blissfully ign'ant

Nerding Out

2010-07-15T16:36:00.000-07:00

Hey guys. I realize that this blog is really old, but hey, I started a podcast. So come on over and listen to it. I'd love to hear what you think. I hope they get better as I become more practiced, but in the mean time, you don't have to be nice.

Thanks for listening.

2008-09-14T10:06:00.000-07:00

There is nothing fun about "Fun Size" candy bars, fuckers. In fact, anything you can think of possibly doing with a candy bar that might be considered "fun" is less fun with "Fun Size". Yeah that's right. Take it there.

That's marketing for you though, innit? It doesn't matter how stupid or improbably a thing is, if they say it enough times, either we'll start to believe it, or and the very least, we'll not question it. They also think that if they play non-threatening music and speak in a soft voice, we'll never realize they;re saying horrible shit.

I saw a commercial for asthma medication, and during the health risk disclosures (some of the most hilarious material on TV, by the way), it said, "May cause asthma related death". I wouldn't lie to you, fat tits. An asthma medication... where a "side effect" included "asthma related death". But it's cool though, because while they said that, they were showing butterflies, playing a Nick Drake song, and it was voiced by a soft spoken chick with a sexy British accent.... so don't worry about it, ok?

Know what else they do? Say vague, blanket statements that describe certain "conditions" the you yourself MAY be suffering from. Such as restless leg syndrome (RLS). The "symptoms" described in that drug ad are vague enough to make me believe I have RLS right fucking now. And the side effect of the drugs are really hilarious. They include shit like "The increased urge to gamble" and "have casual sex". Well... sounds to me like I know of another medication that you can take right now to cure your fake disease. It's called "whiskey". Ok, so just to summarize what just happened here; First, they made up an affliction you didn't even know you had. Second, they sold you a drug to cure the non-existant affliction. Third, they said the side effect of the medication are in line with those of alcohol, which, we can safely presume is more fun, more effective, and far less expensive.

I suppose (though its not really my style), I should disclose that I do know that RLS is a real affliction, and that it can be serious. That said, I also know that something like only 2 or 3 percent of Americans will be the only people on the globe to come accross this affliction, let alone acknowledge it as a "syndrome". Also, one can deduce that if one did come down with RLS, it would have to be pretty serious in order for anyone to even consider the remote possibility that it couldn't me taken care of by a walk, a glass of brandy, or an afternoon jog.

That's all I'm sayin'. I'll take my drugs "Fun Size" and recreational, and my candy bars fucking huge.

2007-05-04T22:25:00.000-07:00

Check this out, yo.

Word.

Nothing. Go away.

2007-04-29T10:05:00.001-07:00

Sometimes, making a promise to yourself doesn't count unless you say it out loud. If you don't you'll start negotiating with yourself. "Well, ok, not every day. How about every day that you aren't hung over?" Or, "I already do something kind of similar to that every day, so I only need to do this 3 times a week." Whatever. All I know is that my subconscious mind must have learned how to negotiate from one of those tough money hungry business men with whom I've been working for that last 6 years, 'cause I drive a hard bargain with myself. I don't have a problem exploiting myself either. If I see myself getting some resolve, I'll fuckin' cut myself down to drown my own ambition and keep myself under my thumb. I don't care. Jesus, I'm a dick to me.

Anyway I have this idea to take notes on everything. As if I'm trying to learn about my own life. I want to carry a small notebook everywhere. Every good Idea I get, write it down. Every time something funny happens, write it down. Every time I get inspired, write it down. It doesn't have to be detailed, just enough to stir the ol' memory. And it can be about anything.

I'll also have a bigger notebook that lives right by my bed. I'll set my alarm for a half an hour earlier every mornin'. When Warren Alney starts to blather on about the happenings of the world on "Morning Edition", I'll reach over and pick up the little notebook that comes with me everywhere I go, and the big notebook that lives beside my bed. Then I'll write up a report summarizing all the notes I took for the previous day. It won't have to be good. It won't even have to make sense. What it will be though is a notebook full of ideas. Ones that I thought, at some point miht turn out good. Sure, it'll take some work, and most of the things that I write down will be in fact, stupid ideas, but at least they'll be there.

The thing I'll have to keep in mind is that starting out, I'm going to suck at this. It's a good thing I'm a mean self boss and a wimpering, spineless self-employee. Other wise I might quit my pretend shitty job as a self absorbed writer.

Anyway I'm not only saying it out loud, I'm writing it down and making it accessible to anyone with an internet connection. That way, it'll be easy for all y'all haters to produce evidence that corroborates the claim, "Kory's a douche." And the subsequent conclusion, "Let's all make fun of him." Just to let you know I'm serious about this shit. And also to warn anyone I might interact with on a daily basis: I'll be writing a lot of things down in the next couple months. Most of the things I write down will be making fun of you. Keep that in mind. No, you can't read it. Hope that hater-ade is going down nice and smooth.

2007-04-15T09:29:00.000-07:00

I know this is pretty shameless self promotion, but that's ok. I have some footage of some other really good poets from the festival, but one never knows how an artist will react to having their work plastered all over the internet by some douche who can't seem to compress a video file well enough to get a clear picture on to youtube.

That being said, check this out:

2007-04-13T18:04:00.000-07:00

Yes, it’s been quite a long time. I know, I’m a douche.

In the time I've been away, I got shit canned from a totally sweet sales job and was put in the position of having to take a “real” job which is probably twice the work and half the pay. And just so you know, (I feel obligated to defend myself here), it wasn’t my performance that got me shit canned from my awesome sales job at Argus. It was the job itself that was eliminated. I in fact, produced more than the desired results but the thing of it is, the deals I put on the table weren’t closing. So I ended up giving them a lot of work which they didn’t make any money on. That thar 's jist bad bidness, so the axe done fell. Fuck.

In other news, I came across this on the internet a couple of days ago:

N = C + {fb(cm) . fb(tc)} + fb(Ts) + fc . ta

You guessed it! It’s a scientific formula for the perfect bacon sandwich! Don't believe me? You can read about it here Just what cutting edge science out to be doing, right? And to think, all this time I thought scientists were supposed to be researching how to cure horrible diseases and other ways to benefit all mankind. Go figure.

It’s not that I don’t appreciate the idea of a scientifically calculated bacon sandwich, (sounds delicious!), it’s just that it seems a little foolish to have launched that kind of a study when there are little things like Malaria running amok all over the world. Also, it’s still true that there is no known cure for the common cold. Believe it or not, there are one or two deathly diseases I’m leaving out too... or so I hear.

Justin Bobo has clamitia.

Finally, I should probably advise people visiting Hollywood not to go to jail, if they can help it. I know it sounds like fun, but it's not. Seriously. Last night I spent the night there, on an all expense paid (by my brother bailing me out) trip. Hey, it only cost $2700 for a seemingly endless night of pure misery, complete with other patrons introducing themselves with a Gang name, followed by a set the way whitey often introduces himself with a Christian name, followed by a company. Oh, and it's really cool that the tiolets are just bolted to the wall next to the bunks, right in front of the window. That way, when Juan Deez, (South Side) wants to carry on a conversation whilst taking a dump, it's way less awkward.

Melly Bobo still pees her pants sometimes.

2007-02-26T13:47:00.000-08:00

Going out of town tomorrow. Taking the train to the mountains. The continental divide.

24 hours on a steel rail oughtta be enough of a spiritual massage to work out the knots of tension in my soul. Maybe.

I'll go to the top of the mountain, read some poems, and then come back to Hollywood to start working for about half of what I'm worth (as far as a reg'ler paycheck is concerned). Upward mobility not withstanding.

Mystery train. Take me away.

Hopefully I'll come back with a good story and some decent footage. We'll see.

Until then, Walk the Beauty Way.

2007-02-24T08:14:00.000-08:00

Video Blog.

lease be patient. They'll get better.

Every Friday? I hope so, kids. I truly do.

Master Gardener, Master Geek.

2007-02-22T09:29:00.000-08:00

Back in the day, Riz and I used to watch "Jerry Baker, America's Master Gardener" on PBS. Now, you may be wondering what a couple of high school kids were doing watching a show about gardening while taking bong rips from a home made 6 foot bong, but what you fail to realize is just how hilarious this guy actually is. One need only browse through an article like this, to get a chuckle at how serious people are taking gardening geek.

For those of you who find that article too boring to endure (it is), let me just point out a few highlights. It starts off with this: "Baker, the star of gardening videos and the Public Broadcasting System, advises people to douse their yards with special 'tonics' made from chewing tobacco, human urine, birth control pills, mouthwash, molasses, detergent and beer. 'Everything you need is in your kitchen and medicine cabinet,' declares Baker, who calls himself 'America's Master Gardener.'"

Ha ha! Really? Everybody keeps human urine in their medicine cabinet? When you watch the show though, it gets even weirder. Seriously. At one point, Riz and I called our local PBS affiliate while watching Jerry Baker and threatened to sue them, because he was stealing and broadcasting our secret recipe for LSD; as evidenced by his professional history. Even this article tells us, "Jerry Baker, 68, began his career in the late 1950s as a Detroit undercover cop, investigating heroin and marijuana rings." Wow... so that's where he's getting these recipes!

The other hilarious thing is that there are geeks who are not only upset about Jerry's ridiculous concoctions, but they're upset about the name he trademarked, "America's Master Gardener". The above referenced article says, "In addition, state and federal agricultural agents are angry that he trademarked the term "America's Master Gardener" in 1994, causing widespread confusion with the U.S. Agriculture Department's own master gardener program, which has provided rigorous scientific training to more than 100,000 lay people since 1971."

What? First of all, this has the makings of one sweet ass "Nerd-Fight"! Secondly, just how in the hell could Jerry Baker, the douche cause "widespread confusion" amongst the more legitimate "Master Gardeners" of the world? That's like saying, "Dr. Dre is causing widespread confusion amongst the country's legitimate medical professionals". Jeeze.

Ah... the joys of watching nerds. It is programs like this, along side of truly excellent and prestigious scientific programming which PBS is known for that make it irresistible. It truly is the best in television, as far as I'm concerned. You can learn something and laugh at the same time. Who'd a thunk?

Anyway, sorry I couldn't find any videos of him. I couldn't find any good ones of Huell Howser either. He's another one of my favorite PBS personalities, and he's too fucking hysterical to pass up. I gotta learn how to snag clips from TV and upload them to youtube. Word.

Good Ship Hollywood

2007-02-21T08:39:00.000-08:00

Sometimes, when you're with someone for a long time, the relationship starts to feel boring. That first couple of months is fun. You get to know the person more and more. They are still all shiny and new. But after a while, both parties become complacent. If nothing interesting happens in a day, you'll not have much to talk about beyond what to eat for dinner or what's on tv. It becomes the responsibility of both people in the relationship to do something interesting together. Ya know, these things aren't going to happen on their own, you have to seek them out.

That being said, Lexi and I take on lots of creative projects together. We've built furniture, painted things, we do writing exercises, occasionally work out together etc. One of the things we did a little more than a year ago was to go out waliking with the ol' video camera and stick it in the faces of the people we met. When we started this project, there was no clear objective. We were just collecting footage. There wasn't even a general idea of what we wanted to do besides point and shoot and have a good time. Anyway, when we got done I edited some of the crap together and tried to give the project some direction.

I know this isn't great. The sound is off, the pictures aren't the best, and every time I open my mouth, I sound like a jackass. Besides that though, there are some funny bum comments, one famous rapper who decides I needed to hear his dissertation on poverty in America (while he wears $28,000 worth of bling around his neck), and Lexi talks about balls.

So here it is... a video only a select few have seen, and I'm a little embarrassed to put up, but I think (my fragile ego aside) it's entertaining enough to post. Enjoy.

The basic idea is this: Everyone in Hollywood is waiting for their ship to come in. Even the bums have dreams of the silver screen, but this ain't no playground. No sir.

Party like a President. Buy a mattress.

2007-02-19T09:27:00.000-08:00

Happy President's Day, everyone! Woo-hoo! The holiday to beat all holidays!

Yeah, we, like most Americans will be celebrating big today. We've got a party planned, and everyone going will be dressed like a president or a First Lady. I'm gonna be Grant so I can drink a fifth of whiskey by noon and people will just think I'm getting into character, though usually I'm Ford because of my namesake. The coke dealer will be George W. Bush, of course, while the reefer man/pimp will be Clinton.

Although the Superbowl is said to have the most commercials, we that celebrate President's Day as it should be celebrated know that the best commercials are this week. I mean, what other time of year can you see ads for these prices on mattresses, cars, home appliances or satellite TV? Wow... I'm getting worked up just thinking about it! We will be playing "Blow-out Bingo". The bingo cards have different products on them, and whenever a commercial selling one of the products refers to their sale as a "Blow Out", you get that square. The prize is the money you'll save if you go to the store and buy one of the products at the blow out sale. And you can have an extra can of red, white or blue silly string from left over gift baskets at the end of the night.

Anyway, too bad it's raining. Here in sunny Los Angeles, we usually hold a "First Lady Wet T-shirt Contest"... weather permitting. Oh well. I think Nixon has rented the mud wrestling pit, so Jackie O and Hillary can get it on any way. Judging the event will be Honest Abe, Reagan and Jefferson. Jefferson is of course partial to black chicks, but since everyone has to dress up like a different President or First Lady, none of my black friends ever show up, so I don't wanna hear anything about his unfair judging. Goddamn honkeys.

Come to think of it, This year, we're letting the "'08 hopefuls" in. That way Gun can be Giuliani and Riz can be Kucinich. If any of my black friends do want to come, you can all be Obama. Oh.. there's just one catch, opposing hopefuls have to mud wrestle in their speedos when the First Ladies are finished. That being said, yes, J-Bo, you can be McCain. And yes, that means you get to mud wrestle everyone. No post-match spooning though.

The last thing to mention about the President's Day party is that we are reserving a spot for two foreign presidents this year. Those are Putin and Ahmadinijad. Yeah!

So come on over this evening. Monday night is the best night to party like a President! There will be lemonade and Chex mix. BYOB.

Really dude... Video games in the break room!

2007-02-15T13:32:00.000-08:00

What's been going on in my personal life? I'm glad you asked - wait... no I'm not. Stay out of my business, asswipe. No... that's wrong. I'm in my own business, right? Hello? Just where in the hell am I anyway? (do-de-doo-doo, do-de-doo-doo).

Today I had another job interview. It was the first interview I've ever been to in which I was at least 5 years older than the guy interviewing me. He was a cool kid though, and probably made twice the money I make now.

The interview was held in a break room which consisted of three odd, circular chairs that looked like mini trampolines, two bright orange inflatable chairs, a Foosball table, at least three different video game systems (including a Wii) and 4 or 5 remote control cars. The decorations on the wall were a giant rhinoceros head with 2 hoola-hoops around it's neck and a silly hat on it's front horn, a "Back to the Future" poster, and a "Dirty Dancing" poster (both unframed). Needless to say, I think this is the place for me. I didn't get to look around the office much after that, but my guess is that the cubicles resemble the loft apartment of Tom Hanks' character in that movie "Big". "...I read it, I said it, I stole my mama's credit!"

Anyway, I do believe I'll be in the runnings for this entry level position, which is essentially errand boy, but hell, who cares? Dude... there's a fake rhino head on the wall wearing hoola-hoop necklaces. What more can a guy ask for in a corporate office?

Valentine Schmalentine?

2007-02-14T10:56:00.000-08:00

Should I say something about Valentine's Day? OK, but I warn you... it may not be all kisses and roses.

The History of this Holiday has something in common with Halloween and Christmas in that it was a pagan Holiday that the Christian Church decided was too decadent, but couldn't be prevented, so they did what they'd always done before; paint it with a sloppy coat of Christianity and pretend they invented it.

The month of February was always a sexy month. Roman Pagans had a ritual during this time in which they'd place the names of all the eligible young ladies into a giant bowl. Their eligible young male counterparts would then draw a name from the dish, and that young lady would be assigned as his "plaything" of sorts for the rest of the year. Freaky naughty.

As the Christian church came into power, they obviously wanted to put the kibosh on this celebration (I know, using a Yiddish word to describe Christian actions... what's next?!) as it was much too sexy to be allowed. So they came up with a story that is probably only partially true, and substituted that as the reason for a celebration. One that was much more wholesome.

As the Church's story goes, Emperor Claudius II, a Roman douche bag of the third century decided that unmarried men made for better soldiers. He then literally outlawed marriage in his Kingdom. Valentine, a Catholic Priest, defied Claudius and performed marriages for young lovers in secret. Then some other douche bag told on him. He was locked up and sentenced to death. During his time in prison, he was tended to by the jailer's blind daughter, who Valentine is said to have fallen in love with. On the morning of his death, he wrote her a letter (I know, how can a blind person read a letter, right?), and signed it, "Your Valentine".

It wasn't until 300 years after Valentine's death that he was sainted and martyred. They sainted him so that the Holiday would seem like a good ol' Jesus lovin', God fearin', sex free ho-down of mushy emotions. This went on for quite a while.

Then along came a capitalist swine who turned the holiday into the same old free-for-all of blind consumerism that it is today with the inception of sending cards and candy. Yay for capitalism! See? It's true we'll buy anything for a couple of bucks, even shitty poetry and pictures of strangers on greeting cards.

