Thursday, January 31, 2008


Here's a link to something I wrote about some hippie soap.

Wednesday, January 30, 2008


We left Venice today. I want to see more cities, but I could easily stay there for, well, forever. I am walking with a limp because all of the walking in Venice. The lower part of the right leg is very sore and the back of my ankle is killing me because I am wearing Avila tennis shoes that I borrowed from my dad. I wanted to bring two pairs of shoes, but there wasn't enough room in my bag. So now I am hurting physically and fashionablly. Oh well. Drank a ton of great red wine and ate a pesto pasta last night. It was as good as if not better than the first dish I had when we arrived.

Today we stopped for lunch in Verona. It's amazing how every Italian city is simply amazing. I had another pesto pasta and it was great. The food portions in that part of the world are perfect, which explains why I didn't see one overweight person there. In Verona we saw what some claim to be the inspiration for the balcony scene in Romeo and Juliet. Maybe I would have cared if I liked Shakespeare. We also passed a train that was used to take people to Auschwitz. There were flowers on it because it is some sort of rememberance month. The thing was tiny and had barbed wire on the six-inch windows. I'm not the type to get moved by objects, but this was definitely something that I won't forget. To see how those people suffered in such cramped quarters gave me my first first-hand look into how fucked up that whole situation was. I mean, reading about it in a book and touching a living piece of history are two totally different things.

It's snowing here in Garmisch, Germany. Being from LA, I'm not too familiar with snow, but it's pretty awesome to look at. We are staying literally in the middle of the Alps. Like everything European, I heard stories about the mountains but it never registered until I saw them. They make Big Bear look puny in comparison. That's probably lame even think that, but when I think of mountains, I think of Big Bear.

One week down. One week to go. I was really freaked out the night before leaving. Now I can say I am having perhaps the best time of my life. My girlfriend told me she was worried that I wouldn't come home. Although I can safely say that I will be coming home, she was definitely onto something as Europe is fucking unreal.

Taylor and Chip are both great guys to travel with, even though I can't keep up with them in the drinking department. I can hold my own, but these guys rage. I had to walk back to the hotel alone the past two nights because I was done. Bars in Venice don't seem to close, which means no one ever gets kicked out of anywhere. At some point, my tired ass needs some rest. It takes a lot of work to look this good!

The plan is to bobsled tomorrow in Austria. That is going to be awesome. Our sole Austrian experience so far is stopping at a McDonald's for lunch on the way to Venice. Taylor hyped the shit out of the place and told us it was the best Mickey D's on the planet. Being a vegan, I was skeptical, but once again, he was correct. The place was massive and overlooked the Alps. Even McDonald's is amazing here. I ate some cringle fries, marking the first time any type of McDonald's food has entered my stomach in at least 6 years, probably longer. Hey, when in Rome...

I feel like I have much more to say about this past week, but I need to be out living it, not writing about it. I'll save that portion for later. To anyone I know reading this, I hope things are well. Don't worry about me. I can assure you it's been smooth sailing since the second our plane landed.

Tuesday, January 29, 2008


ive been to this same internet cafe three times today. chip and taylor are sleeping and said they might not go out tonight. which leaves me wondering what ill do. i just took a much needed nap. we walked the city today. went to san marco square and into some famous church and palace. the architecture is breathtaking.

i am spending money at what i think is an ok rate. but theres one more week to go. there are two americans in the room above mine. i havent seen them, but they are loud and obnoxious. they are playing music very loud and speaking even louder. i heard one of them say they stole all the tp from the bathroom. well, wouldnt ya know it, it was from the bathroom next to my room. assholes. i can tell they are young, but they should have a bit more respect for the others in the hotel. shit, do i sound old or what? they make me understand why europeans stereotypically hate americans. hell, i hate these kids and im a fucking american too. for the most part, ive found the anti american thing to be 50/50. those who are cool with americans are way cool with americans. they speak english well, never bring up politics and are basically down to have a good time. these are mainly the young people. the older people are more standoffish. last night, when i was looking for my hotel, i asked a few people for help and they brushed me off. today a few shopowners didnt care for me, although my only crime was being an american. i am a young, single, straight white male. now i know what discrimination feels like. it sucks. i bought a small bottle of orange juice and a donut and chocolate muffin this morning, hoping the food would be of the italian variety. it wasnt. tasty, but nothing i couldnt have got at home. i got another slice of veggie pizza today. this time it was at the palace thingy. ill have to look up the name when i get home. that place was awesome. when they built it, i imagine the king telling the artists, ya know, i dig what you did in the previous room, but can you make this new room, i dont know, even more decadant? i mean, the art of the 40 feet ceiling alone is spectacular. we saw the old jail and the old courthouse. i asked taylor how many not guilty verdicts he thought were given in that room. he said not many and i agreed. this place had lots of weapons too. war has been around forever, but these old dudes fought eye to eye. swords that were 6 feet long with crazy body armor. i have no respect for anyone who kills, but these people were brave, ill give them that. the price here is 3 euro for 1 to 15 minutes. i am at minute 13, so its time to run.


new internet cafe in venice. still here and still loving it. there are small dogs that roam next to their owners all over this city. they are very well behaved. last night we were walking in the middle of nowhere when we came across a pizzeria. i got a beer and a large slice with no cheese, zucchini, corn, tomato and orgeno for 2 euro, which is 3 dollars. my legs hurt from walking so much, but it is well worth it. i could type for days about my experience walking back to my hotel alone at 2 am last night or how i was alone for an hour trying to make a phone call. we are now in an area where people dont speak english as fluently as they did in the neighborhood we were in a few days ago. but that is part of the fun. i just woke up and in front of my room is a guy selling fresh fish. not for me, but pretty damn interesting. you dont see that in long beach. got much needed rest last night, but my body has not adjusted to the time change and i suspect it wont. oh well. the bars never close, so theres always something to do. i have my own room, which is nice, but my window is across from the shower/bathroom. that means there are people walking past my room and turning on the light all the time. last night someone turned on the light at what i guess what 4 am and forgot to turn it off. thanks dude.

