Saturday, October 01, 2005

Well I got my first rejection letter, if you can even call it a letter, in fact, no, you can’t, a rejection card, apologizing for the use of such an impersonal and formulaic form to tell me that my words and phrases and sentences and the way I strung them together is not at this time needed at their fine publication. That’s ok. That’s cool. As I busied myself downstairs cleaning up dogshit & taking out the trash anticipating cracking open the self addressed stamp envelope I thought about a letter saying “this is a piece of shit” and “don’t ever send us anything again,” or, succinctly, “you suck,” but in a weird way, any of those would have been better than some little half, nay, third, of a page, with a quickly scribbled “thank you” at the bottom and the name of my piece at the top, thrown in an envelope, along with an apology that they couldn’t be bothered.

Yeah, yeah, poor me. But fuck that. I put it up on the fridgerator, a badge of failure, to push me to new heights, but then thought about it, and the disencouragement, but still left it up, and my dear wife sensibly took it down, I told her don’t throw it away, though, I want to remember it, or keep it, at least they had the courtesy to send me SOMEthing.

Now this by no means means I suck. And even if it does, it wouldn’t stop me. It’s got me thinking more about the words, and the phrases, and the way I string them together when I get the wont, and how even when I don’t get the wont, I have to find the wont, I have to drag that piece of shit wont out of the cupboard or the attic or wherever the fuck it may be and beat it into submission until it does my bidding. I can’t halfass and be a bitch about this shit. If I honestly think that there’s something in me worth expressing then I’m a little hooch if I don’t bust my ass to drag it to the forefront, or at least onto a screen and into the living rooms of America, or at least the back alleys of Bangladesh, not that that’s any worse or better. And once again, the point is not poor me, although it may appear so, this is just, fuck, I don’t know what this is, this is cleansing the palate of my brain, scraping the stomach lining of my medulla, all that shit, whatever it is it makes me feel better and, fuck, I dunno.

So I gotta tackle this shit with renewed vigor is, I guess, what I’m trying to say. I don’t even know why I’m telling you (yeah, you) this, but I thought, why not. What better place to put this whiny shit than right here. The shit that shits itself out of the shitter. The originator of the jurk storr and the blah blah, and the copier of better shit and the new shit and the old shit and the funky ass dogshit shit. Fuck, you know what the fuck I mean, and if you don’t, does it really fucking matter? Nah.

I’m all good, though. This is only making me stronger. No, fuck that. It’s making me, fuck, I don’t know what it’s making me. One thing is for sure, though, I just typed out four paragraphs of crap and am working on a fifth and if you made it this far maybe there’s something redeeming in it, so congrats and happy new year in like 3 months, or whenever the fuck it is. Tell dick clark I said go fuck himself. Aloha. PS: this was all written under the pseudonym of ass crapsterface. Gracias.

Yup, very proud, proud moment. Yup. I got a question, though, how do people come up with like that writing stories shit, you know, the kind where shit happens, and then it progresses to other shit happening, and then at the end you’re like “a ha” and thinking, shit, that tied together in some kind of cogent fashion. Man, I need to get me into some of that shit. Maybe like make an outline and stop thinking that just bangin on the keyboard will eventually produce something substantive, ok, I’m done whining, not that this is whining, it’s therapy, yah, that’s the ticket, it’s good for the soul and the mind and the solar plexus. Yup, man, my chiropractor would by stoked, I mean, amped, to know I was doing this, the realizations, the alignment, my spine getting all dialectic an shit, fuck, this is a whole new idiom, er, idiot. Aloha, gracias, blah blah blah. Smiley face.

Wednesday, September 28, 2005

Jesus, how much more can the dodgers suck? I mean, not like anyone gives a shit nor is this some new revelation that just landed on me, but in light of the ANAHEIM angels clinching a postseason berth it just depressed me how crap the real LA team is, and their dumbass manager that decided to tinker tinker and throw the heart of the team (whatshisass, that catcher) out the window, eh whatever who gives a fuck anyway.

Um, I gotta read me some klosterman, him & bill simmons had a really interesting two part conversation that I highly recommend you read.

Oh wait, I’m not supposed to just link to it, I’m supposed to comment on it. Ok. It’s good. Interesting. 50 stars. What the fuck ever, just go read it, I ain’t got the time to play kit Carson, or clark kent, or whoever the fuck. Ok klosterman is some spin writer that wrote some books that sound interesting. Jesus Christ you happy now? That made me tired.

I’ve said it before & I’ll say it again, fanboy rampage is fan fiddly tastic. Not for me to poop on. One thing though. SHIT do comic people love them talking bout shit on the innernet. I mean, it’s gotta be like 1) porn, and then 2) comic people blabblin at one another, when you count shit goin via the triple dub. Fantasy sports prolly somewhere in the mix too.

Oh, and people reading this. That’s # 8 gajillion squared (cubed? Whodafuck knows). And I’m ok with that. I wish I was in a bar drinking guiness and having some new yorkah talking my ear off about whatevers while eating grubbin free poo poos, but that’s just me, which is obviously implied. Thanks for playing, Alan, you get a free courtesy popcorn maker from pop a lot, and don’t forget your iced out collar. Congrats.

Holy shit, this guy’s website has an insanity inducing collection of randy rhoads pictures. Go live there forever. There’s also a tribute video, shitload of information, holey moley, I’m as delightedly aghast as billy batson must have been when he found out what shazam means. If the innernet is a giant moldy sandwich, just call me homer simpson. Cazart.

update: sigh, seems like the randy site is down now. hopefully only temporary. selah.

Monday, September 26, 2005

Well, at least there’s consistency in the world (er, my world) of football. The raider's crapiness, & yeah their schedule’s a killer, continues unabated, puttin’ em at a nice 0-3. meanwhile Cal continues to dominate (& yeah, their schedule’s a creampuff so far), sittin’ at a nice 4-0.

By the way, the cal game against New Mexico State at Las Cruces, NM on Friday night was the first time ever that a football game play by play was done over the radio in the Navajo language. This is something that I found to be interesting.

And now that all except you there, Frank (thanks for hanging around) have clicked over to just about anything else, sick of the sports desk and its inherent nonsense that you could read anywhere else, in a more cogent and entertaining fashion, let me get down to what I was really gonna say.

Whatever the hell that was. I was able to crank out another couple pages of that which shall not be named the other night, gracias a dios, until I got momentarily freaked out by someone who I’d thought was fast asleep calling my name at 1 am as I sat in the dark typing away deep in the matrix. Shortly thereafter I crawled into bed, cuz, ya know, I had to wake up at 7 am and watch the raiders lose again.

And that my friends is what we call in the writing world “bringing back around to where you started.” And yes, it’s called that. There’s not a more specific name for it. I looked it up you donkey shit pile etrigan mimicking bastard sword imitator. And oh yah, I watched that steve zissou life aquatic dillio on dvd this weekend as well. I liked it.