That's not to say that I hate the idea of Valentine's Day. It is, at it's source, quite romantic. I just get my panties in a bunch over it because a) it's cheap and b) I don't need society reminding me that I should love my girlfriend, and certainly not by giving her food that will make her fat, corny ass cards, or flowers that will die in a week and then be thrown out. I'm all for celebrating love, but I don't need to be reminded every five seconds, everywhere I look. I also don't like advertisers trying to make me feel guilty, or insinuating that girls only love you if you give them diamonds or other lavish gifts that represent a made up story of wholesome love. Besides that, we should be doing special things for the people we love all the time. Who needs a holiday reminding them to do it only once a year?

Say what you may about my being a cynic, but I'll tell you this much, if we celebrated differently, Valentines Day would be among my favorite Holidays. If it was more about love and sex than about diamonds and chocolate, I'd be all over it. If we could celebrate love and affection, guilt free in all it's confusing forms, I'd be in hog heaven. Instead it's just another day in which people feel bad about being broke, single, or married and not getting laid.

Love is the greatest and most powerful of all emotions, but that doesn't mean it makes sense. It can't be confined to one day in February, and there is absolutely nothing Hallmark can do to help anyone understand it. It should be celebrated in it's purest form. So I say to you, if you want to do something special for your lover today, look deep within yourself, allow yourself to be creative and free, and then let your lover know how you love them and why. By yourself. It's not that hard. Just do it. Other than that, I hope you all get lucky today. And by that I mean, I hope you all have sweet, rowdy, uninhibited sex with the person you love and lust after.

High Five!

2007-02-14T09:09:00.000-08:00

There are a lot of people who wake up each morning with a mind to make every single person they come in contact with as miserable as they are. These are the worst kind of people that exist on Earth. They seek out and exploit easy targets, and dedicate entire weeks, sometimes months to reigning misery on the life of another. These are the type of worthless scum who try to get the coffee guy fired when he makes a mistake on their drink. They constantly threaten to (and sometimes do) sue their coworkers, neighbors and bosses. They create drama and try to suck everyone into it like an idiotic tornado of self loathing and anguish. You know the type. There are probably one or two of them within eye shot of you at this very moment. Take them DOWN!

There are times when I still have to take deep breaths and remind myself that sinking a bare knuckled lead right hand into their soft, over privileged and empty noodle heads is not the answer. While there are few things in the realm of the limitless human imagination that would feel better, breaking both of my fists on their faces will only be self indulgent and self destructive. In fact, they want the abuse. They invite it, both physically and emotionally, but if one were to go down the seemingly blissful road of pummeling them into ground beef, one would drop a level below said assholes. What's worse is that they'd also use that abuse against you later, and the last thing people like that need is legitimate ammunition.

So although it sounds nice, violence is not the answer. What then? Must we constantly point out these people's misery when they are forcing it upon innocent bystanders? Point out the glaring insecurities that are often the motive for such jackassery? When they begin to ruin the day of a grocery bagger, gas station attendant, coffee pourer, waiter, or calm pedestrian, must we butt in and loudly call out their folly; and ridicule them for their words and actions? Should we stand tall and get others to join in, making an example of them, by using the same words or phrases they used on their innocent victim? Then laugh? Laugh and laugh and don't stop laughing at them? Will this help all the people enjoy the moral victory of preventing some socially undeveloped, aggressive waste of oxygen from taking another undeserving person down with them?

Nope... that's not the answer either. The only answer is to not be that way yourself. The only answer is to monitor - if not your internal thought - at least your behaviour. You cannot force another person into NOT being an asshole or useless pile of donkey shit, but you can prevent yourself from being that. Then when someone who (consciously or unconsciously) devotes all their days and ways to spreading hate and unhappiness to everyone around them, you can duck those blows like Ali done Sonny Liston when he was still Cassius Clay. Let them swing as hard as they want, but keeping your own thoughts and subsequent actions in check, they find nothing to hit. It a sort of mental bobbing and weaving we must learn, and just like real boxers, it'll take heart, determination and lots of time in the gym to get to that level, but it'll be worth it.

In the mean time I guess it's OK to spit in their food when they aren't looking, or release and angry hornet in their car, or write obscenities on their yard and/or front door with something either permanently damaging or otherwise disgusting. I don't know. Get creative.

2007-02-13T09:26:00.000-08:00

"It's been a long time, I shouldn't have left you without a dope rhyme to step to..."

It's just that I've been looking for a new job while still trying to do both of the jobs I currently have. Time management is not one of my strong points, I'm afraid, but job interviews are. I'd be rich if I were a professional interviewee. Is that a word? It is now.

So far I've been offered the position of errand boy for a advertising exec, a personal/admin assistant for a production company and it's owner, a jack of all trades for a design firm and a door-to-door solicitor, selling framed art at wholesale from the back of my car. Hmmm... I couldn't stop thinking about "Death of a Salesman" that day.

The problem is that none of these jobs offer the compensation necessary for acquiring worldly riches. Not that worldly riches are my main objective, but I'd like to step up the ol' salary, if ya know what I mean. Of course, if I do well at any of the above mentioned opportunities, the door to financial success may open just enough for me to wedge my foot into it. Who knows?

Ch-ch-changes. I'm not sure I like the process... or rather, the anticipation of the event. That's the worst part of everything. Waiting for it to happen. Once the rising waves of change crest and crash, one usually finds themselves all wet and thinking, "Is this it? This is what I was so afraid of?"

Oh well. Guess I'm off to the races. I'm not a gamblin' man though. I don't haven't even looked at the odds. Fuck it. I can take a punch.

Thumb Sucker

2007-02-07T11:54:00.000-08:00

I recently realized that I'm still a thumb sucker. I know, what the fuck, right? It's not that I still actually suck my thumb, but I often have a subconscious impulse that positions my hand in a relaxed fist, the curled fingers resting beneath my nose. My thumb extended and resting either beneath the embedded golf ball on the bottom of my face that I like to call my chin, or sometimes on the jaw line. I do this with both hands, but more often with the left. It's not an awkward position, necessarily. I just look like a guy resting his face on his hand, but I'm sure it comes from a subconscious compulsion to suck my thumb. It looks like this:

Why am I telling you this? Because I'm a douche. A douche who has realized that a large part of our behavioural traits are in tact from the moment we are born. Mannerisms are hard wired into our human brain, and will probably never go away - so don't feel bad about them. Sure, people change. They learn. They grow. But really, you've been the same person from day one, and so has everyone else.

My suggestion is to run with it. I mean, there's little to nothing you can do to change it. Your efforts will be in vain. Not only that, but trying to change your subtle mannerisms might actually make you more of an asshole. For some reason, my mind comforts and calms itself through thumb sucking (or thumb sucking like gestures). If I take that away, there'll be one less way for me to comfort myself, and I'll be a dick about it. If you tried to change your subconscious methods of relaxation or peace of mind, you'd be a dick too, so don't. You're probably already enough of an ass face for our liking anyway. No need to amplify it. Besides, someone, somewhere likes you for it. You're a better person when you're just being yourself, so get comfortable in your own skin. You owe it to the world. Douche.

Wheatgrass and 151

2007-02-07T09:12:00.000-08:00

The other day I told my friend J-Bo that a shot of wheat grass was a good hangover cure. Then we got to talkin' about wheat grass and it's health properties. He was saying that at first, he didn't like it, then he was like, "Hell man, I'll do shots of 151 all night long and that shit tastes vile. But I do it because it makes me feel good. I just apply the same principle to wheat grass, and it's not bad at all, in fact, it's kinda good."

More people should apply the 151/wheat grass principle to their daily lives. You all know sex feels good, but so does love. We know naps feel good, but a little elbow grease makes for a clean house, and clean houses also feel good. TV can be cool, but books also rule.

I suppose it's about balance and moderation. It's fine to indulge yourself from time to time, but one should also make the effort to clean up afterwards. It makes life easier, and it's really no different. Just gotta change your point of view.

Now, who wants to come over and vacuum my house? Yeah! It'll be fun, and you'll feel good about being so nice and unselfish. Oh, and don't worry, if someones already vacuuming for me when you come over, you can do my dishes. Or laundry. Oh, and feel free to dust the ceiling fan in the computer room too. In fact, go ahead and fix that fan. Some shit hit it, and now it doesn't work.

2007-02-06T10:40:00.000-08:00

I want to post an email I sent to one of my best friends, and then her response. She is an awesome person, and her writing is both smart and funny. Besides, there's a little boob-talk in it, and as we know, boobs do rule, even if their place in pop culture is a little exaggerated (as you'll see from the emails).

Here's part of what I wrote to her, in reference to this poem:

It's rather cynical, but I think someone oughtta say it. It is the fact that so many young women (especially here in LA) base their entire existence on being "hot". Their whole sense of self worth and personal identity revolves around their youthful sexuality, and when that begins to fade (usually in their 30's), their whole world subsequently falls to pieces. It's tragic. Now, don't get me wrong, I appreciate a nice rack as much as the next imbecile, and am therefore probably the last person in the world who should be saying anything about it, but I think the young women of today need to understand that there is more to life than a running tally of how much attention one can generate through cleavage and coin slots. I also know that (at least in this country) a sexy woman can build an entire empire for herself on the merits of her face and tits alone, so this frame of mind is not the fault of the individual woman. I just feel bad for the ones who obviously thought their physical beauty would never fade. I don't know that I've ever seen anything sadder than the look of despair on a woman's face when she discovers grey hairs, wrinkles and the newly acquired necessity of a bra to keep her boobs out of her food while she eats.

Oops. I've probably said too much. I thought you might understand my sympathetic feelings though, as you're one of the few women I know who have found a balance between being young and sexy as well as a well rounded and spiritually refined individual. Too many women fall victim to the American ideal, which doesn't extend far from plump lips and stiff nipples. It's too bad... especially since Sean Connery can get laid while his adult diapers are still full.

And here's her delightful, insightful response:

Speakin' of American...women...ah women. It's true that any identity crushing crisis is tragic, especially since it's so hard to find that identity in the first place. I guess I'm coming from a biased position as I've never been able to go bra-less ( I hate it when my boobs touch that little mini-roll that forms right below them when I sit down). Nor have I ever been able to construct an empire with only the use of my lips and tits (no-hands---HEY I SAID NO HANDS!!!) Nor have i ever seen the queen in her damned undies, as the say.

No but seriously, I do empathize with anyone who suddenly finds themselves no longer able to depend on those parts of them which make them who they are--whether it's their beauty, their job, their family, or their health... whatever. The tragedy where beauty is concerned, I think lies in the the cultural construct, as you pointed out, that being beautiful is absolutely the most important measurement of worth for women in this country. The more tragic thing is that convincing women and then re-enforcing it by convincing the rest of the american society of this fact translates into something like a 38 billion dollar profit each year for corporations associated with it. Speaking of American...capitalism..ah capitalism.

Now beauty itself as a measurement of worth is no new thing. Beautiful women have been honored for centuries---I mean wasn't it Helen and her eyes that started all the ruckus with those Greek dudes. And it makes sense that no matter how your culture defines beauty, the closer you are to meeting that standard, male or female, the better chances you have of pro-creating, thus proliferating the species..blah blah bla.

The problem I think lies in the sort of Pop-culturalization (and peoples addiction to it) of beauty in America (and yes other places too) which stream-lines the multifarious concept of beauty into a one-size-fits all abstraction which is then unleashed upon the public in a sort of invisible demon snake monster that creeps into the bedrooms of little children every where and gobbles them up before they can barely walk. Did we mention capitalism. You're right though, you can't blame the individual woman or women as a whole for that matter for being a product of their environment.

So I say, the next time you see Babylon crumbling to the ground in the newly wrinkled face of a bombshell-has-been tell her that fat chicks in cultures in africa get the super-schwing from gawking males passing by in the markets; the ankles are the sexiest part of a women to Hopi males...sagging boobs for god's sake are sexy somewhere I promise. If she can't let go of sexy, she can move there.

The point is just this, the definition of beauty as they believe it to be is illusory. It is as impermanent as their taut young skin and stiff nipples ( they don't always stay that way do they? or do they? are they implants...mine don't do that). I just think that the sooner one can convince oneself to accept things as they are the sooner they will be able to see and accept the rest of the life that exists around them. As you said there is more to life...there is more to life...

.... plus I don't need any corporate suit fucks telling me how to feel about myself anyway. I won't lie I go through all this shit just the same as the next lady...how can I not for fuck's sake. I'd have to gouge out my eyes, pour cement in my ear drums and lock myself in a quadruple paneled steel box placed at the core of the earth to escape all the dogma about "How to be Beautiful" in this damn place. I mean when self-esteem is found on the same isle as diet pills and electric ab-shockers (spill on isle 9 we've got some liposuctioned fat on the floor, careful shoppers fat is really slippery) one has got to come up with some alternative methods. Will you be defined or will you do the defining. It's a mind set. You can go on bitchin' and moanin' about what was or you can get on with what is.

Now keep in mind, I'm not in my thrities yet, so all this rant will probably seem like utter horse shit to me in the next 7 or 8 years. However, I try to prepare myself for what will come as best I can...and then I can only hope for the best.

Rawk rawk rawk!

PS: She also taught me about "zogging" and orange, but that's a conversation for a different day.

2007-02-05T09:07:00.000-08:00

Aparently there was a football game on yesterday afternoon... did you hear about this? I guess it was between some bears and some baby horses... and the baby horses won! They must have had one heck of a trainer, because I've never seen a baby horse that could take out a bear... unless it was a tiny Koala bear or something.

Well, good for Peyton Manning and Tony Dungee.

So I got stuck in a pretty bad traffic jam on Friday. My timing couldn't have been worse; curising Northbound on the 405 just minuets before a giant crane fell on the highway. I was stuck on the freeway for more than 3 hours. What a treat! Here is a picture I took of myself standing in the midde of the 405 around 4pm on Friday afternoon. I thought the occasion warranted a photo, because a regular person's chance of doing just that in this lifetime are pretty slim.

Booyakashot.

I know you can't really tell I'm in the middle of one of LA's busiest highways, and about one mile from one of the country's busiest intersections (the 405 and the 101), but oh well. This is about the only evidence I have of it, so it'll have to do.

Carry on.

Enrich your professional life through YouTube

2007-02-01T10:21:00.001-08:00

If any of you have an office job which occasionally affords you the luxuory of surfing the net, there is no reason you should NOT be on youtube, treating yourself to such cultural hilarities as this:

Those were some sweet moves. You can always count on Baliwood for an appropriately over the top show-stopping dance number.

Here's another youtube clip I found hysterical. It's a Japanese show that teaches English phrases. I don't know about you, but every time I'm doing a silly aerobic workout in a hilarious loetard, I wish I could be learning the key phrases of a ridiculously jevenile argument in a foreign language. I'm glad to know someone has filled that undoubtedly lucrative market niche in television programming.

All I'm saying is that if you're not surfing youtube for the unintentionally hilarious videos of the world, then you're not being a good American. That being said, I leave you with this stunning performance, which upon seeing, I was moved to tears (of laughter):

2007-01-31T10:59:00.000-08:00

For me, writing poetry is like taking a shit. I do it because I have to. I take in the world through my own experience, process it, decide what to use and what to throw away, then I take a dump, or in this case, write a poem. Some things in life might give certain poets a kind of literary diarrhea. Those plates of metaphorical Indian food sometimes carry the label of "muse". Hollywood is one of mine.

Since my poems are so much like poop, once I write them, I usually want little or nothing to do with them. Also applicable to this analogy (heh heh, anal-ogy) is the fact that most people are less bothered by their own stank, than the stink stank of others. That being said, I'm not going to pretend to be the best judge of my own work.

Yes, this is going somewhere. In anticipation of the up coming poetry event "Sparrows", at which I have 9 minutes on stage, I have started to comb through old poems in an effort to decide which (if any) to use during my set. I'm also involved in a program called "Troubadours" in which myself and other performers will go around to specified restaurants in Salida doing readings for individual tables etc. (kinda like the Mariachis at El Compadre), so not all of these will be read on the stage. Besides that, I hope to have a fair amount of new material to read as well.

In any case, I posted a bunch of poems I'm considering on a new blog you'll find on my profile page called "Poems". I know, that is one creative name, right? Or, if you're as lazy as I am, you can just click this. I am asking anyone reading this to please take the time to browse the poems there, and let me know which ones you like and/or dislike. If you're not really into poetry, it doesn't matter. I still value and want to know your opinion. After all, most people think poetry is something for geeks and art fags only, but they'd be wrong. Poetry is for everyone, and I hope there are no pretensions or stigmatisms like that attached to the poems I write. Like I said, to me, they aren't that far from steaming piles of shit. Now I'm asking you to smell the piles, and let me know which of them stink the least. If you're not one for posting comments, don't feel obligated, but do feel free to send me an email here: camel_disk_jockey@yahoo.com.

Wow... that was motivating, eh? Asking you to smell piles of shit? Yeah... some people call it a knack; I like to think of it as a calling. I have an innate ability to ruin any potentially nice idea with gross analogies and repulsive imagery.

Thanks for your help, and keep on rawking.