Sunday, January 27, 2008


in an internet cafe in venice. this is my new favorite city. last night was the beginning of carnival. it was one of the best things ive ever experienced. people everywhere. drinking. partying. we were part of a large group of gatecrashers who tried to get into the main party but we left when it looked like we might get trampled. id love to write about everything that happened, but this place im in charges and the euro is kicking my ass. ive had two pastas dishes and lots of chianti. the pasta for dinner last night was the best ive ever had. being out of the usa is humbling, exciting, worrysome, frustrating and exhilarating all at the same time. there arent many americans here, none that we met anyway. the red wine flows like crazy and its goes down smooth. tonight is round two. chip and taylor (the two friends i am traveling with) are napping right now. i am about to join them because i didnt get any sleep. i was very hyper from all the activity combined with all the espresso and the fact that my body still hasnt adjusted to the time change. usually i go to sleep around 2 am, which is 11 am here. we are staying with a really nice lady named julia. shes a translator and speaks english better than the three of us! she is making pasta for us tonight. taylor says shes a great cook and i dont doubt it. so much to say but the clock is ticking. im very excited to be in europe. i want to see more, but at the same time, i could stay in venice for a very long time. its hard to explain. anyone whose been here can attest to that. to anyone reading this at home, i hope things are well. i hear long beach got hit with a big storm. its chilly here, but not nearly as bad as i planned. i am comfy if i wear plenty of layers, which i am doing all the time. venice has entered my blood and consumed my soul. no cars, no bikes, no scooters, just thousands of people walking everywhere having a good time. except for the two drunken american assholes who fought on the street late last night. fucking americans. i can go on for days. this is a magical place, one that i wil return to before i die or the city floods, which im told is expected to happen in the next 300 years. we took a small gondola (gondole for the italians) and it was amazing. venice is for lovers. small, well behaved dogs rome. but no cats. thats a bummer. ive seen two kitties since ive been over here. im jonesing for more. what else? so much to say so little time. theres talk of going to a city called verona after we leave here. exciting. i could get lost in the city as it is very inspiring. so many thoughts running through my head. makes for good writing. in a perfect world, id live here, drink wine and eat pasta and write. i know my time here will surface in a story somewhere someday. it has to. there is no more poetic place than venice. and plenty of vegetarian food to boot. viva italy!

Friday, January 25, 2008


no punctuation cuz this german keyboard is tripping. big headache from liters of beer from hofbrauhaus last night. tourist trap? probably. but the best tourist trap ive ever been to. apologies to my girlfriend at home, but holy shit are the women gorgeous here. i always thought of germany as fat old trolls. wrong. we went to a bad german disco and i danced my ass off. some of the buildings here are beyond words and i know my shoddy picture taking skills wont do them justice. its pretty awesome being in another country. hard to explain. but its awesome. the flight over is a story all to itself, but i dont have the energy to write all that right now. i need some fluids. my head hurts.

Tuesday, January 22, 2008


It's 7:30 p.m. I'm finally in a good mood and am afraid if I write about my day I could slip back into a bad mood. Oh well, here goes...

I leave for Europe tomorrow. As you might guess, that can cause an insane amount of stress. I slept in as long as I could because I knew I wouldn't have that luxury for two weeks. I got up and made my coffee and got a bit of work done. Sent off stories, wrote two new short pieces and pitched a few more. Ya know, the usual.

Then I called Rite-Aid to fill my asthma medication. Can't go to Europe without them. Turns out I am fresh out of refills on my Azmacort, which I'm supposed to take twice daily. Rite-Aid tells me to call my doctor's office, so I do. The woman tells me I need to see a doctor. I beg, but there's no other way. She told me I could get an appointment in less than two hours. Funny how that works. If this wasn't an emergency, she would have made me come in in two weeks. I had an hour to kill, so I did my daily routine of dishes and sweeping.

Stopped by Chip's to get some cash he owes me. He's going with me. We're both excited and went over last-minute things we think we might need.

I get to the doctor's office. Like I've said before, FUCK YOU SEAL BEACH. I can't stand this shithole of a beach community. All these rich fuckers think they own the goddamn world. They don't. This velour suit wearing hag just has to hum along to the terrible waiting room music. I'll never understand people who do this. In my younger days, I let stuff like this slide. But as I get older, I am slowly inching toward becoming the type of person who tells annoying cunts like this to shut up. To make thing worse, she couldn't hit the right note to save her withering life and wasn't even humming along to the right parts. Humming for the sake of humming.

