Friday, June 30, 2006

I have a stray hair on one of my eyebrows that’s really bugging the shit out of me. In other news, my, eh, forget it. That wasn’t a necessary thing to say. And neither was that, er, this. So, um, yeah, simple pages. It’s the jam. For if you want to write the ultimate tale that will beat spider-man at the box office. Also if you just want to, uh, achieve full and total consciousness. That, however, is a bit on the overrated side. Speaking of overrated, I felt that gus van sant’s last days wasn’t overrated. Yes, it could drive you insane with beautiful boredom, but the effervescence of it’s jenny say kwah, as that kurt cobain a la blake dude like chills out but wanders in his meandering toward death, trying to soak in all the last dilios and finding nothing worth stopping said escapage of mortal coil is something that you just can’t tear yourself away from.

Thursday, June 29, 2006

There has been no song quite like weezer’s simple pages to inspire writing in this young slash old boy from the south. Land of California. Where the oranges grow, but down the freeway, cuz the county of citrus is not the city of angels, no matter how much walt tries to sell you that bridge, clint knows better and so do I.

Monday, June 26, 2006

Well, the weekend was pretty good, busy, watched the kid, read comics, watched tivo (Steal this Movie, about Abbie Hoffman, is not bad) took the kid & wife walking by the beach (dope!) and thru wal-mart (not quite as dope), went and saw V for Vendetta at the dollar movies (very well done, though I’m a little “eh” about the ending, but good effort), couldn’t get the motorcycle started, have to charge the battery, get that bad boy in for a tuneup & a safety check if I wanna meet the end of the month deadline to renew registration. Never ride the fraggoshen thing anymore, but if I can get it in proper working order, I promise you, Honda rebel, I will ride you at least once a week, and not just some sissy half hour ride, as in up to north shore and back around the windward side, that will be my reflection time, to ponder the imponderables, to let my eyes’ vision cascade over the sparkling waters and admit that just about all of the most important things on the periphery of my conscious landscape are so inadequately represented by actual solidified thoughts, let alone words (pshaw!) that I might as well just let them coalesce and soak into my medulla for later backbrain processing.

And oh yeah I got fucked over by my friendly neighborhood comic shop, but bitter didn’t make the toast crispy or the oatmeal lupid, so I’ll lily leave it at that a tat tat.

I just made the decision that the new Blade series, premiering Wednesday night, warrants at least a peremptory tivo assignment. What clinched it was that it’s the guy from onyx playing holmes. I mean, not that there’s anything great, or horribly horrible, about onyx per se, but it does pique my curiosity, and anything comic book related, ah, well, but fuck comic books.

OK, now if you care to read my full vitriolic flipped out version of my annoyance with the comic book store (extreme nerd alert), the typing of which was an exercise in exorcision that became simply impossible to avoid, well, clickety clickety.

reading that much whining & bitching & stomping of feet and moaning filled crapsterpiece antithetical rambling should at least require that he/she about to be served said steeping stinking dish should be warned in advance and encouraged at their peril to pull the trigger on their own recognizance of journey into said psyche.

ok that might have been a bit overblown of an introduction to that which is really a dogshit acre. apologies advance like for any, uh, whatever the fuck happens to your brain in over or underabundance upon said readership. sheesh.