Kory

Future Shock

2007-01-30T09:21:00.000-08:00

The future. What will it be like? Why is it on everyone's mind? Is it really going to be as bleak as some people make it seem, or will it be a spiritually evolved utopia and constant telekinetic hug-fest?

The pessimistic view is that of a polluted, post apocalyptic ghetto where the last surviving humans fight against newly evolved, hyper intelligent cockroaches and revived dinosaurs for what little resources are left amongst the rubble of once proud cities. Or sometimes it's more of a totalitarian state, wherein "Big Brother" controls the people through technologically advanced mind control devices and computer generated fear mongering.

Less pessimistic, but still naive is the vision of the "Jetsons" future, where dad goes to work in a personal, compact spaceship, and there are robots built to do all the things that human moms used to do. The robots will do laundry the same way we used to, but the washing machines won't change much. It's the idea that everything will just get bigger and better, but society and culture will remain much the same.

Then there's the hippie, new-age vision. This is one in which the people become spiritually advanced and enlightened as a whole. People learn to live in nature without exploiting it, and everyone loves one another. With hardly a care in the world, we all go around talking to each other with our minds and getting our nourishment through photosynthesis, producing no waste.

I don't know what the future will be like, but I imagine if one were to take certain elements of all the popular views listed above, one might be more in line with a practical guess. I sometimes imagine a future where in big brother does gain ground, and the gap between the "Haves" and the "Have Nots" grows exponentially through rampant capitalism. That's not to say the world will be a police state while the people are kept in check through mind control and brutality, but that the rich getting richer and the poor getting poorer will create a similar, though much less dramatic culture and system of government.

I also think that people will continue to evolve socially and spiritually. While I doubt there will be a utopia of love and universal respect, I think that people will start to get over some of the idiotic bone of contention we now make into huge social issues. Like gay marriage, for instance.... or racism, or any other silly issue people currently use to breed blind hatred. People will have to think of new things to hate about one another, as culture and skin color will not be considered legitimate excuses.

I also see technology moving foreword, and people becoming more environmentally aware. I do don't think this will be a peaceful, enlightened path wither, though. I think it will come out of necessity once enough people die for and use up natural resources like oil. The climate will change, the ozone will change, the Earth's natural resources will become depleted, but humans will think of different energy sources and other solutions to these problems. It will not be an easy realization, though.

Finally I'd like to go on the record as saying that when we reach the future, flying cars or no; hippie utopia or police state, one thing is certain. We will look back on the work of Dr. Dre in awe and wonder. We'll realize that he was one of the greatest producers of music in the late 20th and early 21st centuries. He will be compared to the likes of Quincy Jones and Duke Ellington, and it will be said that no one had similarily commanded and controlled popular music from the Western US before or since. And even old white people will listen to "The Chronic" and "Straight Outta Compton", wishing they were around to hear it when it was brand new.

Over and out.

SADD kicking in again

2007-01-25T13:07:00.000-08:00

My step mom Ellen is really a cool person. She's one of those people who are good at everything, and if she's not naturally inclined toward a certain skill or project, she works harder than everyone else to become good. It's remarkable. That being said, Ellen is easily the best orange peeler ever born. Her only competition would be Rasmus, the Norwegian singer who pretends to be an Italian singer named "Cream Puff", who happens to be her cousin (and is really no competition at all, except that he can also consistently peel an orange in one piece). When she peels an orange, it's as if the peel is denying it's inherent physical traits, and gently tearing itself along a spiraling, precisely perforated edge. Her peels leave nothing behind, and always come off in one piece. They are little Still Life works of art after the fact, as they stand alone, looking like the fruit is still inside the peel, and a skilled artist has painstakingly drawn a mathematically perfect spiral pinstripe with a fine black marker on the outside. I'm not exaggerating, either.

I'm no physicist, nor am I a mathematician, but I have heard of the Fibonacci Code. I understand this basic principal and pattern of adding the digits, and how they are applied to Ellen's orange peeling. Understanding it and actually applying it in the physical sense though, are two different things.

Ever since I first witnessed this (one of many) uncanny ability of my step mom's, I have tried in vain to duplicate it. Today at lunch though, I purchased an orange, and got as close as I'll probably ever come. See?:

Now, this is no doubt a sloppy peel in comparison, still I'm proud of myself for having removed an entire orange peel in only two pieces (the larger of which is shown here). This ain't no tangerine, baby.

Hey, button your lip, you. I can't be the only one who gets excited by achievements as trivial as this, am I? Am I?? Hello? Hello?! Great... I lost 'em.

2007-01-25T10:22:00.000-08:00

A quick side note. While surfing the web last night, I came across an article about the scariest research in science. It is a little bit janky, I'll admit, but one has to admit that it does sound an awful lot like the stuff of Hollywood Blockbusters. after reading this article, I felt like I could predict the next roles for Tome Cruise, Ewan MacGregor and Christian Bale. Leo's probably under Scorsese's thumb for '07 already. Besides, he never doesn't really do action or sci-fi, does he?

Anyway, you too can read the article here:

http://www.popsci.com/popsci/science/b142d534cba30110vgnvcm1000004eecbccdrcrd.html

Now you tell me that article couldn't pass as 7 screen play ideas instead of seven of science's scariest projects.

Right.

Carry on.

My SADD Story, and how I got through it

2007-01-24T22:34:00.000-08:00

Ever since I was a wee lad, large crowds would make me physically ill. In fact, I still have a bit of trouble with them, though they never make me puke anymore. Unfortunately for me, as a youngster, I did a bit of growing up amongst my mom's family, she being the eldest of 10 children born to my own gradny-paw. A big crowd of people, even when they're family, is still a big crowd of people, so I did my share of barfing as a kid.

Some time in my teenage years, I misdiagnosed the problem as some kind of social anxiety (an angsty, 13 year old hobbledehoy, I would at times seriously consider the idea that I was perhaps retarded, but no one had ever bothered to tell me, like the grocery bagger with down syndrome at the supermarket). At this point though, it didn't fuckin' matter, because I had also discovered girls, and girls did not, by any means, consort with any boys who might be called "Socially Awkward".

I immediately abandoned Weird Al for NWA. I traded my Chemistry set for some Z. Cavericcis. Instead of taking extra classes at school, I tried my hand at a fistfight or two, and skipping school entirely. I wasn't sure why, but somehow my discovering girls - and girls discovering the omnipotent powers of their own two breasts - directly coincided with an unforeseen, insurmountable necessity in my world to... well... be, uh... cool?

What the hell is cool?! There was no way to know. I had to look around. See what other kids were doing. How were they getting along? Was being "cool" about being smart? About clothes? Music? Boobs? Sports? I never did find out what cool was, despite a solid ten years of searching. I did learn something in my valiant, hard fought efforts to fit in though. I learned that one can get a big crowd of people to say, do or believe just about anything they want. I learned how to be a part of a crowd. How to appreciate it, how to get drunk and laid in it, and how to like it like that (you like it like that?). But even so, my inner outcast was always there. Along with nerd in the closet, the artist under the rug, and the drunkard beneath the bed. I felt like my life was spiraling out of control and into "a true story of seven strangers picked to live in a house, work together and have their lives taped, to find out what happens, when people stopped being polite, and started getting real." I had hit rock bottom, but that's when everything changed.

I suppose these days I'm more "open" about my SADD - or Socially Awkward Dork/Dickwad/Douche/Dritsac Disorder. That's right SADD. It's caused by a chemical imbalance in the brain triggering fits of terribly nerdiness, followed by deep self loathing and the subsequent feeling of urgency to be cool about it. I know that now, thanks to the work of Dr. Whogives Afhatshit PhD, and his new book entitled, "Quit being a douche you SADD mother fucker". In it he discusses techniques on everything from not giving a hot whiskey piss about what other people think; to liking and disliking concepts and ideas strictly on one's own accord. Finally, Dr. Afhatshit reveals the path to thinking (that's right, thinking) all by one's self in an eight... uh, eighty, no, sorry - eighty eight step, easy to use program.

Folks, I'm a real live success story. I can now walk around without worrying about having SADD outbreak, because I give neither fat nor flying fucks about certain social norms. Good thing I've learned how to like and/or dislike something, then use the eighty eight, easy to remember steps to thinking it over. I know for instance that when walking down the street, a proper distance at which to acknowledge the presence of someone you recognize is approximately eight feet. Any longer, and your waving hands, goonish smile and "hello there" noises become nothing but plain buffoonery. Not giving the afore mentioned pisses, shits, or fucks is what allows me to react loudly at distances of up to twenty feet, at which point an individual is hardly recognizable. Most of the time, it's not even the person I thought it was. Man that's funny!

I guess I was kind of a douche for all those years, but now I realize that there's more to it than that. While I did consistently act like a complete dickwad, I know now that the real me was here all along, and the real you is right there too. Right now. The fear of being our true selves is the real douche, not you and I.

The power to get over having SADD is in you, little dingleberry, so call today. I can still hear Dr. Afhatshit saying, in a thick, mad-scientist accent, "Besht karate still unt ze inshide!" while standing with his arm around a life size cut-out of Mr. Miyagi. I don't know why he said that, but he was probably right.

2007-01-23T19:26:00.000-08:00

Right now, I'm going to set itunes to random and list the ten arbitrary selections. I promise not to cheat. OK, go.

1) Vivaldi - "4 Seasons" (Spring Concerto). Duh. Ben likes it.
2) Clarence Clearwater - "Slip Away". Because it rawks, yo.
3) John Lennon - "It's Real". Weird. Lennon whistles a happy song and plucks a guit-box for just longer than one minute. Yoko recently released this acoustic version (2005?).
4) Gilberto - "Girl From Ipanema". I know, I rule.
5) Unknown Artist(s) from something I got on Lime Wire called "Irish Drinking Songs". It's called "Fuck You, I'm Drunk". And while I always appreciate a hilarious racial stereo type (drunken Irishmen... though sadly, the song says nothing of potatoes); I also appreciate hundred year old Sea Shanties with verse as profound as, "I'm going to stay drunk / 'till the next time I'm drunk!"
6) Calexico - "The Ride Part II". It has it's artistic merits, but it's inescapably hipster crap. Aury and Thomas (Or "The Frenchies" as they're sometimes called) gave it to me. I burned 'em a shitload of Jimmie Rogers in return. Welcome to America, fellas - De-yo-deh-leigh-he-he!
7) Johnny Cash - "Personal Jesus". Yup. And it's great, too (in case you don't already know). J.R. made a whole CD steeped in his own pending demise. He could see the end of the line as soon as June passed, and thought he'd say "So long" to all o' us fans. Thanks John.
8) Pearl Bailey with Cootie Williams and his Orchestra - "Tess's Torch Song". It's dope, dude. But then again, if your name is "Cootie", you're automatically knighted in the League of Awesomeness.
9) Otis Redding - "Dreams to Remember". I know, I know. It was on some shitty, 80's, coming-of-age-teeny-bopper dung heap of a movie, but Otis is the man, and the song is great.
10) Bill Monroe - "Going Down the Road Feeling Bad". Just an old bluergrass hillbilly who once had his mandolin smashed to bits, painstakingly repaired and recently purchased for well over a million clams. He's that good.

So here's the deal. If you've read this far, you must now post ten random selections from your itunes library. Where should you post it? Hmmm... the comments section of this very entry seems as good a spot as any. Don't cheat and skip a song just because you don't like it, or it's something your douche bag ex roommate downloaded. You don't have to feel obligated to explain, but if the need strikes you, please elaborate.

Over.

2007-01-23T12:00:00.000-08:00

Sparrows is coming up. It's a poetry festival in Salida, Co (which, if I understand correctly, is in the mountains West of Colorado Springs?). They have a good variety of poets this year, young and old, and of all walks of life. I've got 9 minuets on Saturday night, March 3rd. Rawk. I've also been invited to join a travelling band of poets to do some freestyle readings around town before the festival, but I'm not sure of the details of that yet.

The theme this year is "Wage Poetry". Kinda like make love, not war, you know? The cool thing is though, they sent out a news letter to those performing saying that a lot of the submissions they were getting were dark and cynical, and they were looking for more upbeat and funny stuff. They don't want to focus on the negative. Now, say what you may about poets, but I thought that was pretty cool. Discourage the "Oh Woe is Me" aspect of poetry, and let's rock the house with some real shit. Besides that, I believe that for most literary folks, positively themed poems are harder to write, especially when dealing with a heavy subject like war.

Me... I can't write about the current conflict (or any war, really) without getting a little worked up, so my submission for the "Wage Poetry" theme had a different twist. I put together a performance piece about a serpentine LA lawyer ordering David Beckham for $250 million at a cafe, then swallowing him whole with a side of fries and leaving without tipping. It's called "Minimum Wage Poetry". I won't put it up here though, 'cause I want it to premier at the festival. Word up, yo. I'm hardcore like that son! I got jokes.

If'n y'all know anyone who might be able to make it out to Salida on or around March 1st through the 3rd, make sure you tell 'em about the festival. Don't worry, it's not going to be a bunch of squares reciting shitty limericks about butterflies drinking the tears of sleeping birds (which is true, by the way; entomologists recently observed a species displaying this behaviour). There should be plenty of debauchery, as the guys and gals who put this together are a good lot of old hippies, some of whom have been around long enough to have hung out with Kerouac, Cassidy, Ginsberg and the like. So it should be cool. Anyway, for more info, you can go here: www.sparrowspoetry.com. There's also a blog link in my side bar, but it doesn't go to the home site.

'Bout it, I guess. Sorry for being boring today. I'm gonna go punch myself.

Mister Misanthrope

2007-01-22T09:48:00.000-08:00

All the world's a stage, and all the men and women merely players. In my experience, I have known this to be true. That being said, I hate bad actors. The overly calculated, meticulously sculpted messy hair and over-priced ripped or "vintage" pants are indicative of the amount of time you spent calculating a careless, "thrown together" look. It is a direct contradiction to the character you're trying too hard to portray, douche. Neither do we believe the political rhetoric you're regurgitating from your preferred talking head. Yes, we know your ideas are painfully unoriginal, and your jokes are worse than that of greatest douche of all, Dane Cook. I'm sure you're a fan.

Yes, everyone knows you're a total douche, as is the self-loathing whore with obvious daddy issues sitting at your table. Isn't the tramp stamp rising from her exposed coin slot pretty? Never seen anything like it. Neither have I come across an attention starved narcissist pounding wimpy cocktails and strategically placing her cleavage beneath the eyes of self indulgent liars. "I'm a record producer." Yes, we could tell, shitweasel. We'd never doubt you.

None of you are fooling anyone. It only seems that way because you're all so incredibly self involved. There is no conversation to be had with you, as it's plain you lack the capacity to listen, let alone comprehend. Thus, an awkward conversation with you is a series of intervals in which you're anxiously awaiting your turn to speak, as if you're gracing us with the melodic sound of your own voice. The thing of it is, your voice does not sound like bells on the ankles of angels the way you think it does. No, it's more like an irritating murmur that gently grinds the human soul into a fine, useless powder, unfit even for pig slop.

Tattoos, piercings, shopping mall fashion. You couldn't make up your own mind about anything, even if your life depended on it as evidenced by your utterance of idiocies like:"I like every kind of music except (blank)". Fuck you, dirt bag, and your little dog too. The one your girlfriend carries around in her purse, sometimes pretending it's a baby. One that eats it's on feces.

What's that? Oh no, you must be mistaken. I'm in a fine mood. Just fine.

2007-01-19T10:09:00.000-08:00

There's a scientist who studies endophytes, which are tiny micro-organisms that live in the spaces between plant cells. The plant offers them food and shelter (neither of which harm the plant) and in turn, the endophytes produce chemical compounds hither to unknown to science, which fight off specific diseases. Malaria, for instance. The scientist leading the way in the study of endophytes (Gary Strobel, Montana State University) travels the globe speaking to traditional healers and shamans to discover which plants they use medicinally. He then collects the plants, and searches for endophytes.

He's basically saying that indigenous peoples were right, or, at least they were on to something. And it's only taken science 2000+ years to catch on. Sure, many shamans chalk up the healing power of medicinal herbs to spirits, gods, or other metaphysical concepts, but they were still right... according to science. My question is this: Does it matter weather people call it God, Nature, Biology, Endophytes, or the great Googaly Moogaly? Nope. It'll take science and modern medicine to make believers out of us Westerners, but as far as I'm concerned, you can call it whatever you want, it still doesn't change the bottom line.

Science and modern medicine have a long history of being wrong. There's a simple explanation for it that people generally don't want to accept. That explanation is that there are things in this world, forces at work, if you will, that are still so far out of the realm of human comprehension, that we can't hope to understand them scientifically. At least, not in the foreseeable future. That being said, when will it be ok to relax and take things at face value? When will it be ok to enjoy life without having to search for an explanation of why?

It's a proven fact that contracting the muscles of your face into a smile will prompt cells in your body to fire signals into your brain telling it that you're happy. That means, if you're in a shitty mood, smile. Science has proven that this will put you in a better mood almost immediately. Strangely enough, this scientific realization is relatively new. Ironically, everyone who has ever been born has known that fact to be true. Maybe they don't (and didn't) know the inner workings of cells, neurons, electrons, endorphins and the like, but who cares? Isn't it enough to know from personal experience that smiling and laughing make you happy?