The doctor was fine. Blood pressure, eyes, ears, say "Ah," all the good shit. I tried to run out on the bill cuz I don't have health insurance (more on that later), but they caught me. Luckily for me, I got some sort of discount and had to pay only $81 for my visit. Some discount.

I stopped at Whole Foods for last-minute munchies and went to the bank. I was third in line but it took forGODDAMNever. Some chatty brat was asking all kinds of questions to who I thought was her grandfather. Then she called him dad and I understood why he was as irritated with his five-year-old daughter as much as I was: He was far too old to have a kid that age. Her questioning everything got to me. I wanted to put a piece of tape over her mouth and give her dad a rubber so not to make that mistake again. This is why I don't want kids. I'm far too selfish and irritable to have to answer stupid question after stupid question.

I get home and I'm two hours behind and down $81. Eat lunch. Missed Around the Horn and Pardon the Interruption. That coulda calmed my nerves.

I went to Rite-Aid to give them my doctor's notes. They tell me it'll be 30 minutes, so I go home and play solitaire. They called and told me they didn't have the Azmacort. Tension begins to rise. I ask them to call one of them hundred other Rite-Aids in Long Beach to see if they have any. A minute later they tell me the one in Belmont Shore has it. So I go to mine (on Cherry) and get the other prescription. Then the fat-ass white trash lady hands me my doctor's note in case I need it at the other one. It's 5 p.m. and cars are everywhere. I get to the other Rite-Aid. They gave me my medicine. But it's the wrong one. The Cherry Rite-Aid gave them the wrong info. I call Cherry Rite-Aid and tell me that they have Azmacort in stock. Tension and frustration now elevated. All of this is delaying my trip to the gym, which is important because the next two weeks will be unhealthy. I get there and again I'm hit with some bluehair shithead in front of me in line. He's buying a bottle of wine at the pharmacy and complaining about the price. "Sign says $7.99. You're charging me $14.99." My time at Ralphs grocery store taught me one thing: When the customer says the sign says one thing and the register says another, the customer is always wrong. Usually what happens is an item is in the wrong spot. Or it's for a particular size, shape, brand, etc. Who knows what happened with this guy, but he was slowing down the after-work rush. Finally it's my turn. She rings me up and...$161.99. For a fucking asthma inhaler. I tell her it's usually $30. She checks with some guy in a lab coat. Real official. He says I haven't filled my medicine since last May and that, at that time, I was still insured by Blue Cross. That's bullshit for two reasons. 1. I take this inhaler twice a day. I've re-filled it at least three times since May. 2. My health insurance, when I had it for all of six months, ran out the day I quit my last job. Which was LAST FUCKING FEBRUARY! I told Mr. Whitecoat to fuck off and didn't buy the only thing I really needed. Four Rite-Aid trips is all a guy can take. I told them staff their to go fuck themselves and walked out. I had the inhaler in my hand and was tempted to just leave with it, but I ain't going to jail the day before I'm flying to Europe.

So I'm down $81 for a doctor's visit that I didn't need and about four hours of my time. Time that could have been spend doing something much more productive. I went to the gym around 6 p.m. and it's packed. I only got 30 minutes on a bike because everything else was taken. Now I'm doing laundry and feeling better. Had I written this when I got home from my final Rite-Aid trip, I'm positive I would have used more profanities.

I don't vote, but my ordeal today makes me want to cast a ballot for Clinton just so I can get health insurance. We're the big bad United fucking States of America and we can't make sure all of our citizens don't pay $81 to see a doctor and $161.99 for an asthma inhaler. Unreal. Truly unreal.

Needless to say, I'm super excited and nervous about this trip. I have a feeling this could wind up breaking my bank account, but I'll deal with that later.

I have to pack. Guaranteed I'll forget something.

We're gonna be gone for the Super Bowl. I hope there's a bar somewhere with that on. Could be surreal to watch such an American past-time in another part of the world.

But hey, the Lakers won last night.


...who visit my little blog-that-could. I hit the triple-digit mark in just about three weeks. I still can't figure out where you people come from or if you like any of this shit I'm writing, but I appreciate it. So thanks. Oh wait, I forgot to thank my lord and savior Jesus Christ. Thank you Jesus. For everything.

Monday, January 21, 2008


Trying to describe how I feel about flying is useless

as meaningless as explaining the greatness of a good book

to a blind guy

I hate it, how’s that for yer poem?

Sunday, January 20, 2008


Not much going on, which makes me wonder why I'm typing...

No Lakers tonight? 6:30 Lakers games are a tradition.

I'm leaving for Europe in about 60 hours. I would be lying if I said I wasn't nervous. Or scared. Or excited. All of the above and then some. I've had a gnarly pain in my gut since last Monday night. I think it's the trip.

A friend came over and my talked blogs. Real exciting, I know. He told me about a site (that I'm absolutely not linking to or mentioning their name) that is like Google for people's addresses and phone numbers. I'm not on there (yet), but my girlfriend is. Thing is, they got all her old apartments and not the new one. Now that I say this, I'm sure it'll be on before I got to bed just so someone can spite me. Creepy? Very. I found the name of a girl I dated right out of high school. Victoria M. We saw The Full Monty and kissed in my truck in the parking lot of her condo complex. Anyway...people think I'm crazy for not registering to vote, or having a credit card, or a cell phone, or signing petitions, but my name's not on there, so who's laughing now?

I wrote two poems tonight. Both are good and might be posted here later. Like anyone cares.

