear her beaute voice tomorrow. Yup, I’mma missin me my wife. It’s true. I’m a sap and a simp and all the above. Color me guilty of all that boyz II men slash babyface type fillins.
Um. Yah. There’s gotta be some tracks laid on the master thesis tonite, once I’m done watchin this heart of darkness kine stuff. Jeez. I got the springboard now, like I think I was sayin. I got eddie kidnapped by some psycho sexpot and her conspirators, but now what are they gonna do with the weakest yet potentially most interesting member of our merry band? Your guess is as good as mine. And what are don and ben gonna do about it & how, when they find out their resident mascot for the flakiness of the mid 90’s generational disorder is missing in action? It’s some straight up murder she wrote type shit, just minus the angela lansbury and add in some Cornish game hen type vibe. I think you get the degree of doggerel I’m trying unsuccessfully (?) to spit. Or not. Either way, gracias, just for the simple act of bothering with the digestion of said idiom. I promise to buy you a tuna fish sandwich on the other side. If you can find me. You know, you might be able to hire the a-team, etc.; it’s legit.