I wonder how science would explain my having to take a giant dump right now. Surely it has something to do with the food I've consumed, the nutrients my body has absorbed, the energy I've used, and the resulting waste needing to be expelled. But how do I know that this particular dump is going to be monstrous and vile? Why is it that I can already anticipate the horrible and very specific smell, and preemptively empathize with the gag reflex any unsuspecting bathroom visitor will experience during, or soon after the taking of said dump? Does the ability to scientifically explain such phenomena make the result less funny? I think not.

2007-01-19T08:48:00.000-08:00

I wish I could be a money grubber by trade, but the occupation does not befall me. It's not that I can't handle money, but the grubbing cramps my style. Grubbing anyting (but especially money) can be hard work and usually requires years of training. No, no, I lean naturally toward bullshitting, punctuality and mediating arguments. That means I'm good at selling nothing. By that I mean, if you have a whole lot of nothing, and you can't sell it, you should call call me. I'll sell your nothing for you, at prices way above current blue-book values, turning a nice profit for both of us.

How does one sell nothing? Easily. Make the potential buyer think they're buying something. Like "service and expertise" for instance. Lots of people want to buy that. What kind of service and/or expertise? It doesn't matter. What you're really saying is, "For a nominal fee, I'll make three phone calls per month on your behalf." And, if you're really clever, you have a clause in your contract that indicates possible extra charges should the phone calls become excessive (more than three).

I can hear you saying, "What if someone finds out you're not an expert of anything, and they call you on it?" Not to worry. Simply agree with them that you're not an expert on whatever it is that's upsetting them, then suggest they hire one. In fact, tell them you know of just the right expert, and for an additional fee, you'll hire said expert on your clients behalf, getting them a bulk rate discount.

Suppose they realize they haven't bought anything, and are paying you for nothing. Ha! That's laughable! Of course they'll never think that, because they're also too busy selling (and buying) nothing. The thought will never occur to them, because they think they actually have something. That's what makes the trick so easy. Sure you know you're selling nothing, but everyone wants so badly to believe it's something. They'll never question it, because if they do, they'll be questioning themselves, and that, friends, would not be acceptable.

Still at the end of a hard day of selling nothing, someone still write me a check. A check to show they're appreciation to me for getting rid of all that nothing, which can really start to clutter up... uh... whatever you're keeping your nothing in (warehouses, offices, bank accounts, garages etc).

If you've got nothing to sell, call me right away. My services are in high demand, so these deals won't last. Remember, you're nothing if not for nothing.

2007-01-18T09:12:00.000-08:00

G'mornin', gluttons. What's the buzz, cuz?

I spent a couple few years in giant, corporate coffee shops, doing every job from part time morning guy, to General Store manager. From Starbucks, to Coffee Bean and Tea Leaf, to Peaberry Coffee and a couple few independent, hipster laden shit holes, where before they let you in the door, they check your haircut to make sure it's trendy enough to enter. Needless to say, I have observed a thing or two about coffee, it's culture, and the people who drink it. In fact, we used to play a game of "call that drink". A game at which I had become quite efficient.

Believe it or not, your Starbucks order acts like an accessory to your outfit. Judging by your choice of clothes, the time of day you some in, the frequency of your visits and a few other variables, an experienced barista has a good chance of accurately predicting your coffee order. Here's a few popular choices, and a brief description of the people who usually order them.

Regular Coffee: No nonsense. Usually older (over 35) men order this. Most of the time, they are republicans, and they come in early in the morning on their way to work. They have their own insulated mugs which they'll ask you to rinse out with hot water before pouring the coffee. They also don't care which kind of coffee they get (light or dark), so long as it's fresh and caffeinated. There is a window for the broke democrat, or the serious-about-studying college kid though. But they'll get the drip coffee in the afternoon, sit at the shop all day, and get like 30 refills at 50 cents a pop, if not free.

Flavored latte: There are many, many variables to this drink. It's most commonly ordered with skim milk (skinny), and usually befalls the fairer sex. That's a lot of sweet cream for any self respecting man to be ingesting. The sweeter the drink, the younger broad (i.e., extra caramel, 6 pumps of vanilla, etc).

Mocha: This is for the person who does not like coffee and would rather be drinking hot chocolate, but desperately needs the caffeine. This drink, when ordered decaf, is typically done so by older women who aren't quite ready to let go and just be the crazy cat lady they are inevitably going to become. They hang around day-time coffee shops, scoping out any man they think they can get their hooks into, while pretending to read Danielle Steel novels.

Cappuccino: You're probably a noob and don't know what you're getting, but ordered this drink because you'd heard the name so frequently. You think it'll be a sweet, chunky, gluttonous American drink, but it isn't. As soon as this person picks it up, they send it back claiming it's empty. Also, for the record, baristas usually know you have no idea what you're ordering, but the individual who typically makes this mistake, is also the type of person to pretend to be offend by the idea that he's got no idea what he's ordering, and will try to make you believe otherwise. This beverage, when ordered "dry" however, is a symbol of someone who's really been around the block. They probably know more about coffee than you, and more about literature as well.

Espresso: Occasionally, this will also be ordered by mistake, given the popularity (and the the confusion) of the name. People who order this on purpose do not have time to fuck around with an entire cup of coffee. They almost always make some form of stale joke regarding a caffeine I.V., and would buy harder drugs if you were selling them.

Frozen/blended coffee drinks: If you're ordering these and you're of legal drinking age, you should consider the search for a new beverage of choice, douche. If you're a cheerleader at a local highschool, you're only dilemma is "what flavor?"

Iced coffee: You're one of the good ones. Unpretentious, but with a good idea of what you're doing in a specialty coffee shop. You probably have a french press at home, which you use from time to time. This person can also be witnessed ordering the elusive "Americano", and is probably a regular at more than one coffee shop.

Yes, there are more variations to be discussed, and a relatively detailed description can be offered about the typical orderers of those variations as well, but I think this is enough for now.

Cheerio.

2007-01-16T10:55:00.000-08:00

Here's the bathroom door at my office:

Seems like a normal bathroom with typical, appropriate signage, right? Nothing to worry about here. However, there is a rather curious sign on the inside of the same door, shown here:

Huh. "Avoid accidents"? What exactly are they trying to say? I mean, usually, when speaking in reference to a bathroom of any kind, the term "accident" refers to a shart, squirt, leak or full fledged load being released where it shouldn't have been. In most cases, one's undies.

If this door were abnormally heavy, (it isn't), I might be able to make a case for such a sign in that if one were rushing to the bathroom with a turtle head pokin' out, said person would not want to quickly yank on something that is unexpectedly weighty. That would surely cause the deuce to drop in the ol' pantaloons. On that note, the same action could very well cause one to be standing in a puddle of warm urine.

A "bathroom accident" upon opening a door to quickly might also be caused by a person in a scary mask, hiding behind the wall opposite the door. I can assure you, however, that in a professional setting such as this, people in scary masks are quite uncommon, let alone ones that are hiding behind doors, literally waiting to scare the shit and/or piss out of you.

All I'm saying is that maybe they should have been more specific with the wording. The sign could have very well read, "To avoid hitting someone with the door, please open slowly". Then they wouldn't have some smart alack mocking them on the internet.

Right. Carry on then, and try not to soil yourself. Remember, every day that ends without poop in your pants is a successful and happy day, so heed the sign on the wall. May all of your undies remain dookie-free.

a vague recollection of a harder time

2007-01-15T17:03:00.000-08:00

Struck a match and lit a smoke
in the barroom shithouse,
erased my name
from the bathroom wall.
I wobbled out and plugged
a few dollars into the juke box.
Played whatever decent
country songs were available.
The bartender thought I was sweet
and she poured me an extra scotch.
The bottle popper in her back pocket
pointed devilishly at the tramp stamp
on her lower back
and I hummed along with Shotgun Willie.
A fat gangster covered in tattoos
had also taken a shine to me.
He was a little dumb, but that was ok by me.
There'd be no fistfights that gloomy evening.

I haven't spent many nights like that,
but sometimes the world forces you into a corner
and between rounds of being pummeled
into a meat pancake,
the sardonic trainer gives you whiskey
instead of water
until you finally see
the folly of your ways.

Life, Tetris, and beating Gunnar at Connect Four

2007-01-12T10:08:00.000-08:00

There's an old phrase people frequently use about learning something every day. I forget how it goes... but that's beside the point. I bring it up because I'm not sure the people who use (or perhaps more appropriately, abuse) the phrase actually learn anything, ever.

The learning process becomes more difficult as one gets older. It might be because most of us get progressively dumber as the years float by, but I don't think so. I think that life can become stagnant as one begins to "settle down" or become "established". In order to keep learning, we've got to constantly break down the walls we are continually building around ourselves. These walls are commonly known as "comfort zones", and while they certainly are nice and cumfy, they don't do much for us in the way of expanding our minds.

It's not easy to break break down our comfort zones. It takes effort and creativity. It's sort of like playing Tetris, in that pieces of these walls are always falling from the skies of our personal experience, and we've got to find a place to put them. If we organize them correctly, they fit together and eliminate themselves (at least partially). This is known as "getting lines". As time goes by, the pieces begin to fall faster and faster, making it more difficult to get lines. If we do not make an effort to keep up the pace, the pieces will stack up too high, and our learning experience grinds to a halt. It is at this point that people begin to listen to Kenny G, and recognize it as good music.

There are some cheat codes in this game of Tetris though. Ways to get a bunch of lines at a time when the walls start to get too high. It sounds easy, but it's surprisingly difficult to do. You have to scare yourself. I don't mean "scare yourself" as in ask a friend to hide behind something then suddenly jump out at you when you least expect it. Neither do I mean to insinuate that we should watch scary movies, or read Edgar Allan Poe stories late at night in creepy old mansion estates. I mean, think of something in life that scares you, then do it.

I used to hate parallel parking, and would therefore avoid it at all cost. It wasn't until I tried scaring myself that I learned to do it, and do it well. Not only did I make myself parallel park, but I made myself do it on busy streets. I know to some of you, that doesn't sound scary at all, in fact, you probably think I'm a giant douche now. There was a time in my life however, that it scared the piss outta me. Don't judge. Some of you are probably afraid of spiders. I'm not judging you (ha ha! wimp!) but I am suggesting that you make an effort to collect one. A big ol' scary one. Or, if you see one in your home, instead of smashing it or drowning it in a smoking puddle of dangerous poison, try to get it in a dixie cup and put it gently outside. Maybe even study it a little before you let it go peacefully on it's way. Look it up on the internet, find out what species it is and it's habits etc. You might be surprised to find that this will give you a shit load of lines, and you'll probably beat your previous "high score".

Thinking of new ways to scare yourself isn't easy either. Most of us can probably come up with one or two scary things right off the bat, but if you try this technique often, (which I enthusiastically recommend) you'll probably run out of ideas pretty quickly. The trick is to listen to your emotions, even when they're acting retarded. If you're out and about, for instance, and notice a member of the opposite sex checkin' you out, go over there and say howdy. I know that's not terrifying, but the great majority of you would be lying if you said it didn't make you a little nervous. It doesn't have to go anywhere. It doesn't have to mean anything. Just do it to scare yourself.

You may not realize it right away, but each time you're successful in doing something nerve wracking, you're learning something. Or maybe it's more accurate to say you're growing. You see, the higher the Tetris walls get, the more they impede your progress, and subsequently, the more difficult it is to grow as an individual.

I do understand that some of us are naturally better at Tetris than others, and those individuals may not need to utilize the "frighten yourself" cheat code as often as others. Those people are called "scientists" or "doctors" (not doctors of the medical variety, necessarily, but with PhD's). Ironically enough, those individuals are already predisposed to liking Kenny G, and are therefore beyond help. They can still benefit from growing as an individual though, even if only socially or emotionally.

I also understand that Tetris fucking cheats. Ask anyone who's ever played. There are times in life when you've got a solid wall built and it's poised to crumble down like those of Jericho at a jazz festival, but the piece you need (usually a long, straight bar) just isn't falling. In this instance, you must breathe deeply and relax. The bar will fall. Just be patient. And whatever you do, don't throw the controller. If you bust that, you'll have to play with the the "player 2" controller, and we all know you spilled beer all over it and the buttons stick, rendering it all but useless. Besides, when the bar finally does come, you'll get four lines simultaneously. This is called "a Tetris", and is worth a shitload of points. Sweet success!

This Tetris metaphor reminds me to let everyone know that even though my girlfriend is beautiful AND bright, I always kick her ass when we play in 2 player vs mode. Also, I can easily annihilate both of my brothers at almost any video game, not the least of which is Tetris. Just so you know. Oh, and one more thing. I LET Gunnar win at Connect Four. I could've beat him easily, but I felt bad since he was the one who actually made the trophy. Here he is posing with it, and feeling like it was a legitamate victory:

Keep on keepin' on.

2007-01-11T09:21:00.000-08:00

After Barnacle Bill identifies himself as the one knocking on the fair young maiden's door, she tells him she'll come down and let him in. This is how Barnacle Bill responds:

Well hurry before I bust in the door
I'll rare and tear and rant and roar.
I'll spin ya yarns and tell ya lies
I'll drink your wine and eat your pies
I'll kiss your cheeks and black your eyes...
(He's Barnacle Bill the sailor).

Well, it seems to me that Barney and I would have been good pals. Not that I support blacking the eyes of anyone, especially a woman, but hell, at least he's up front about that. Now, if I were that maiden, I'd probably not open the door after I heard Bill's proclamation intended physical abuse, but that's just me.

I have some friends that are similar to Barnacle Bill, actually. Not that they beat up women, but they're just a little rough around the edges. The difference is that of all the people I know personally who bust in doors, spin yarns, drink wine, eat pies, and blacken eyes, not a single one ever admit to it. Certainly not right outta the gate like that. And, if something crazy does happen on account of their gallivantin' and carousin', they usually have some excuse. I think they oughtta chest up a bit. Take some responsibility and let everyone know they might get hammered and punch things. Let everyone know what they're up against. If all those cards on on the table right away, who could blame Barnacle Bill if he knocks someone out?

Personally, I fall more in line with Willie and Waylon (the Outlaws) in "Mamas, Don't Let Your Babies Grow Up to be Cowboys". There they say:

Cowboys like smokey old pool rooms and clear mountain mornin's,
little warm puppies and children and girls of the night.
Them that don't know 'im won't like 'im
and them that do sometimes won't know how ta take 'im.
He ain't wrong he's just differ'nt, but his pride won't let 'im
do things to make you think he's right.

See? Those guys won't let nobody dictate what they can and can't enjoy. Neither do they feel obligated to 'splain it. That's why I don't feel conflicted about liking whiskey and cigareetes (in relative moderation) and still feeling like a good dad. It's why it doesn't seem weird for me to love museums and academia as much as I like farts, football and boobs. I'm done feelin' guilty about who I am. I have good moods and bad. I love life too much not to explore it... good and bad. Besides that, I'm done letting society determine what is "good" or "bad". I think I'm capable of making that decision on my own, thanks.

"If ya don't understand 'im and he don't die young, he'll prolly just ride away."

2007-01-10T10:44:00.000-08:00

Being a young, middle class white American male is really tough, man. Everything I say is racist and insensitive. Goddamn minos. I just invented that slur for all recognized "minority" groups in the world (psst... that means any human being on earth, as well as a few animal species).

Everyone has stereotypes and prejudices, and sometimes they're funny, but you can't always say so. Unless whoever you're laughing at is a middle class white American guy. Everyone can make fun them, whenever or where ever they please. That's ok by me, but the thing of it is, I can't really make fun of anyone else. Ever. Or, if I do, it has to be in the the most light hearted, unoffensive way possible. It's true I sometimes walk around in public in a blue blazer and tie, whistling Perry Como tunes and being extraordinarily polite to people. I even make it a point to over-enunciate, just for humorous effect. It's hilarious because there are times when I'm a living, breathing stereotype. In fact, I dare anyone not to laugh and point if I actually do try to dance (which I only do after copious amounts of Pabst Blue Ribbon). There are few things that can generate such a resounding chorus of instant laughter and merrymaking at the expense of another. Of course, I feel guilty for getting a chuckle out of a Mexican dude in a truck that's horn plays a snippet of "La Cucaracha" and the back window is a giant Jesus sticker. And God forbid I admit to thinking a Jerry Curl is a hilarious hair style, or laugh myself to tears at the latest Baliwood show-stopping musical numbers while checking out some "Namaste America".

If only I could be a real minority, I'd be given the "Carlos Mencia Get out of Jail Free Card". That is to say, because he's a Mexican guy, it's ok for him make fun of his own people. It's also ok for him to tease all other recognized minority groups, weather or not he's a card carrier (i.e. handicapped people, fat people, gays or any ethnic group). I wish I had that card too. I want to spread the love. Even my having a gay mom and members of my immediate family of every race color and creed does not grant me access to this magical well of hilarity. Unfortunately, I can only make fun of myself; and that's no fun at all because everyone's already doing it for me. I don't want to steal their jokes, so I just make fun of the British.

Think of that combination of words without a negative connotation for a moment. Make and Fun. Sounds like a party I'd go to, I don't know about you...