Linking to the District and writing about Scientology can really boost a guy's blog stat counter. It's taught me a thing or two about this blogging world and how to go about it. Turns out I should be writing about shit people might want to hear about. I always though the minutiae in my brain was interesting enough. Maybe I'm wrong?

Flight leaves Wed. morning from LAX at 11 a.m. That means I've got to get up early because normally I'm up no earlier than 11:30. I've been going to bed earlier the past few nights to get adjusted. But I'm killing that streak tonight.

Now for something relevant...Two more teens killed in Long Beach last night. I know, I read There's been an unreal amount of killings in Long Beach during the first 20 days of this month. I'd be great to say the right thing, but I'm afraid that doesn't exist. There's no silver lining in two kids gunned down by alleged party crashers. Whether it was random or not makes no difference, there's just nothing to say, nothing to do to make that go away. I won't pretend to know what the people involved are feeling. I wake up every morning (or afternoon) and have some coffee. I read my newspaper and get some writing done. Very casual. Very dull. But that coulda been me. I coulda been hit this Friday at the Reno Room or last Friday, ironically enough, at the Reno Room. It coulda been someone I know, someone I love. Reincarnation sounds wonderful, but I can't live this life hoping to hear the opening bell of round two. Life is a first-round knockout so let's come out swinging and get ours before it's too late, before someone takes ours and makes it theirs. These kids, fuck, who knows? I didn't know any of them, but I can safely say they were taken far too soon. My high school days weren't the best days of my life, but they probably weren't the worst either (that was middle school). I'm just getting good. It took a long while, but I'm almost there and I'm 28. Let's hope these kids got there before I did and did something with themselves while they were here. I try not to be a pessimist, but it's hard to keep a positive mental attitude when there are a small percentage of people who fuck it up for the rest of us. Most humans are decent, I'm convinced of this. But decent people don't make headlines. Assholes do. It's the assholes, fuckers, jerks, idiots, rude asses, dipshits, morons, theives, liars, killers, rapists, predators and stupid we've got to watch out for.

Friday, January 18, 2008


I went to bed in a weird state. I almost passed out last night (and I wasn't drunk). First time that ever happened. I was hanging out with friends and it hit me. Otherwise, my up and leaving would have been rude, but I had to split. I felt queezy all night and didn't sleep well. I woke up every time my girlfriend hit snooze. This began at 4:30 a.m. and lasted until just after 5. Then she called me from work at 6:30 to ask if she left her purse at home. Yes, you did. Next, our naughtiest cat has this new thing where he goes into the bathroom and pulls out the sink plug so he can watch the constant drip fall into the drain. The bathroom and bedroom share a wall and his pawing at the damn thing gets pretty loud. I went in there, picked him up and closed the door. Sorry cat, I needs my sleep. Then at 9 A.FUCKINGM. the yuppie neighbors decide to hire some dudes to bust out the chainsaw and chop down the bushes that separates our kitchen windows from their backyard. This lasted an hour and forced me to get out of bed at that ungodly hour. Isn't there some sort of law about not making noise until 10? If not, there should be. I dig the light coming in through the windows, but I sure as hell don't want to see their two kids running around in the backyard when I'm doing dishes. Now I'm off for some grocery shopping. Let's hope Seizure World isn't out in full force. Is it 5 yet? I sure could use a beer.

Wednesday, January 16, 2008



Finally caught Superbad last night. Not nearly as funny as everyone says it is. Knocked Up was much better. But maybe that has to do with the fact that I'm not a high school loser anymore. I mean, I was, just not anymore. The sissy guy who wouldn't fuck the drunk girl -- Holy shit, someone read my diary! The awkwardness of the party scene, hoping you'd get laid before graduation (I barely slid by on that one), not taking advantage of every hint a girl drops in front of you -- it's all me. The most agonizing one is the time this really cute blonde girl from a different high school told me she'd never kissed a boy before. We were sitting on a patch of grass at Wilson Park in Torrance. No one around for miles. I knew she was lying and that it was my opportunity, but I did nothing. Instead I offered some lame comeback. Needless to say, we never made out. Years later a friend ran into her and she told him all about how much she dug me. Story of my life. Maybe that's why it wasn't funny. Oh, no wait, that's not it. It just sucked. The movie should have been about the cops and McLovin. That's comedy. The rest is high school drama that anyone coulda done. Well, anyone who was lame in high school. I could write volumes of encyclopedias on all the missed opportunites I had between the ages of 15 and 19. In fact, for years I've had the idea of writing either a book, essay, poem, something called Girls I Shoulda Fucked. Unfortunately for me, that book is much, much, much, much, much, much, much, much longer than it's counterpart, Girls I Fucked. Maybe I'll start picking out one girl and blog about the experience. That should give me enough material to last me through the upcoming presidential election. I'm happy with where I'm at in life, but I woulda been more aggressive in my youth had I known I'd be kicking myself for all those missed hook-ups. Maybe next life.