Laughing is a good thing. Violence and hatred on the other hand, are wiggita wiggita wack. I say let's laugh at each other. Let's laugh together, and instead of throwing stones at one another, throw them at Bill O'Riley. He's the real douche. A kind of person who does hate, and is therefore incapable of seeing humor in trunk jewelery. He doesn't know why Perry Como is funny. The bass line of a Mexican polka or corrido does not crack him up. Neither does a Jewish guy haggling over one lemon at the grocery store. Instead, all of these are "offensive". All of these piss him off, and now we're not allowed to laugh at them. What a cock gobbler.

It shows progress when we can all make fun of each other. Equally.

Merchant/Atlas in '08!

2007-01-09T09:07:00.000-08:00

I don't want to get up here and preach politics, Fat Ass, but things are getting complicated. Now we're bombing mud huts in Somalia? Hmm... The only place on the globe that's more unstable than Iraq (and we all know where that got us).

Now, while I despise almost all politicians (jackass and elephant), and emphatically disagree with just about everything they say or do, I don't want to start singling people out (ahem, Bush/Cheyney). And while it pains me deep in my soul to see what's happening in the Middle East (Iraq, Iran, Lebanon, Israel, Somalia) no one can just undo what's happened. Nor can we sit here in our comfortably air conditioned office buildings, or quaint little country bungalows pretending that nothings happening about which intelligent and decent people should be concerned. We are at war, and as heart breaking as that is, there's no going back. We've got to find a solution, and just about everything our current leaders (demos and repubs alike) have done has failed miserably thus far. I'm afraid for the future of America, the country I dearly love. I think there's only one thing to do. Elect Larry Merchant as President.

Larry Merchant knows fighting. Not only that, but he's well connected, well spoken and has the stones to bust through a post fight melee in a ring, walk up to a 250lb pugilist who's just proven that he can single handedly beat up anyone in the world, stick a mic in the face of said pug and call him a bum. He's belligerent at times, but no one can argue with him. He'll always tell you like it is. Larry Merchant never lies, and he has no fear. Once, while discussing George Foreman's incredible feat of becoming the oldest man to win a Heavyweight Championship at age 45, Jim Lampley said, "It's one of the greatest performances in sports history. Some people compare it to Jack Nicholas winning the Masters at age 46." To which Larry responded (quite appropriately, if you ask me), "Say what you may, Jim, but no one was punching Jack Nicholas in the face when he won the Masters!"

Larry's running mate (VP) could be Teddy Atlas... the ex fighter who sounds like he might be retarded, but then shocks listeners with insightful, well composed commentary. That's another guy who knows how to win a fight. Also, Teddy can beat your ass. I promise. It's said that he once held a gun to a young Mike Tyson's head (whom Atlas trained in the early years under Cus D'Amato) when Iron Mike made an unwelcome pass at a female relative of Teddy's. Atlas also is credited with predicting Tyson's downfall due to his personal conduct and jackassery. Teddy knew that acting a fool would bring about the merciless ass whupin' Tyson received at the hands of Buster Douglas, and continued to receive by every notable fighter hence.

Larry Merchant, as noted above, is known to be belligerent at times, and this will not do if he is to become president. Also, he tends to ride Manny Pacquiao's nuts a little too much (in my personal opinion). Fortunately though, he can hire Burt Sugar to be his first advisor. Burt Sugar may be the only man with not only the stones, but also the knowledge and ability to wax poetic to put Larry in check when he gets outta hand. Burt's got sand in his craw enough to make Merchant listen up.

Now, once we all go vote for Merchant/Atlas in '08, they can appoint some of their peeps (I believe that's the most grammatically appropriate term for them) to other cabinet positions. Emanuel Stewart as Secretary of Defense, for instance. I'm telling you right now, there is no one better. All anyone needs to do is listen to Emanuel Stewart, and he'll tell you how to win a fight, no matter the circumstance. I'll bet if we called him right now, he'd have a better Strategy for Iraq.

Do I even need to mention who'd make the best Secretary of the Treasury? You guessed it. Don King. Oh c'mon, you and I both know that Don King is no less villainous or ruthless than any of the old white politicians who currently handle our nations finances. Besides that, who (other than those guys previously mentioned) is going to fuck with Don King? No one, that's who.

George Foreman can fit in there too. I'd like to see him as Press Secretary. Here's an example of his natural talent for diverting the nation's attention. In 1997, he fought Shannon Briggs, a big, hard hitting heavyweight. Foreman was 48 years old at the time (though closer to 49), and proceeded to beat Briggs' 26 year old ass for at least 8 out of 12 rounds. When the fight was over, however, the judges gave the fight to Briggs. Amongst a thunderous chorus of boos from the crowd, Larry Merchant shoves his way through the ring to stick a mic in Foreman's face. Larry asked him if he was upset about the decision, since it'd been clear to everyone watching that Foreman was easily the winner. (paraphrasing) "He's a young guy, Larry, and I'm old and gettin' ready to retire. He needs it a lot more than I do. I ain't mad. By the way, I'm 48 years old, and I feel great after 12 rounds of boxing. You know how I stay in such good shape? By usin' the George Foreman Grill every morning..." At this point, Merchant interrupts, saying something like, "George, can we talk about the fight?" To which Foreman responded, "I GOT to sell my grill, Larry!" Now, if that doesn't demonstrate a natural ability to get people to ignore an 800 pound gorilla in the room, I don't know what is; and isn't that the job of the Press Secretary? I think so.

There's more to mention here, like appointing some boxing judges to the Supreme Court. I mean, as long as we're calling things how they are, boxing judges are no more crooked than some of those who are Justices right now. And, at least we'd know that rather than pretend it ain't so like we do today.

Look, if we're in a fight, and we're losing, we need to take action. If we keep losing rounds, we'll need a knockout to win. Those boxing personalities mentioned above would clean up the face of modern American politics. Wow! You know things are bad when it's up to BOXING personalities to clean up politics, but at least the corruption in the boxing world is blatant and on the table. No one tries to hide from it or deny it. Sadly, that's WAY more honest than just about anyone in Washington right now. I like my coffee black and my corruption apparent. That's how I roll.

Merchant/Atlas in '08!

Mike MacDonald from Rude Buddha was there...

2007-01-08T11:03:00.000-08:00

This weekend my cousin was in town. He's a good guy, that one, and he loves to mix things up. Stir the pot a little bit.

Whenever someone comes to LA for the first time, the host (that would be me in this for instance) is under the unspoken obligation to play "tour guide" to an extent. Fortunately for me, I live right on Hollywood Blvd, so a liesurely stroll down to the Walk of Fame is always in order. After that, being in Hollywood, the next stop is usually the Sunset Strip.

Now, the Strip is a place I generally avoid at almost any cost. Driving through it is one thing, but actually getting out of the car and spending time down there is quite another. My cousin is the kind of guy though, who would really thrive in a place like that. A sea of young, beautiful idiots. Oh yes, that's a playground for a guy like him.

My brother Jake, his girlfrined Heather and I hopped a cab and took our kin folk down to the Saddle Ranch. You know, that crazy bar with the mechanical bull? Yeah. Anyway my cousin had a plan, which we excecuted at least ten times that evening, and which turned out to be a hell of a lot of fun.

He'd find a group of two or more cute girls, then cassually stroll over there to order his drink. After a few minutes, I'd then walk over as if just passing by, and as I did, I'd do a double take on my cuz. "Excuse me," I'd say, "Are you Mike MacDonald from Rude Buddha?" He'd act flattered and a little coy before admitting to being the one and only. I'd then ask for a quick autograph, and my cousin the fake celebrity would be happy to oblige. Unfortunately, he didn't have a pen. Uh oh. Neither did I. Well, maybe this group of hot girls has one? Sure enough, I'd get a quick signature, then proclaim my admiration for his music one more time, and I'd be on my way. I could hear twitterpated girls giggling and asking him to sign their arms, napkins and other various keepsakes.

This racket worked like a charm. There were a couple of times I'd ask some girls to take a quick photo of me with him, and hand them my phone. Then, inevitably, they'd all want a pic with him too. It'll be great for myspace!

Nothing came of this scam, except a rockin' good time. That's the way I like it. No harm done, just funnin' with people. That's all. There were no hurt feelings, and no one lost or gained anything, really. That's my kind of yarn. Spreading love through the telling of a little white lie. A lie that we wanted to tell, and most people wanted to hear.

2007-01-05T08:39:00.000-08:00

Ugh. I'm really hung over this morning, Heavy D. Help me.

The bar is a strange and magical place. I feel like I can keep on drinkin, and nothing will happen to me. I never realize how drunk I am until I get home... then it's all gloom and doom. Last night, I was dizzy, but hanging in there just fine until I walked in my front door, then all that Pabst and whiskey sucker punched me in the stomach. Don't worry though, we walked there and back home. Sober driving is an issue I can (and do) really get behind. I mean, let's face it, if you drink and drive, you really are an asshole, and if (God willing) you get home safely, someone should hit you in the face while you're sleeping. Jack Daniels is an ass hole too. He pretends to be cool... like he's all fun and light hearted and shit, but he is not your friend, or mine. Let's not hang out with him anymore.

Even if I'm not hung over like this, I still feel like an ass after a night of hangin' out with Jack. He always turns me into a buffoon. Why then, do I insist of maintaining his friendship? Honestly, I don't even know. Last night, he was like, "I think you should tell that English girl about your fake hatred for her countrymen. She'll think that's funny." Nope. She didn't. Jack was wrong again. She spent the rest of the evening insisting to me that she was only half British. And despite my many attempts to explain the joke, it didn't sink in. Jesus those damn Limeys are a thick headed bunch of stuck up douche bags.

That's just a little humor for ya. Get it...? Because I was just complaining about the English not getting my joke about hating the English. THen I made a derogatory comment about the English, as if I really do hate them. See... it's funny because I'm contradicting myself. Y'know, like how sometimes it's funny to say the opposite of what you really mean? And sometimes, it's funny to purposely ruin a joke.

(hurl)

Anyone got an alka-seltzer?

2007-01-04T08:49:00.000-08:00

Hi Bitch Tits! Are you losing weight? Oh. It doesn't look like it, I just said that to rub it in.

So I've been working with a company recently called Ownit Mortgage Solutions, trying to get some of their turn downs. I met with the owner twice, and things seemed to be going well, though he didn't really send anything my way. Well, I opened the business section of the LA Times yesterday, and to my surprise, saw a huge article about Ownit explaining how they went belly up in a hurry. They went into the toilet so fast, and so severely in fact, that they can't even pay their employees. Wow. Guess I'm not the only grifter in this business.

Speaking of grifting, I've been thinking of starting a weekly Video Blog, or "vlog" in addition to this one. Any of you computer savvy butt nuggets out there have any advice on that? I mean, my ideer was to shoot it on a reg'ler digital camera I have, then edit it in iMovie. I could then upload it to Youtube, and post it here, right? I have however seen other people forego youtube, and post their videos directly on to their sites. Is this a better option? Why? Does anyone know how to do that? Oh, c'mon, don't get all upset because I called you a butt nugget. I was only kiddin'... fuckin' douche nozzle.

Vlogging might be fun. I once took the ol' camera out on a late night Hollywood romp with Lexi, and who should jump out of a van to scold me for filming a passed out bum? Ghost Face Killa of the Wu Tang Clan, Theodor Unit, that's who. At first, I didn't believe it was him, but when I asked for confirmation, he opened his jacket displaying and extensive collection of ridiculous bling. I was momentarily blinded by the street lights bouncing off his insanely gawdy ice. Had Mr. T not pimpped out Nancy Reagan in his younger days, I'm certain he'd be jealous.

Anyway, your thoughts would be much appreciated. I'll try to get another sumpin' sumpin' up here later on. Until then, keep on keepin' on. Send me your ideers and advice. I'm lookin' at you, Nitz, Riz and J-Bo. Butt holes.

Kisses!

Kory

Nothing Doing

2007-01-03T09:38:00.000-08:00

Today has been a lonesome day
Today has been a
Lonesome day
Today has been a lonesome day
looks like tomorrow 'll be the same old way.

Nothing to write about this morning, guys. Sorry. Back in my skirt chasin' days, I used to tell dames that I was really only good for about 3 dates. After that, I run out of material. Sometimes, they'd think that was charming, assuming I was only kidding and that I always had lots of clever things to talk about; then they'd realize that what I said was fairly accurate and they'd stop returning my phone calls. ha ha!

Here is a hilarious picture I came accross recently:

Nancy Reagan on the lap of Mr. T, kissing him.

While I disagree with Ronald Reagan politics, I sure think he was a swell guy. I mean, anyone who makes jokes just seconds after they get shot is automatically cool in my book. Being cool though, doesn't mean you'd make a great president. It does however save you from being both a poor fool, and thus pittied by a large man with a mohawk and a shit load of trunk jewelery.

Represent indeed, sir.

trying a new strategy

2007-01-02T09:33:00.000-08:00

Hi, Fatty. The Holiday season is finally over. Sustained celebrity casualties so far were Gerald Ford, James Brown and Saddam Hussein. There. I mentioned it. Now, let's not talk about it anymore. Let's talk about games instead. Specifically, the one we're all playing, but not talking about. Until now.

Everyone has a strategy in life. They use it in relationships, work, social interactions, everywhere. It's not always the same in every circumstance. Most people have different strategies how to operate in work and in home.

My work strategy has always been sort of reactionary. If I were a boxer, I'd be a counter-puncher. If I let you lead off, I can get a good idea of what I'm dealing with, and react accordingly. I'm also able to absorb a lot of punishment, and I don't get upset very easily, so unless you hit really, really hard, if you do catch me with a shot, I have a pretty good chance of staying cool.

My home strategy has been teamwork and patience. I'm like a nice boss, and try to politely delegate jobs to people. I try to choose jobs at which they naturally excel, because for one, they'll do do it well, and two, they don't seem to mind as much. When work needs to be done that everyone hates, I like to split it up. "If I clean the kitchen, will you run the vacuum?" That kind of stuff.

In relationships, I can be really unorthodox. I hit hard from strange angles. Flowers and gifts for no reason, for instance. This also works on the opposite end though in that I'll side step an argument on her terms, and pretend to be understand and docile, then, a week later, when she thinks all is hunky dory, I'll drop the bomb. It seems unfair, I know, but it's effective.

A new technique I'm trying out though, is to call it like I see it, and be (at times) brutally honest. Calling an emotional confrontation with your significant other a game, for instance. Because that's how it works with my girlfriend and I. When she's mad at me for something, she'll sometimes write mean poems or journal entries, and them tuck them away in places that she knows I'll eventually find them. It's like a booby trap. Then I have to bring it up, but when I do, she's got her strategy all planned out already, and can take me down, man. I don't know what they call that in your neck of the woods, but here, it's called a game. The object of which (I hope) is to eventually solve the problem and/or riddle. Calling it such, and then trying to set up some boundaries... y'know, rules, regulations and what not is my new experimental technique. I had an opportunity to try it out with my girlfriend recently, but it didn't go over too well. That's just because it was a bit of a surprise, and when I explained it, it seemed to her to be degrading and sarcastic, but it wasn't meant to be.

Call it like it is. Sometimes, we do bad things, and we're not sure why we did them, but in all actuality, if we were to admit to them and take a little responsibility instead of trying to cover them up, we'd realize that they weren't so bad after all. "Yes, I flirted with the girl at Coffee Bean, and I do think she's cute. She did give me her number." That doesn't mean I'm a cheater. It doesn't mean I've done anything wrong, really... especially if I cop to it right away. It wasn't the right thing to do necessarily, but nothing happened, and nothing was going to happen. I just got a little flattered over the attention of a PYT. I'm only a man.

"No, I haven't yet finished that project because it's miserable, and I found ten other things to do that were equally productive and important. Also, I've spent the last half an hour writing a blog." That doesn't mean I'm lazy or I've done the wrong thing. It'll get done, and in plenty of time (if there is a deadline). Just relax. Breathe.

Change your way of thinkin'.

2006-12-29T09:17:00.000-08:00

Good morning, Fatty.

I know I've mentioned before that I hate commercials and advertising. They tell idiotic lies, and even if we (as individuals) don't believe their lies, we sure as shit don't say anything. Is no one else offended? Haven't they insulted our intelligence enough?

When I was but a wee lad (think 5th grade or so), I could not get past a certain conundrum that I kept seeing in commercials. They would always say things like, "Come by our After Christmas sale and save big on all merchandise!" Or, "You can save up to $200 a month at Worthington Ford's year end sales extravaganza!" This to me seemed like the dumbest thing I'd ever heard. I felt like they might as well say, "The easiest way to lose weight is to get really fat!" And we're not only expected to believe this nonsense, but to go out and do it.

I had to ask my mom. "Mom," I said, "How can you be saving money if you're spending it? That doesn't make sense." And she explained that by "save" they were referring to the amount off of the regular price, so if you were to buy at an inopportune time, you'd pay more... etc, etc. Well, as much as I love my mom, and trusted that she was right, it still didn't make sense to me. Why didn't they just say what they mean?

To this day I hate to hear some jackass telling me that if I spend $30,000 on a car, I'm saving money. It's the dumbest thing I've ever heard, and it makes my blood boil.

Now... I'm not usually one of those conspiracy theorists who read way to far into things, but there's one commercial out there which I think is blatant in it's bigotry and innuendos. Watch this:

Does anyone else see a problem here? Let me tell you why this commercial makes me feel dirty.