Holy shit is this Tom Cruise video good. Normally I don't give two shits about actors, but this is too much. Newsflash to Scientology -- If recruiting people is what you're looking to do, putting a fully whacked-out actor who speaks goobledygook isn't the way to do it. And what's with the cloud at the bottom of the screen? Too much. Cruise says he can't take a vacation. Well Tom, email me. I'll give you my pin number. Take out some cash and do it. Go for a long time. I suspect the rest of us will be fine in your abscence. And what's with that song? It's a pretty cool riff if ya ask me. The next band I'm in, we're covering that shit. "You're either in or you're out?" Heidi Klum called, she wants her catchphrase back. And who's David Miswhatshisname? Is Tom aware that unlike all the other idiotic religions out there, his is one that can be traced back just a few years? To a science fiction writer no less? In all areas of life, there are hierarchies. In literature, sci-fi writers are near the bottom, slightly above the creeps who write about wizards and sorcerors. I mean, if you're gonna be stupid enough to believe in a religion, at least be smart enough to pick one that happened so long ago it can't be proven false. At the end, the video says a Scientologist is defined by one question -- Would I like others to have the knowledge I have? Well, turns out I'm a freak too because I DO want others to have my knowledge. For starters, I know this guy's got more than one screw loose. I always know actors are fools with little to no creative talent. They're attention-starved nerds who got beat up in high school. Take those Sopranos guys, acting all hard everywhere they go. They're fucking actors, not in the mafia (By the way, the mafia doesn't exist, so how could they?) I can rant for days about actors and religion. Put them together and I'm in trouble. In Scientology's defense, I don't think what they believe is any kookier than what anyone else believes. Faith of any kind scares me. The fact that people are willing to turn their backs on finding the truth in favor of hoping there is some old guy in the sky watching over us...kill me now. Anyone who says humans are the smartest creatures on the planet are fucking dead wrong. My cats have never expressed any religious beliefs to me, none that I could comprehend anyway. That alone makes their species much more intelligent than mine. Yesterday we ran into a guy we know. He's in AA and says he's now spending his time reconnecting with the Lord. Good luck dude. You're better off reconnecting with a tallboy, but what do I know? If the Lord was so good, he wouldn't have put you in this horrid group home, now would he? Another thing, the word "he" should NEVER be capitalized when referring to Jesus or God. NEVER. That's giving creedence to something that doesn't, has never and never will exist. And can someone tell me the difference between Jesus and God? I swear, I don't know the answer. I've been told, but remembering fairytale nuasances isn't my forte, just like I don't remember what happens in The Cat in the Hat. For years I've tried to be a decent person around others who believe, but not anymore. Life is short and I don't have time for people who want to live their lives with their heads in the sand. Besides, these people don't have much decency when they discover non-believers. It's in the Christian doctrine (and apparently Scientology) to spread the word of Jesus. Whoever invented Christianity was a fucking genius by putting that info into the religion. Find a bunch of stupid people and tell them it's their duty to spread a belief system that you made up so you can get more popular. Shit, if I knew how to do that with this here blog, I'd be a billionaire. Marketing genius I tell ya. The problem with pushy people is THERE'S NO SUCH THING AS GOD, GET OVER IT. Live on planet Earth, in the year 2008, with the rest of society. Please. I lose a tiny bit of respect for someone when I find out they believe in a certain religion. We're trying to evolve as people and these morons aren't helping. Anyone with just a bit of a functioning brain can see religion is a made up way to keep people down. Some powertripper invented a bunch of bullshit back before humans had things like roofs over their heads and electricity. But we don't need it anymore (not that we ever did). Tom Cruise, go fuck yourself. Steven Baldwin, same to you. Ditto Mel Gibson. Mr. President, double to you. You're actually in charge of running the ENTIRE country, not simply the one Christian one. Ah, fuck it. I give up. I can't change anyone's mind. I'd need a religion to do that.

Tuesday, January 15, 2008


I call myself a writer

but most of my time is spent

avoiding the only thing I’m good at


If I was looking to put the moves on an attractive, well-to-do woman in her mid-40s, going to Target on a Monday afternoon is where I'd start. I kicked myself last night. My alarm clock broke and I knew that meant one thing: going back to Target the next day. I was at two goddamn Targets on Saturday buying junk for my vacation. I willed myself there today. I didn't want to go, but knew I had to. The parking lot was nearly empty, as was the store itself. Inside were aisles and aisles of tanned 40-something trophy wives spending their rich husbands' dollars. Must be nice. I mean, they were everywhere. So much so I'm writing about it now. Another reason I prefer the Target on Bellflower to the one in Seal Beach. And now, a moratorium on writing about Target...

Lakers win! Lakers win! All is well.

Ran too many errands today. Not having a real job is pretty good, but hear you me, there is not enough time in one day to get everything accomplished. It's funny how I sat behind a desk from 9-5 for three years and got by just fine. Now that my schedule's wide open, I can't get shit done. Between the dishes, sweeping, going to the bank, Target (fuck, I broke my rule. Ok, starting now...), Trader Joe's, a book store run by a creepy middle-aged man, dropping off W-9 forms and emailing editors, there's not much "me" time. I suppose "me" time is from 10 p.m. until about 3 a.m. And from 3 a.m. to 11 a.m. That's when I sleep.

Food advice of the day: Trader Joe's sells these pre-packaged eggplant wraps. Normally I don't go for pre-packaged anything, but these things are something else. Slap those in the microwave for 45 seconds, douse them in whatever sauce that comes with it, and get to work. Perfect for the lunch eater on the go. Or for guys like me who shift from the desk in my office to the couch to watch the 3 p.m. re-runs of Around the Horn and Pardon the Interruption. All hail Woody Paige!