First, the commercial begins with white people building a fence while another white guy (John Cugar Melancamp) sings proudly, "This is our Country!" As if to say, "This isn't your Country, Mexicans!" And, as we all know, building that dumb ass fence along the border is and has been a hot button political issue.

The commercial fades in and out of different eras in American History (not specifically, but that's what is implied). All the people are white. The fence is the image running through all eras as if they're implying that we've always wanted to keep Mexicans out of America, even though large parts of the Southwestern states used to belong to Mexico, hence the great white trash capitol of "New Mexico".

Also, notice the name of the ranch the guy at the end drives away from. The "KK Ranch". Think I'm kidding? Watch it again. I know what you're thinking, 'cause I am too. "What?! These crackers are so dumb they actually misspelled 'KKK'!" Sadly though, I don't think it was a simple mis spelling. I think they actually meant to fool us. As if they removed one of the K's from a commercial that is obviously anti-immigration and carries heavy, blatant racist undertones, that we might not notice, and certainly wouldn't put 2 and 2 together.

I dunno... maybe I am reading too much into it, but never the less, I can't watch that commercial without cringing and feeling embarrassed.

I'll stop there for now, as this subject can keep me going for hours. Please keep a clear head while watching television, especially commercials. The best thing we can do to overcome something like this is to govern our own thoughts. Just don't buy into it. Our Country, without fences, without racism, without politics bleeding into the media and trying to brainwash us... trying to keep us docile and controllable... Our Country, without shit like this would be a better place.

Stop The Wimp Rock

2006-12-28T11:08:00.000-08:00

Hola Gorditos y Gorditas.

My brother Jake brought up a good point recently, and that is: What the fuck is going on with "Indy Rock"?

Somebody has got to take a stand here. There are far too many wimpy metro sexuals out there who learned a few chords on the guit-box, grew their hair out, put on a pair of pants that are too small and started to cry their little wussy hearts out over a basic, G, A, D chord progression. Frankly, I'm sick of hearing it. So what your white bred, cheerleadin' girlfriend left you after 2 months? We're supposed to weep in our beers? You ain't Hank, and you can't sing the blues. So shut up.

A good example (also Jake's) is the that show "Scrubs". At the beginning, some gay wad sings, "I can't do this all on my own, oh I'm no... I'm no Superman." First of all, Zach Braff, if you're implying that anyone ever thought of you as anything even remotely close to a superhero of any kind, you are sadly mistaken. Same goes for the guy singing the song. Listen dude, nobody has ever mistaken you for Superman, so there is no reason to reiterate that. You're being redundant. If you wanted to make a contradictory statement, you should say, "I'm not a giant douche." Because that's what we think you are.

With the Internet at our disposal, and still largely in the hands of (and controlled by) the people, just about anyone with a knack for marketing (or an important message) can become relatively well known. That being said, we the people must shoulder the responsibility of telling these emo, indy rock ass holes when they suck, which is most of the time. It is our duty as functional members of society to rid ourselves of whiny attention whores who think that singing like their nuts haven't descended is a cool thing.

Ladies, there is also a responsibility heaped upon your shoulders in this indy rock revolution. That is, stop throwing your undies at these guys. I know that some of you find guitar playing nancy-boys irresistible, but you must try to remain objective and keep a level head. Your involvement is crucial, because if singing like a pansy gets a guy laid, even once, he's going to continue to do so, and other douche bags will follow. Not to mention the possibility of becoming pregnant, there by adding to America's already maxed-out nancy boy population. Please. Do it (or rather, DON'T "do it") for your country.

Yes, it's crossed my mind to be more compassionate, but I find it difficult. In my defense, I'm not saying that every emo bastard is a bad musician or song writer. I just think we should hold them to a higher standard. We should create a filter to weed out the bad ones, and force the good ones to up the bar. I'm not promoting the re-corporatization of music either. I think it's good that the fate of musicians is in our hands via the Internet.

Also, as a final note, let me say that if a guy sings his heart out, it DOES NOT automatically make him a nancy-boy. No, no, quite the contrary. I mentioned Hank before, and for those of you who are unfamiliar, take a listen to songs like "There's a tear in my beer", or "I'm so lonesome I could cry". These are heartfelt ballads that cut to the bone. Songs that any man whose ever been sad, drunk or heartbroken can understand. There are no foolish pretenses. No ulterior motives (like getting some trim from the big breasted brunette in the front row). In fact, Hank used to use a psuedonym for his really sad songs. Luke the Drifter. That way, if you went up to the juke box, you'd know that Luke the Drifter was a really sad (and probably really drunk) Hank. This would avoid accidentally playing a sad song when you meant to play some more up beat, like "Hey Good Lookin'" or Honkey Tonkin'". See? Even way back when, Hank was protecting us from accidental emo. Thanks, Hank. We know you did it because you care.

Some of you may have come across a blog I wrote on myspace a long time ago about tattoos. This is along the same lines. It's ok to be accepting, but some things should be a little bit exclusive. Not everyone should be allowed to do them. Like Willie Nelson teaches us in "Shotgun Willie", "You can't make a record if you ain't got nothin' to say. Can't make a record of you ain't got nothin' to say. You can't play music if you don't know nothin' to play." Take heed, gordos y gordas. There's wisdom in the ages, and in this new era of independence from corporate rule, we have become the Simon Cowells, Paula Abdouls and Randy... uh... what's his last name? Anyway, we're the judges now, and we'll choose our own idols. Let's make 'em earn our respect as well as our underpants. Together, we can slow down the pussification of not only our pop music, but also our people.

Carry on.

Game on!

2006-12-27T13:18:00.000-08:00

It started out with the recent snowstorm that hit Denver. My Uncle Mike posted this photo on our family website of his back yard.

He mentioned the fact that he thought this pic was "boring". I told him that I'd like to jump on that trampoline with my swimming trunks and goggles on, and take a picture of that. Well... my Uncle Mike is never one to turn down a challenge, and so, a day or so later, he posted this one.

A counter challenge was issued by my dear uncle, but nothing was specified, so I responded with this picture, the caption reading, "Merry Christmas, Uncle Mike. Here is that pic of me in the shower you asked for. Birthday suit and all, just like you wanted..."

That wasn't good enough though. He ended up challenging me to take a picture with a genuine tourist as "Underpants Man". The outfit wasn't specified, only that there had to be visible underware, and it had to say "Underpants Man" somewhere. So here is what I cam up with. From secret identity, to superhero.

So, the moral of the story is this:

Don't challenge me to a dare-off. Because you will lose.

Carry on.

2006-12-26T10:18:00.000-08:00

Here are some jokes:

Everyone says talking on your cell phone in public is rude, but it isn't. It's only rude when you're supposed to be doing something else. Like ordering coffee, jackass. Or if you have a bluetooth earpiece, because nobody knows who you're talking to, if anyone. And it's really bad if you walk around having animated conversations and making inappropriate jokes with one of those on. Yesterday, some guy looked right at me and said, "I'm pretty sure I got gonorrhea from your mom." I almost kicked his ass until I saw that earpiece. Then I just laughed, laughed.

It's hard to talk about dogs with people, because they think they know everything. They always have some preconceived, idiotic notion about every single breed. "Don't get a Cocker Spaniel, they stink. They pee everywhere" Or, "Oh, Beagles? They don't bark, but they howl all night long." As if every Beagle ever born howls all night long, and that person knows this from personal experience. I'm going to start doing that if my friends ask about potential girlfriends. "Oh, don't get an Irish girl, they're feisty. And drunk all the time." "The Blond California Fake-Boob is a good breed, but they require lots of attention. And they need a big yard." "For your needs, I'd go with the short, dumpy Italian. They're fiscally responsible and I hear they can cook. Only problem is they've got lots of hair. It gets everywhere."

Whenever you have to pay someone for something, they always ask you how you're doing first, but they don't really want to know. So I make it a point to tell them. I was at Starbucks the other day, and they guy was like, "Hey, how's it goin', what can I get started for ya today?" And I was like, "Um, it's not going so well, actually. My wife left me for a soap opera star and I've had terrible constipation for four days. Also, my fucking toe has been killing me, man. Can you get my Amway, multilevel marketing business, and my cult started for me? Thanks."

Why do women think tall boots are sexy? They always look like wrestlers to me. Or hookers. Neither one of which denote very sexy imagry. Also, who was the idiot that thought "Juicy" was a good adjective for a nice round booty? So nice, in fact, that they should paint it across the ass of sweat pants and sell them to every 18-24 year old girl in the country? Now I think that all those women have shit stains on their thongs from being so "juicy". Gross.

Also, to they guy who added the "friends" tracking device feature to cell phones... Thanks a lot, ass hole.

Jesus Lizards, cumfy prisons and Mary Jane's new deal

2006-12-21T09:32:00.000-08:00

Hi Sausage Gut.

Just in case anyone was thinking of hiring me to be a look-out, don't. I would suck at that. I have bad vision, and spend most of my time in a daydream. I know there are a couple of Colombian drug cartel leaders who've been reading this blog; whom were also thinking of offering me that exact job. I just saved their cocaine plantations from coming under siege. Glad to be of service, Pablo and company.

What's in the news today? I hear tell they've discovered a new marijuana hybrid plant in Mexico that is resistant to herbicides. They call the plant "Colombians". Way to go, Pablo. Break me off a chunk, would ya? Check it out here if you'd like:

http://www.msnbc.msn.com/id/16311450/

I also hear tell that there is a Virgin Komodo Dragon in London who is about to give birth to 8 babies. Eight Komodo Dragons, all named "Jesus of London". Who knew the saviour would return as a giant lizard, let alone eight of them? What? Scientists already knew that Komodo Dragons had the ability to fertilize their own eggs, and they're just trying to sell this story of a "Miracle Christmas Birth" to the media? Huh. Well I'll be...

Lastly, (and to reiterate my disdain for the British) it was reported that 198 inmates of a British prison sued the government, claiming the heroine withdrawals they experienced as a result of not having the drug in prison was "assault". No shit. So they awarded the prisoners 5,00 pounds each to settle (which is like... what? $10,000?). "Terribly sorry you've experienced such discomfort in our prison. Please won't you join us for tea and crumpets this afternoon? Oh, you've scheduled an appointment with your dealer, have you? Right. Carry on then. Be sure to return no later than midnight. You are a prisoner, after all. Jolly good."

gambling on current events

2006-12-19T09:26:00.000-08:00

Good morning, Slim. Happy Tuesday.

I think we should start an on line current events gambling racket. Hear me out, because I think this could work.

First, I should preface this by saying that I think gambling is an inherent trait in human beings. It's given us a thrill since the beginning of time, and will continue to do so long after we've colonized Mars, exploited all of our resources there and started to colonize Titan, (one of Jupiter's moons). I know gambling isn't the best thing we can do, but it doesn't have to be the worst either.

Betting on current events. It can be organized into different categories and sub categories. Here are a few ideas:

1) Domestic politics
a) National
b) Statewide
c) Local
2) Foreign politics
a) Asain
b) Middle Eastern
c) European
d) African
3) Popular Culture
a) Music
b) Cinema
c) Television
d) Tabloids/gossip
4) Business
a) Global
b) National

Then there can be certain betting window that open and close throughout the day. Election time would be crazy for domestic politics. Odds could be listed on all windows. "2008 Democratic Primaries, 5 to 1 Obama loses to Howard Dean". Or, "2 to 1 SNL does a 'Britney's Beaver' skit". "3 to 1 they cancel Craig Ferguson after this season".

Soon, every young person in America is watching the news, and people are getting fired up about politics. People start to participate when they realize that their own money is at steak. Before we know it, people make so much noise that the powers that be start to hear them. Politicians rethink their policies to benefit their constituents (rather than their wallets). Television producers start to realize that people will not watch shitty shows (because they're betting against them). Movies without substance begin to tank at the box office...

I think we're on to something here. I mean, even if gambling on current events doesn't make America a better place by getting the people involved, at least some savvy, white capitalist swine could run with this idea and make a shit load of money. And, White Capitalist Swine, if you're reading this, I want in on it. If not, I'll sue you, claiming you stole the idea from this blog post. I'll wait until you've become a gazillionaire though, 'cause I don't want to inherit a failing, borderline illegal business with mafia ties.

2 to 1 Forrest Whitaker is nominated for Best Actor for "The Last King of Scotland".

I've seen the Light

2006-12-19T09:04:00.000-08:00

I've seen the light
red and blue
rotating,
screaming,
bright white
search light,
hand cuffed
sitting on the curb.
I've seen the light
sucked into a penny
in a mud puddle.
Dirty copper.
I've seen the lights
of county jail
in the wee hours
of some mundane weekday.

I've seen the light
fluorescent yellow tinged
casting a dingy hue
over hospital floors,
fake name and address,
fake social, no ID.
Sweating bullets
from pain
and nerves
wondering if they'll
discover my lie.
"You're doing fine, Derek"
"Just a little more, Derek"

I've seen the light
of the setting sun
behind the edge of
Western civilization,
Pacific waves crashing
and cresting upon
California's shoreline,
still holding
the gold rush fever.
Just reach down
and pick up
a fortune
lying peacefully
and undisturbed
right there on the ground.

I've seen it
pour through
vertical blinds
on quiet mornings,
painting young women
the color of bourbon.

I've seen it
burst out of
speakers and saxophones,
microphones and conga drums,
guitars and trumpets
setting Hollywood
on fire
and setting young lovers
on fire,
red with passion
love and hate
broadcast along the Boulevard,
little Mariachis
following behind,
making up the song
as they go along
yelling
screaming
loving
hating.

Yeah,
I've seen the light,
and it's right here
with us.
Right now.

2006-12-18T08:56:00.000-08:00

Guess what, lard ass? It's Monday.

My girlfriend is Jewish, and I'm Arabic (among other cultural ancestry), so we're genetically predisposed to hating one another. Don't worry though; those "other cultural ancestors" also had a historic reputation for hating Jews. I realize that's an ambiguous statement, as everyone has a historic reputation for hating Jews... so I maintain my mysterious edge.

The good thing about dating a Jew is that it increases my Holidays at least three fold. Too bad I hate Holidays. They're only good for one thing: taking a day off of work. I get to take Yom Kippur off. Roshishana too. And sometimes I get to wear a yarmulke, which is awesome. Especially awesome for me because you can hardly see my bald spot when I'm wearing one. Not to mention the magical powers contained within the yarmulke. Last time I put one on, I started immediately and instinctually reorganizing my finances. Then I loaned a guy some money at a really high interest rate. Score!

I'm kidding around, folks. I harbor no generalized, arbitrary hatred for any other race, color or creed... except the English. What a bunch of stuck up wankers. I was in the lobby of my office building and I started to go up the staris when some Limey bastard says, "I think I'd rather take the lift." And I'm like, "Just because you have good manners doesn't mean I'm going to carry you up the stairs, asshole." Then I realized he was talking about the elevator, but whatever... he was still an asshole.

Also, the English need to decide what exactly the word "trolley" is going to mean. You can't use it for umbrella, city bus, train, shopping cart and pants. What if you were waiting for a train while it was raining, then got splashed by a bus, but were happy to remember you had some clean pants in your shopping cart? How would you relay that? "I was waiting for the trolley beneath me trolley when I a passing trolley splashed me trolleys. Luckily I had some dry trolleys in me trolley." Get it together, man! I can't understand you!

Oh, and David Beckham is gay. Here is a list of signs indicating Beckham's gay-ness:

1) His wife is known as "Posh Spice", which is like saying "my wife's name is 'fashion flavor'"
2) He plays soccer.
3) He wears make up, and sometimes a dress.
4) He makes no effort to call his dress a "kilt".
5) He has more hairstyles than Bjork.
6) Have you ever seen anything gayer than this?

Not outside of the West Hollywood Halloween carnival, you haven't.

I'd loveto make fun of each and every ethnicity right now, but unfortunately, I don't have the time. Suffice it to say that no matter your background, you're also geneticly predisposed to jackassery.

Me and Gilda.

2006-12-15T11:23:00.000-08:00

"Tonight the bottle let me down,
and let your memory come around."

Mostly because I watched a movie called "Gilda" which really launched the career of Rita Hayworth. She was something, too. Very much like you.... who isn't reading this, (and even if you were, would not think I was talking about you).

I love those war era '40's movies (which is why I'm looking forward to "The Good German"). One thing I've noticed which is common in the writing style of that era is that they left innuendos subtle, giving us (the viewers) the opportunity to make up our own minds about a thing. It allows us to weigh our options and try to piece together the untold story line on our own. That sort of ambiguity makes those movies fun to watch. A good example is when Rita Hayworth says to her husband, "I can never get a zipper to close. Maybe that stands for something, what do you think?" And it's pretty much left at that.

Take Casablanca (one of my all time favorites) as another for instance. Nobody who's seen that movie could tell you who Ilsa was really in love with. Probably both Rick and Victor. The Beauty of it though, is that it's never actually explained. There are no answers to the ultimate question in that movie. Neither did the writers feel obligated to explain weather or not it's ok for Ilsa to be in love with two men. It just is the way it is. That's how life works sometimes. No clear good guy/bad guy conflict... just shades of grey.

Gone are the days of making a blockbuster movie like that. Gone are the days of letting innuendo be just that... assumed. Now they have to spell everything out in giant red letters. At least, they do when it comes to dialog, metaphors and messages. Sure, these days there are a lot of filmmakers and movie go-ers who love the "twist" (i.e., The 6th Sense), but that just isn't the same. I'm talkin' about subtleties. I'm talkin' about letting the viewer think for themselves. I'm talkin' about having the courage to pose a cinematic question, and leaving it unanswered at the end of the movie.

The only modern movie that I can think of right now that has done this is "Broken Flowers", a Jim Jarmusch movie (which I liked a lot). The big question was left up to the audience to answer if they must. Not afraid to let us think it over. After seeing a movie like any of those (Gilda, Casablanca, or Broken Flowers), I feel like the director and/or writer just gave me a present; like the movie was made for me, since I was allowed to project so much of myself into it without ruining anything. Thanks guys.

I don't know much about anything, but I do know that I really loved that movie Gilda. It's worth watching, and if you have Time Warner Digital Cable and live in Southern California, you can watch it for free on "Time Warner On Demand". Just turn to channel 001 and click "Free Movies". I know that's a shameless plug, but they have a good selection of Classic movies there (mostly presented by TCM), including some old John Ford/Duke Wayne westerns, and free movies on demand kicks ass.

Gilda: You do hate me, don't you, Johnny?

Johnny Farrell: I don't think you have any idea of how much.

Gilda: Hate is a very exciting emotion. Haven't you noticed? Very exciting. I hate you too, Johnny. I hate you so much I think I'm going to die from it. Darling...

[they kiss passionately]

Gilda: I think I'm going to die from it.

2006-12-13T13:15:00.000-08:00

In the morning
the radio is talking
and I listen and wander.
They talk about
international news,
then local weather, traffic and time
and I listen and wander.
None of the clocks in my house
read the correct time.
That way,
I trick myself into being punctual.

The sun is sitting
on the edge of it's bed,
rubbing it's eyes.
She lays there
uttering grunts of dissapproval
at the idea of getting up.
The radio isn't talking anymore,
but I know the traffic report anyway.
Fucked up.

It's still morning
and I wander around.
Someone jogs past my window
and I guess it's Burt Bacharach
on their iPod,
but it's probably something more akin
to Justin Timberlake.

She's gotten up
and has started the shower.
I'm taking vitamins
and betting myself
that she's laying in the tub,
still trying to snooze,
and she's got the water
way too hot.

She does.

I'll soap up,
take a shave
and dress quickly.
Today I'll dress like an accountant.

There'll be no fresh muffin breakfast.
No glass of cold OJ.
No coffee with half and half,
and no colorfully clad
bouncing girl,
shaking pom poms
and chanting little
militaristic, rhyming poems
about mine
or any other team.
There'll just be
my car and a CD
while I wander
as if I'm in a canoe,
and Laruel Canyon is a slow moving river
with a shit load of
canoes that are
a lot nicer than mine.

Aw, to hell with it. I'm just gonna say it.

2006-12-13T09:01:00.000-08:00

Good Morning morbidly obese friends.

Here's a question: Is is unfair that when men sleep with a lot of women, it's often viewed as a positive attribute, but if women sleep with lots of men they are considered slutty? Here is an answer to that question: No.

Wait a minute... are you promoting sexual promiscuity in men, and denying women the same privilege? That's like having a giant, delicious cake and only letting men eat it. Aren't we beyond that kind of discrimination in this country?

No, no... let me 'splain it. There is something the overly PC are trying to make us forget in this country. Well... there are lots of thing the overly PC are trying to forget, but I won't digress. The point I'd like to make is that, weather we like it or not, men and women are DIFFERENT! Most of you will have undoubtedly noticed by now that there are certain physical differences between the sexes, yes? Yes. But there are also mental and emotional differences that should be discussed here. Let's not keep score, as I'm not saying one is better than the other (cultural prejudices aside), I'm only trying to point out differences in our points of view and genetic predispositions.

Guys, has your girlfriend ever been upset with you for not noticing right away when she's made some subtle change to her look (hair cut/color, new make up etc)? It's rhetorical. I know she has. She's mad because your not noticing right away makes her think you're not paying attention, and therefore don't care. While we may not be paying attention, ladies, we do care. It's just that we, as men are hard wired to look at a face and check it for geometric symmetry. This registers in our natural, subconscious mind as attractiveness in women and strength in men (to an extent). Women are programmed by nature to notice the subtleties in a face far beyond symmetry, because the details will tell her animal brain weather or not they can trust the person. That's why Jake Gyllenhall is the it boy right now. Because his face is not aggressive or intimidating, and women's animal brains tell them that he's likely to stick around and provide for the family if he knocks her up. Sorry, it's true.

Women need an instinctive asshole-o-meter; an initial defense against ne'er do wells. They need it because they are the ones who will carry around and ultimately raise the offspring. I'm not going to get into a father's important roles in modern society just yet, because we need to focus on nature right now, not American culture.

Being that women carry babies around, they are looking for something different in men than men look for in women. Men (by rule of natural selection) need only find as many hosts for their offspring as possible, so the things their animal brains look for in women are largely physical. "Is she gonna produce lots of babies? Healthy ones? Then she's hot, so I must do it with her."

This is repeated in nature constantly. Animals with complex social structures are the same way. Mountain Gorillas for instance, live in packs, and the silver back is entitled to the best poon. Subsequently, the babe with the best poontang becomes the leader of the females in the group. That's just how it works.

It's nature's fault then, that men look to hump lots of partners, and women try to keep their men close and to themselves. It is in this theory that I believe lies one very beautiful thing about monogamy. When men aren't chasing skirts because they promised you they wouldn't, they are defying the laws of nature! They are standing up to a power far beyond that of any human being for the sake of your happiness.

In an effort to level the playing field, I think women in this country are becoming increasingly sluttier. They are sleeping around more, and justifying it by saying how unfair it is for men to do it, but not them. Look at that show, "Sex and the City". That show was a classic example of role reversal. Career women obsessed with sex, money and work. Boring and cliche if you ask me, but that's not the point. The point is, if you disagree with the actions attributed to a large group of people (American Men in this for instance), the way to express your disdain toward their behaviour would NOT be to emulate it. This is not a good time to fight fire with fire.

If I were to play devil's advocate here against myself, and adopt the position the the whole scenario is unfair to women, then, as a man, I'd accept it as my responsibility to NOT sleep around, rather than try to convince women that it's OK if they do it too. Fortunately, I'm not of that school of thought (that it's unfair to women). I'm not sure what society thinks about the issue, but I'll tell you this much; I don't know any men who do not at least appreciate a nice slut. I also don't know any that would take the same slut home to meet the parents, let alone wish to marry her and "settle down". Maybe those guys are out there, but I sure as shit don't know of any.

rice and corn

2006-12-12T08:54:00.000-08:00

Hi Chunk Light.

I've cycled through like 5 topics to write about this morning. Bush, Myspace, Tea, Real Estate, and responsibility. I don't want to write about any of that shit. So what to do now?

Some people have inquired as to why I always address readers as if they're fat people. My answer is simply "Because!" How do you like that, bitch tits?

The NBA is getting rid of their new microfiber ball, and going back to the traditional leather. What will be done with all those soon-to-be-un-official, new fangled, high tech ones? They'll prolly give 'em to the military, to be dropped upon foreign lands from airplanes as a token of our appreciation with little cards that say:

"Dear war-torn African and/or Middle Eastern country we're not currently bombing:

Merry Christmas! Jesus loves you. Here are some basketballs we don't need anymore. Sorry it's not food, but a bunch of idiot, idealistic twenty somethings in Green Peace won't have us delivering genetically altered corn and rice to you. Yes, they care more about the hype behind the term "genetically modified" than actually helping to put a small dent in world hunger. They think "genetically modified" means that the food is poisonous and full of the same chemicals that were killing the Lorax, but their failing to realize that just about anything they eat is or has been genetically modified by human beings, because that's what farming and cultivating does. And they certainly don't have a problem carrying around genetically modified little lap dogs in leather bags that cost enough American dollars to sustain your village for and entire year. But hey, at least you guys can have a nice game of hoops while you starve to death, and with a little practice, maybe over the next few years we'll come back and exploit some of your best talents (or just steal your tall ass dudes like Manute Bol and Dikembe Mutumbo).

Love,

America"

Guess I'm ramblin' now. Well... as we can derive from the microfiber balls, ya win some, ya lose some.

How 'bout that? I got through like... a paragraph and a half about balls without making one single joke about testes. This is truly a proud moment for me.

Turd Philosophy

2006-12-11T09:13:00.000-08:00

G'mornin', Chubbs.

This morning while taking a dump in the restroom on the thirteenth floor at my office, I realized the only graffiti in the whole bathroom is the word "Lakers" scratched into the paint of the handicap accessible stall. Now, we've all see lots of bathroom graffiti in our time, and most of it seems bad, but it's almost always a little bit interesting (I think). But "Lakers"? The least they could have done was added a "go" preceding the "Lakers" and/or an explanation point after. I had to wonder.

First of all, the offices on this floor belong to attorneys and us (real estate lenders). I don't think any of the guys here are the type to a) write graffiti in the bathroom, and b) like the Lakers, or basketball in general. I suppose there is a chance that someone's kid came to work with them and decided to proclaim their enthusiasm for the Lakers while they were taking a dump... I mean, what else could it be?

Well, I got to thinkin' about this, and as it turns out, there is a name for writing as well as the study of restroom graffiti. It's "Latrinalia".

Latrinalia exists wherever public restrooms do throughout the history of civilization. I think the psychology behind it has to have something to do with the mental juxtaposition of being simultaneously in public, and having privacy. It's that feeling of knowing you're in public, but no one can see you. I'm no head shrinker, but that's always the feeling I've had when I've contributed to the shit-house political forum.

I have always tried to be clever with my bathroom scrawlings. My point of view is that if I'm going to commit vandalism, it oughtta be worth reading. I've written "live life backwards" actually backwards on the wall adjacent to the mirror, so when you looked at it in the mirror, it could be read. I've also written various spur of the moment poems, and sometimes even snippets of famous poetry I happened to have previously committed to memory. Wow... that's sounding kind of uppity, ain't it? Who'd a thunk one could sound snobby whilst discussing instances of poop and vandalism? Leave it to me....

Anyway, I should make it known that I don't necessarily dislike the random, seemingly unimportant crude jokes or drawings of dicks or boobs. In fact, I think it's a moral imperative that, if one should enter a bathroom containing graffiti, but no one has drawn boobs, a vag or a dick, that person making note of this discrepancy is now obligated to do so, provided the person has a pen and/or marker handy.

Latrinalia is a living narrative of the people. It's poetry, art and an unofficial public forum for discussion and philosophy. Throughout history, we've been writing things on the bathroom walls, and some of it in my opinion is extremely important. In fact, I'd go so far as to say modern politicians would do well to read and take notes on all the toilet writings they encounter on the campaign trail. They'd have a much better idea of how their constituents think, and would get a firm grasp on the issues that are important to the people. Using those as a political platform, I think any politician could capture the hearts and minds of America... but that's just me.

So, the next time you find yourself taking a dump in public and you happen to have a pen, knife or marker in your pocket, do your part. Let your voice be heard, as there are doubtlessly scores of politicians reading my blog right now who will take my advice on the whole idea of basing their political platform on shit-house graffiti. Just don't write something like, "Lakers". No one will vote for a guy whose speeches revolve around Kobe and Phil. And remember, if there's no dick, boobs or vag, it's your duty to draw one of the three, even if you're Barak Obama.

Keep writing. They can't take that away from us.

Are you feeling frustrated? Losing sleep? Bills piling up? You're a miserable low down piece of donkey shit.

2006-12-08T09:59:00.000-08:00

Good morning, Echo Chamber - amber - amber - amber.

It's been hard to find my balance in the choppy seas of Yuletide cheer. I'm too broke for Christmas, and I'm upset about that. Not just because I wish I had the dough-re-mi to spend, but also because I've let the capitalist machine mow me down like a dandelion on the imperialist lawn of economics. They've got me. Resistance is futile.

I know that sounds like a surrender, but it's not, really. It is to say that I don't hate capitalism, I just think there oughtta be something to monitor it. Seems to me like it's a snowball effect, only the ball is made out of money, and belongs to only a couple of people. Like Rupert Murdoch.

It also seems to me that unless we the people need to stand up together and let them know we're not idiots, and that we're no longer going to give them our money for nothin' (or our chicks for free), or it's only going to get worse. They're going to care less about us as the gap between rich and poor grows, and they're going to continue treating us like morons. And just like the lemmings to the pied piper, we'll march happily along to a hypnotizing flute right into our watery graves.

Advertising is invasive and insulting. Big business (another way of saying "big money") will not take the chance of allowing us to think for ourselves. Everywhere we look we are bombarded by ads. Ads that insinuate that we're ugly, stupid, fat, and uncool. Ads that promise salvation from this fate. Clothes and Ipods make you cool. Beer and liquor makes you sexy. Cars make you smart and sophisticated. Food makes you happy. Any number of these things makes your family love you more. This is the message of capitalism. "You are miserable, and the only way out is to buy what I'm selling. I am your savior."

This is more than just an insult to our intelligence and character. It's scary, evil genius, take-over-the-world-from-a-black-leather-swivel-chair-in-a-secret-lair-while-petting-a-white-cat type of comical villainy. Rupert Murdoch is Skeletor. Dick Cheney is Doctor Doom. Bill Gates is Shredder. Ralph Lauren is Gargamel. E-vill for evil's sake.

We are the Whos down in Whoville, but first we have to agree that we're gonna have Christmas weather or not we've all been violated and burglarized. Then we have to all meet in the middle of town and sing. Together. Holding hands. To let them know that there are some things they can't take away from us. We might sing in different keys, but it's gotta be the same song, for the same reason. Otherwise, the Grinch still won't give a shit and Who society will crumble like the walls of Jericho.

You're not stupid or uncool, and you don't need any products to prove it. Don't let commercials tell you otherwise.

Spring

2006-12-07T10:13:00.000-08:00

This morning Ben and I were listening to classical music. Vivaldi's Four Seasons, the Spring concerto. As were driving along the 101, Ben said, "Dad, this music sounds like Spring time".

I don't care if deep in his subconscious , he may recall either my telling him that the concerto was called Spring, or that he may have remembered from that Beethoven's wig CD we haven't listened to in months (it's been misplaced). I think it's pretty incredible for a four year old boy to be able to pick out the Spring concerto from Vivaldi's Four Seasons upon listening.

Ha ha! Not only is my kid smarter than your kid, he's probably smarter than you too!

Sometimes, Ben fills my heart with so much joy I think it might kill me... that's a feeling all parents get. What they don't usually get is to see their kids identify pieces of classical music like they might identify Disney characters.

That's all. Yup. That's all.

Eat shit

2006-12-05T09:01:00.000-08:00

Good morning, fatty.

It's Tuesday Morning, and you all know what that means...! Nothing, really. Its just another Tuesday.

The other day, Ben and I were riding home from an early morning trip to the grovery store (we realized with great alarm that we were out of bacon, and French toast just isn't the same without fried strips of greasy swine). We were sitting at a red light and he says, "Dad, when I get older, I'm gonna say bad words." And so ensued the bad-word conversation that parents must eventually have with young children. I told Ben that if he wanted to, we could say some bad words together. I explained that I won't ever get mad at him for saying them, as long as no one else hears him, and that there was a time and place for saying those words. "If you want to say one now, go ahead." I said.

"Fuckin' bitch."

"Wow, Ben. That is quite a cuss word. When would anyone say that?"

"When you're driving, and someone goes in front of you and almost hits you like this (motions with his hands), then you can say, 'Hey you fuckin' bitch!' to them."

"Oh. Is that what Uncle Luke says?"

"Yeah. He gets pissed at the cars."

"Yes, he does."

Anyway, we talked a little more on the subject of swearing, and I think he understands that lots of people are offended by them, and it's therefore rude to spout off at say, the grocery store. Or school. But I won't get too upset if it's just us, at home or something where a word is just a word.

Knowing the origin of some of these words makes it hard for me to deem them offensive. I'll explain, but not in great detail, because I can't remember all the specifics...

A long, long time ago, at the fall of the Roman Empire, there were a bunch of "barbaric" tribes that started takin' over shit that the Romans were leaving behind as thier empire came a-tumblin' down (Huns, Jutes, Anglos, Saxons etc). Two of these groups, the Anglos and the Saxons settled in and migrated throughout what is now modern England.

When these two tribes met and eventually melded, the similar but different languages spoken between them were combined. When this kind of integration happens throughout human history, it typically begins as a ruling calss and a subordinate class. I don't remember which (Anglos or Saxons) were the ruling class in this instance. The point is though, that the ruling class deemed some of the subordinate class' words offensive, simply becasue they were used by the lower class. Some of those words were shit, piss, and eat. That's right. the word "eat" was originally deemed a cuss word. It was preferred that one use the term of the ruling class, which was "dine". That would mean that back in the 4th or 5th century AD, "eat shit" was a real zinger.