Spent way too long today filling out an online grad school application. I must be the only person under the age of 50 who thinks technology is a regression (says the guy typing on a blog). I never thought using a No. 2 pencil was all that difficult. Maybe I'm wrong. Maybe cell phones and text messaging and myspace pages and owning a car and pulling out laptops at airports and coffeeshops is the way to go. It all confuses me and leaves me pining for simpler times. Wake me when they've perfected the beaming up process and hover boards are the top-selling item at Toys R Us, err, I mean, Those seem pretty fucking cool.

Bynum out eight weeks. This is a bummer, man.

Been thinking about this Charles Schulz doc I saw on PBS a few nights ago. Learned lots of interesting things. The thing that stuck with me the most was a quote about working. I'll paraphrase...Someone was asking him why Peanuts stuck around so long and why he didn't take vacations and relax. He said his was the kind of job that people don't quit. He didn't get into drawing to make money so he could get out of it. But he said it much, much better. It was one of the most intelligent and inspiring things I've ever heard. It makes perfect sense to those who have something inside that has to come out. Two years ago I realized that I've been writing for much, much longer than I previously assumed. It's been there for a long time and I don't see it going away. Yes, money, fame and fortune, it would be better than the position I'm currently in, but that wouldn't silence me. Nothing will. This is who I am and what I do -- money or not. I always knew I'd give in, and give in I did. I played around with music for a long time, hoping that was what I was supposed to be doing. But it's not. This is. I can't draw a lick, but my respect for Mr. Schulz is higher than ever.

Caught the premiere of Scott Baio is Old and Making a Big Mistake or whatever the hell it's called. My girlfriend says he reminds her of me. Yeah, I said, except for the thousands of Playmates he's fucked. Other than that, we're twins. But I can't totally disagree. Assuming his on-screen persona is somewhat real, I respect and understand his position. He wants to be left alone. He wants everything to just go away. He wants freedom, peace, quiet. Me too. If I had lots of dough, no real job and was a celebrity since pre-pubescence, I'd probably not want to lift a finger too. Why start now?

Sunday, January 13, 2008


Today was a beautiful Southern California day. So beautiful in fact I decided to drive to my parents' house in Lomita. The sky was a perfect baby blue and the trucks didn't take over the stretch of Anaheim from Long Beach to Harbor City. My dad is letting me borrow clothes for an upcoming European trip, so away I went. Anyway. I loved Lomita as a kid, so much so that when I started making friends with folks in San Pedro, they nicknamed me the King of Lomita. Probably because I never shut up about it and because no one ever admits they're from Lomita. Yes, Jim Thorpe died there, but that's all anyone knows. I always made a joke about that. Lomita, where great athletes go to die. I had a park two blocks away from where I lived and hung out there a lot. I had kids my age on the cul-de-sac and we'd play hide-and-go-seek, baseball and football in the street. People in Torrance always looked at me funny whenever I'd tell them I was from Lomita, but I didn't care. If I ever get a tattoo, it's gonna be the Lomita logo -- the one with the palm tree for the "T" and underscore -- on my wrist. There came a time during my post high school years when I wanted to get out and see something else. So Long Beach it was. It was weird going back after I first moved out, but it's even stranger now. Part of me never wants to leave. That's something I hadn't felt prior to two years ago. I used to walk those streets everyday, see the Taco Bell and 7-Eleven, waste hours at the park. Not anymore. I've never been one for nostalgia, but going back to Lomita is harder each time I do it. I feel like I betrayed my town. I left for the big city and can't relate. It sucks. The drive home is always the worst. I get down and wonder why I left. I tell myself to spend more time there, go out at night and crash on my parents' couch. But I don't. The most Lomita thing happened today that made me miss my time in the little city. I took a different route home. Instead of taking PCH, I opted for the Vincent Thomas Bridge from Pedro to Long Beach. I drove down Walnut and made a left onto whatever street Devil's Ditch is on. As I was making my left, I came upon a car making a stop. I looked over. He looked over. It was my cousin Travis. He smiled real big and waved and I pointed my finger and gave him a surprised "Hey!" We kept going our separate ways. Now that my fun revolves around the closest bar and not where all the music is, it's becoming less and less important for me to be near the action. This sentiment usually fades by the time I cross over from Wilmington to Long Beach. I don't know if it's possible to love two women simultaneously, but cities is something different. Once I see those downtown skyscrapers, I know I' m home. Because of the CSULB, Long Beach has lots of transplants; I'm one of them. But a few of my friends were born and raised here and I'm sure they think I'm annoying whenever I ask them some real trivial shit, but I can't help it. I don't know the land here like I know it in Lomita. Take a walk with me down Lomita Boulevard or Eshleman and I'll tell stories for days. I'll always be from Lomita. The hard thing is coming to terms with knowing that I'm from Lomita and live in Long Beach. "From" seems so sad, like it's over and done and can't be replicated. One of these days I think I'll write a book about my time there. That said, I sure do love Long Beach, my adopted hometown.

That's the last time I ever blog about Andrew Bynum. Sorry big fella, I can't help but feel somewhat responsible for your knee injury tonight. I mean, it never happened before I blogged about you. Let's hope it's not serious. It's a long season and I turn into a miserable shit when the Lakers don't play well. That's probably the most pathetic thing I've ever typed, but it's true. I am a simple man.

Does more labels mean more hits? Let's find out.

I put my dark green sweats on in the dark. Now I see they are on backwards. That explains a lot.

Without reading one of my prior posts, a friend named Wes called today to ask me about the scene at a local coffee shop named Portfolio. He said he's noticed a new trend and wanted to start a website called He wants to post pictures and let the rest of the world decide is the photo is of a hipster of a bum. Good idea if you ask me. I referred him here and explained how I just echoed his thoughts a few days ago. Fucking hipsters.

I'm selling my skateboard because it sits in a closet. I tried riding it once about a year ago. I went around the block and flapped my arms for dear life. Another sign age is making me a new person.


I caught the tail end of the Lakers game last night after a fine vegetarian taco salad (with tofu!) at the Reno Room last night. The Lakers won, which is always a good thing, but the best part was the post-game interview with Andrew Bynum. If you didn't know, Bynum's a 20 year-old 7-footer who's starting to play like a superstar. Last night he seemed to come out of his shell for the post-victory interview that just so-happened to be on live TV. Some guy asks him the reasons behind the Lakers success. He lists a few things, ("Kobe's being Kobe," etc.) then says, "and LO (Lamar Odom)'s getting all the FUCKING...WHOOPS....He recovered and was grinning from ear to ear for the remainder of the interview. Maybe it was the three Fat Tires, but I couldn't stop laughing. I was amazed, stupefied. Rarely do I laugh out loud at things and almost never do I laugh for an extended period of time. This was the exception. I was in tears after the interview was over. In fact, I'm laughing as I'm typing this. In all my years and watching professional sports, I've caught one of the seven words a few times, far too few for my virgin ears. Way to go Bynum! I've been hyping you up and telling fairweather Lakers fans to watch out for you. So far you've proved me right. Your game is improving and you're dropping f-bombs on live tv. Fucking awesome. Bynum's slip reminds me why sports can be a drag and how much more fun they could be. Ditch the family shit. These are grown men, let's hear them talk like grown men talk. Football is the worst. These guys bash the hell outta each other. Finally one of them does something interesting and gets a flag thrown for celebrating. During one of the recent bowl games, a USC player was flagged after doing a flip into the end zone. This is a kid. He's scoring a touchdown in a bowl game. Basically, the highlight of the young man's life. Let him have some fun. The other team can take it. And so can the fans. Rock stars are worshipped because they have personalities. But for some dumb reason, athletes aren't afforded this. Speaking of Lamar Odom, he got busted a few times for smoking weed when he was on the Clippers. Stuff like this makes me like him even more. Ricky Williams of the Miami Dolphins. Probably seen this guy run, maybe four times in my life. But he's my favorite football player because he gets high. Why does MLB think we're so stupid not to realize how many boozers are on those teams? Open up, let's start to have some fun. Bring back the days when Red Auerbach would smoke a cigar BEFORE the game was officially over. I'm tired of pretending that, all of a sudden, jocks grow up and learn the finer points of life once they turn pro. They don't. That's why they play kids games. I hope the strong arm of the law doesn't come down on Bynum. It's just a word, one we've all heard before and one we'll all hear again. Even more importantly, as long as LO keeps getting those fucking rebounds, we'll let just about everything else slide.

Saturday, January 12, 2008


I don't care what my well-to-do Long Beach friends say: The Seal Beach Target sucks. I'm perfectly fine with my weekly treks to the one on Bellflower, but for some, that store's not good enough. The problem with the Seal Beach Target is that it's in Seal Beach. I've lived in Long Beach a few years now and I've noticed people from this town frequent Seal Beach. Those who moved to Long Beach don't. I've been dragged to this Target two or three times and each time I go there I remember why I try not to make a habit of it. Seal Beach has two types of resident -- old and almost old. There are lots of bona fide, grade-A bluehair old people all over the place. I know about Leisure World, but can that little retirement community have that much pull in this town? Old people are slow, but that doesn't bother me. I'm slow too. Except today. We used our new coffeemaker to brew extra strength. Three cups later and I was feelin' it! Anyway, old folks, you're ok with me. It's the almost old who really suck. These people can be anywhere from their 30s on up. They act like they own the aisles and the air we breathe. It's all an act. The Seal Beach suburbanite puts on a show. Sure, they've got more money than I'll ever have, but still not nearly as much as say, Laguna or Newport Beach. Seal Beach residents want to act like they're knee-deep in the OC, but they ain't. They're more Long Beach than OC. They know this and it kills them. To compensate, everyone bleaches their hair, looks down on anyone who's not tan, drives an oversized vehicle, talks on their cell phone in the store and doesn't say sorry when it's their fault for running into your foot with a shopping cart. My blonde surfer dude cashier wouldn't look me in the eye. Fucker. He knew I was from Long Beach. I was pale, was wearing Dickies, didn't comb my hair and failed to take the lint roller to my cat-hair -filled black shirt. And for a supposed beach town, there sure isn't much, uh, sand, or water, in this city. If I lived on the water, I'd have a problem with the inland folks claiming to live in Seal "Beach." It's more Seal Asphalt. Just more posing and posturing for those who just miss being filthy rich by a few million dollars. Give me the student-heavy store on Bellflower any day. I like that store. The people watching's much better. There are always lots of college kids just staring at things. My guess as to why is one of three things. 1. They just moved away from home and have no idea what the difference between the eight shelves of laundry detergent is. I can't blame them. I still don't know the answer. OR 2. They're stoned. OR 3. They just moved away from home and have no idea what the difference between the eight shelves of laundry detergent is AND they're stoned. My money's on number three.