It can be said then, that modern swear words have their roots in racism and opression. In fact, it seems to me that most of the folks I know that are highly offended by cussing are proverbial acorns that didn't fall too incredibly far from that tree, the main difference in attitude being dictated by the parlance of our time.

I know cussing can be impolite, and being a grifter by trade, I understand full well the power of manners and charm. I know that we all have buttholes, and farts come out of them, but it still doesn't make it right to fart at the dinner table. For those of you about to make the point that many of today's cuss words refer to body parts or functions (involving sex or excrement) which "decent poeple" fear or dislike and wish they didn't have, and that not saying cuss words, or following those universal rules of when, where and how to discuss them is a way of hiding from things they'd prefer not to deal with at all; I say simply, "Fuck You."

Talking about offensive things just for the sake of being offensive isn't funny, clever, cutting edge or new. Referencing either Lenny Bruce, George Carlin, South Park or Dave Chapelle isn't going to fly either, though they all did/do make good points. I think it's ok to let some things be offensive, and not wish to discuss them, and least not in certain company or circumstances. Sometimes, society as a whole needs a change, but that's a thing we all do together under the leadership of certain individuals such as those listed above. We'll all decide together when it's time to push things forward, but for now, I'll manage my personal family affairs how I see fit, keeping in mind that the rest of the world may not agree with me. Thing of it is, I'm not trying to change the rest of the world. I'm only trying to let my four year old son (and now the rest of you) know where I stand on cussing and why.

Fuckin' bitch.

Improving my idiocy

2006-12-04T09:11:00.000-08:00

Good morning, fatso. How was your weekend?

I've been sorting through a few things... trying to prioritize my life's goals. For a while there, my main objective was to work on getting fatter, dumber and balder while growing out my handle bar mustache and refusing to wash my wife beater tank top. I'd then start a collection of half full (ever the optimist) beer cans to be kept within arm's reach at all times, so that I might throw them at my girlfriend and yell slurred profanities at seemingly random intervals. I think I might be aiming too high on that one though, as maintaining that level of suppressed rage then purposely misdirecting it on to women can be emotionally draining. I'm too lazy to be that angry.

That being said, I think I'll aspire to smoke more pot and play more video games. Although coffee and television have been good to me over the years, I find myself watching educational programming far too often. While I know that TV is helping to desensitize me, brainwash me with commercials and make me even lazier, I keep on accidentally learning things. Damn PBS! How am I ever going to reach my goals if I'm learning? I won't, that's how. Thank god Bill O'Reily is still around to insist on making Americans stupid. If not for him, I may have thought ill of some members of the Republican Party and been forced to listen to reason. Keep yelling, Bill. Your viewers need to be scolded and bullied into believing everything you are told to say.

I also contemplated going to church, but that would require socializing as well as dressing up on Sundays. No can do. Besides that, I'm not sure church makes you dumber. Using some of the prominent figures of the religious right as a barometer, I thought it would, but then I realized that lots of people go to church and still don't take away some of the core Christian principles. Blind hatred, extreme prejudice, a sense of moral superiority and entitlement, or a healthy fear of science and real life for instance. In fact, to my amazement, I've found lots of "churchy" people to be honest, kind, smart and generally pleasant company. So that's out.

Guess it's a long, difficult path of mary jane and playstation for me if I want to keep getting dumber. I just wish that pot didn't make my mind wander so much. Sometimes I actually think about things when I'm stoned. Fortunately though, I usually forget what potentially good ideas I had almost immediately. Dorito's and Tekken 5. Now there's a life with promise.

Laundry Day

2006-12-01T09:16:00.000-08:00

Good morning, Echo Chamber. Any plans for the weekend?

I plan to do laundry, which is always a real treat. There's no place quite like a public laundromat. It smells clean but looks dirty. That always throws me off... can't quite get my bearings; focus my chi. I hope I never encounter a ruthless Chinese gang leader on a campaign of martial arts carnage there. The scent of fabric softener and the sight of a fat dude in dirty sweatpants disorients me ever so slightly, leaving me susceptible to the praying mantis style.

Great. Now my nemeses (that's plural for nemesis!) will know I'm vulnerable! Why did I start this blog?

Right. Laundry. Something changes inside of me watching garments tumble around the dryer window; seeing the red light change from indicating the "Final rinse" stage of the wash cycle to the "Final Spin" phase. Maybe it's the mild sense of demasculinization I get when I fold my girlfriend's clothes... just Ben and I. It's not like I have a huge problem with that, but I'd much prefer to don a flower-and-lace apron in the privacy of my own home. Did I mention I wear a flowery apron when I wash clothes? I might as well anyway. That's all I'm sayin'. I wish Ben and I could always do manly things together. Of course, we usually have a pretty good time at the laundromat, singing songs and making friends. See, the laundromat environment lends itself to easy, casual conversation with other patrons. There's a sort of unspoken bond that forms between strangers who've seen each other's undies. "So... those are your skivvies, huh? Yup-ah. These are mine."

The whole "seeing another person's undies" thing is awkward when it's you and the fat, dirty-sweatpants guy, which is to be expected. It's far more awkward (surprisingly) when you're folding undies with that ineluctable knock-out dame doing laundry at the same time. I always see a hot girl at the launderette. Never fails.

There are two advantages a man has in this magical forest of industrial sized appliances when it comes to the fairer sex. First, a cute girl doing laundry on a Saturday morning is usually still pajama clad, and that promotes public bralessness (which should be a real word and a serious cause). Secondly, the laundromat throws everyone off balance, not just highly trained vigilante martial arts killing machines with a strong moral fiber and a good heart who were framed by their ex-partner and current unscrupulous chief of police. No. We're all vulnerable there (hence pj's sans bra), and cute girls even like nerdy guys when they're feeling vulnerable. Especially ones who aren't afraid of doing a little laundry with their adorable son. I'm not sayin' that I'd ever be led astray by some laundromat temptress, some sultry, sensual morning mistress, suggestively folding frilly underthings while blatantly eye-fucking me... but it is nice to be noticed... (nicer still when it's one of those LA women that Jim Morrison was singn' about).

The thing I hate about laundry though is that you have to pay for it. Man! Who is the masochist who thought of that? Prolly kin to the jerk that invented work (who was hanged from a cigarette tree on the Big Rock Candy Mountain). "Hmm... How can we make a horrible, monotonous chore even more miserable? Wait... I got it! What if we rigged it so that the people actually had to pay for the 'privilege' of doing their own laundry?" Of course I understand why washing machines cost money, and how that came to be, but it still chaps my ass. If I'm coming out of pocket to do chores, I'd rather be paying someone to do the actual work for me. Ten bucks oughtta buy a little piece of mind on an easy weekend, right?

Another bone of contention - folding clothes. The process involves so many steps that are inherently irritating to me. Finding matching socks, for instance. I hate to discover how many single socks (usually my favorites) are missing their counterparts. I hate the feeling of apprehension I get when I find a matching pair, but can't think of any other way to keep them together other than wrapping the elastic band of one around the top of the other, thereby inevitably ruining the pair, as it's been well documented that if this technique is used even one time too often, it'll turn the once harmonious pair into the dreaded one-stays-up-and-the-other-falls-down pair of feuding foot covers... ahhhh! It's happening... and I haven't even gotten to complain about t-shirts or dress pants...! Must... break... free....

*phew*

So I guess it's safe to say that the jury's still out regarding Saturday morning trips to the laundromat. It does have it's perks (pun intended)... shallow and lascivious as they may be, but as you can plainly see, there are times when the simple act of folding clothes can drive me to the brink of madness. I'm inclined to chalk one up for Laundry under the "Hate" column, but as long as there are beautiful women who also have to do their own laundry, there lies a reasonable doubt.

Boobs make everything better.

Damn right.

Free way cars and trucks

2006-11-30T11:18:00.000-08:00

I used to hate people who identify themselves in large part by what they drive. I thought for a long time that this was a ridiculous notion, even knowing that so much of America's culture is was built around the automobile. I realize now that I was wrong. Even if you make an effort to NOT be defined by what you drive, other people will. It's inescapable. There's a certain psychology behind road rage that makes us so susceptible. The idea is that when someone cuts you off in traffic, or is driving in a way you don't like, it's easy to rage against them because in your mind, you're raging against a car (a "machine", if you will, hardee har har). We'd never think to act so rudely or aggressively if a similar mild intrusion or faux pas were to take place on a crowded public sidewalk, because we'd be dealing with an actual person, face to face. Mano y Mano. It's the same reason you can sit back and write me emails about how fucking stupid I am and how you'd like to punch me in the face, when in fact, were we having this conversation outside of a bar (for instance) you might still think I'm stupid, but you wouldn't say shit until I'm long gone so as to avoid getting actually punched (or counter punched, as it were).

Let's look at some examples of car to driver similarities. I drive a white, 2005 Chevy Cavalier. It does not go fast, is not exciting in any way, and I operate this car in the same fashion overly-cautious elderly people handle their Cadillacs. Slow and easy. Defensively. If you were to see me on the road, you might draw the following conclusions:

- This dude must be broke as hell
- What a fucking NERD!
- Here's a guy who doesn't take pride in his car
- This guy probably doesn't know shit about cars (mechanics), their design or their manufacturers
- He probably listens to NPR in the mornings on his way to the office where he'll pretend to be busy for the bulk of the day, ultimately getting in about 3 hours of actual "work".

You be correct to assume all of the above. Just as when you see someone in a "tricked out" mid-nineties model Honda Civic with chain link steering wheel, eight ball steering wheel knob (spinner), altered exhaust pipe(s) and a set of rims that costed three times what the car is worth, one might assume that the person is probably not good with finances, has a desperate, uncontrollable need to feel "cool", probably has a bad tattoo, drives like an asshole and does not like to read a good book before an 11 o'clock bed time.

I will say; while it's a bit douchey to have one, it's a little bit unfair to say that every guy with a gigantic truck, altered to look even bigger (i.e. lift kits and oversized tires) has a small penis. Unless of course, you're using the statement metaphorically, the "small penis" representing a wide array of social or emotional insecurities that must be covered up by obscenely huge trucks. Maybe the guy is a latent homosexual? Perhaps he's got a fear of women? Maybe he got picked on growing up?

Anyway, I understand that people are always going to assess (prejudge) certain parts of our identity in direct correlation with our automobiles. Might as well embrace that fact. Heck, maybe I'll even give some additional clues to my personality via my car. Something to the effect of a giant pair of glasses to sit on the front windshield with tape in the middle and a bow tie and cardigan sweater painted on the hood? That oughtta proclaim my geekdom loud and clear. That way, when people see me driving cautiously, signaling with both blinker and hand, they'll be more inclined to cut me some slack. Well, either cut me slack or throw more trash at me. Either way it lessens the ambiguity.

One final note. Those individuals who have neon lights anywhere on their cars (ground effects, around the licence plate, or anywhere inside) deserve every bit of mockery and ridicule they have already endured, and will continue to endure as long as they drive around with a light up sign loudly broadcasting, "I am a jackass, please berate me!"

Done.

Hum-fucking-bug! Didjya hear that, Cratchet?!

2006-11-30T10:32:00.000-08:00

Humbuggery abounds, Echo Chamber. I'm haunted by visions of slowly navigating parking lots, the familiar apprehension of "Will they like it?", the crowds of snarling moms and grimacing in-laws, hating every second of life while wishing everyone "Happy Holidays". No one can afford it... everyone's broke, at least broker than they'd like to be right now. Hard to satisfy rampant, unchecked consumerism. Hard to satisfy a lifetime of guilt by giving that five bucks to a bum once a year.

Peace on Earth, goodwill toward men. These things were invented by clever writers. Most of the people you encounter on a daily basis wish you were dead. Especially with all this Yuletide cheer wafting through the air among cinnamon scented candles and imitation pine. Have another rum, Poppa Bing. It'll come in handy when you have to beat your wife and kids immediately proceeding this last take of "White Christmas".

Let's face it. We all hate Christmas time. Sure, if one happened to develop a mild feud with a family member sometime during the year, it's a time to reconsider those feelings and embrace family. Besides that though, it's a time of year we spend money we don't have on things the people we don't like don't even want. We over stay our visits, over eat, and over extend our emotional capacity trying to make everyone happy. The result is a deep and unruly hatred for our neighbors, bitterly expressed through a thin lacy veil of "Merry Christmas" and an under-the-breath symphony of expletives and insults unmatched by the most elite of the cuss word enthusiasts.

Yes. And a very merry Christmas to you sir.

Slayer rings, are ya listenin'
In the alley, puke is glistenin'.
A horrible sight
we're depressed tonight
crawling through a winter wonderland.

I know... that was totally gay. Hey... Guess what?! I just warmed you up a nice bowl of feces and milk - eat up!

That makes me think of

2006-11-29T08:53:00.000-08:00

Here's the "That makes me think of..." game. Take an idea, then make a list of the things it makes you think of, even if they're dumb or obvious. Then take one thing from that list, and repeat the pattern. Keep going for a while, each time taking an idea from the newest list. When you're done, go back a look at the first idea see what kind of new perspective you get on it. Let's start with... :

Mustaches and turtlenecks:

a character
the 70's
comb overs
rockin out on the Casio keyboard
stuffing one's polyester pants
Cologne
Burt Reynolds

Rockin' out on the Casio:

gigs at barmitzvah's or cheesy lounges
a yellow tambourine
Milwaukee Beer
keyboard guitars
white guys playing funk

Milwaukee Beer:

bikers
Americana
the open road
dark taverns during the day
heartbreak
guns
fat people

heartbreak:

beauty is villainous
flowers
cheap hotels
basement studios in east Hollywood
Willie Nelson
universal pain

OK, that should be enough. Now if we go back and look at mustaches and turtlenecks, we can devise that just because some baby boomer picked up a Casio and turned it into a hobby; just because he practices in his basement with other fat guys blow drying hair over bald spots and drinking Milwaukee beer during breaks; just because they're getting pumped up for their big show Wednesday night (armature night) at "Classy Dave's Steak House and Lounge" doesn't mean that back in the late 70's just after 'Nam, that blond in the red dress and pearls didn't shatter his heart, just like that chick with nipple rings tattoos shattered yours.

So show some respect. Mustache and turtleneck guy is a person too. And his bass player rules.

I like being called "Dolly Angel". So what?

2006-11-27T09:45:00.000-08:00

Good morning lonesome echo chamber of the cyber netherworld. How was everyone's Thanksgetting?

I went up to visit my cousins, Peter and Paulie Paruccini. That's right, fuckers. I have Italian cousins up North that'll be happy to sort you out should you come around fuckin' with mine. They're mom still calls me her little "Dolly Angel". Sure I'm a 27 year old man, but I gotta admit, it's endearing after all these years. Especially since the nicknames I get from other close friends and family usually allude to the fact that I'm ornery, lazy, and act like an old man who's mashed potatoes got cold at Country Buffet.

Most people complain complain complain about their family, but not me. I like 'em more than I like anyone else. They're just better people than most, and I feel lucky and honored just to be in their company. Sure they're crazy, but so what? I like it better that way. Besides, what could be more fun than blowing up old vacuums with dangerous Mexican fire works on some farm land out at the foot of the Butes with your brothers and two bad ass cousins? Childish? Maybe, but if you can't understand the allure of mindless destruction via unstable explosives, we're probably not going to be friends anyway, so I won't feel bad about asking you to politely exit stage and commence fucking yourself post haste.

Toodaloo.

Fruit at the bottom

2006-11-21T11:40:00.000-08:00

Testes, testes.

I sure am hungry. For yogurt. Fruit at the bottom.

Last night a big fat Finnish mama came over to talk to me about life insurance and investment opportunities. It was a two hour presentation, that ended in way to launder your own money so as to keep it out of Uncle Sam's pocket. She talked about 401k's, CD's and mutual funds, and by the end of the night, she called me a Marxist. I took one of her stupid pamphlets, but only to get her to go away.

A Marxist?

Some time during the presentation, she came to a segment in which she demonstrated the basic theories of "Tax Now" (interest accruing savings accounts and public investments getting taxed at the end of every year) "Tax Later" (401k's and IRA's) and "Tax Never" (her glorious solution to all our problems). During this segment, she did a lot of confusing math, and ended up with this bottom line: "If you accrue $900,000 in a 401k plan, and take out a small percent to live on in retirement, the government will tax you $810,000." I must have had a disturbed look on my face immediately upon hearing this news because she said, "You have a disturbed look on your face."

"Yes," I said, "I am disturbed." Then I told her that I didn't buy it. It sounded to me like she was throwing a bunch of unverifiable numbers at me and creating a fictional scenario in order to demonstrate an alarming situation so that when she got to what she was selling, I would be so emotionally relieved to know that I could avoid this perilous fate at the hands of my government in my old age that I'd jump at the opportunity to buy up that heaping helping of financial salvation. Then I told her I didn't believe that our leaders would let that happen to old people. Corrupt as they were, I just couldn't see that level of blatant thievery happening, at least not to our own people. Maybe to Iraqis or Mexicans, but not red blooded, retired Americans.

Fruit at the bottom. I take a side in the great yogurt debate. My girlfriend eats that Yoplait, whipped kind of yogurt. Me... I find it well worth the extra effort of stirring the little cup so that the boogery lumps of real fruit are well mixed... but I'm no Marxist.