Listening to jazz radio. Sure sign I'm getting old. A lone trumpet player and a lone writer doing our respective things just slightly after midnight Saturday. And we're both happy and fine.

Friday, January 11, 2008


Last night I was suffering from a major case of couchlock when, during the Order portion of Law and Order, I remembered an incident I had at the Torrance Courthouse in the eighth grade. The episode had a quick shot from the back of the courtroom and I thought how cool it would be to sit in on a case. Then I remembered that I did. For some reason, all eighth grade students took a field trip to the courthouse. We had to wear pants. That was a big deal for me because I NEVER wore pants. Like ever. I had to borrow a pair of Guess overalls (the hick look was in) and covered the top portion with a t-shirt. I wasn't very fashion forward at the time. Anyway, I don't recall anything about the trial, other than it being one of the most boring and slow events of my life. I sat in the back row with two friends. At some point, while some guy is seconds away from a certain guilty conviction, my friends look over at me and are convinced I am flexing my bicep for no one in particular. Keep in mind I was a fat kid with absolutely no muscle whatsoever. Shit, I've never had any muscle. Flexing, especially during the eighth grade, which is just about the most awkward time in anyone's life, was highly unlikely. But that's not what the other two saw. One of the kids I met in the sixth grade after I pulled a chair out from under his ass and the other I knew since kindergarten. They busted into tears and caused the whole room to take notice. There I sat, dumbfounded, wondering what was so funny. I still don't get it. Who the hell knows what I was doing or why they looked over at me. It was one of those times when everything came together to make a situation look like something else to those who get only a snapshot of the moment. They got their snapshot all right. I wish I coulda seen it, but I didn't. I still talk to the friend from kindergarten and he brings this shit up at least once a year. My point to all this? Not sure. Could be that Law and Order makes our criminal justice system much sexier (that's Hollywood for "cool") or that I need to stop typing and go to bed.
EDIT What the fuck? No ampersands allowed?


Another reason for this blog was to post links to things I write for other people. Here's one from the latest issue of the District. In case you didn't know, the District is a free weekly alternative paper in Long Beach. With the Press-Telegram acting like, well, the Press-Telegram, the District is stepping up in a major way.

Thursday, January 10, 2008


My biggest problem has always been trying to make money off the ideas in my head. I was driving around today and was reminded of another million-dollar idea that's never left my brain. It's a website called The premise is this: Take pictures of the stupidest, most irritating hipsters and post them for all to see. People could comment on each shot and try to one-up other contributors with photos of young white people who try way too hard. In theory, I should be all about hipsters. But I'm not. I've been called one many times by many people, and while I understand how some make that connection, I think they're wrong. The hipsters I speak of, the kind I saw milling around on their bicycles eating ice cream in front of Rite-Aid today, are nothing like me. There were four of them -- three guys and a girl. Every guy had a shaggy haircut, tight pants and a striped shirt (actually, one was wearing a striped sweatshirt). When they look at each other, do they think they're peering into a mirror? I'll never understand why anyone would want to categorize themselves so easily, so comfortable with putting everything they are into a box, never to escape. That's a boring life. People see my hair and peg me as a rockabilly dude. Wrong. I dig Elvis a bunch (and Carl Perkins and Johnny Cash), but that's about the end of my rockabilly infatuation. I might look like the sorta dude who jerks off to the Horrorpops or (god forbid) Social Distortion, but I'm not. I'm a vegan. I love my cats. I read books. I play golf. I listen to jazz and the blues. I drive a Corolla, not some flame-painted oldie but goodie. These hipsters, what a crock of shit, thinking they know something the rest of us don't. And what's with the thin-framed bikes? You know, if you aren't using the gear shifters on those, there's no point in riding one. But practicality has nothing to do with anything these fools are into. Then the girl turned around and it started to make sense. In my younger days, I would have dressed like a buffoon too if it meant having this black-haired beauty in my company. Guys sure do some stupid things for female attention. That explains why I never got much: I was too dumb to play the game. Hair over my eyes? I can do that. New Balance tennis shoes? Sure thing. Eat ice cream because it's intentionally childish and for some reason that's the in thing to do? I'll take cookies and cream. No, my dumb ass was wearing Dickies and punk rock t-shirts. Not exactly the most eye-grabbing look. Hopefully one of these guys is seeing her naked on a regular basis. If so, good for him. What about the other three? What's the reason for looking like schmucks? Where are their way-out-of-their-league girls? If only I had my camera, I could have taken a picture of these clowns and posted it to my website that doesn't exist. Yet.

Wednesday, January 9, 2008


Get back to work you spoiled lazy fucks
Pardon me for not feeling sorry for any one of you
Solidarity? I think not
Making money while the real wordsmiths are scooping up
catshit to earn a living
Poetry, novels, journalism – there’s no money in any of these
yet some of us still do them because we have to
Working for Hollywood is a black mark on your record
that stains a career like a teenage tattoo given in some shady dude’s bedroom
What I do and what these clowns do are completely different
For starters, I’m on my own
Those hacks need a job because they can’t cut it in the real world
A writer should be a free-thinking loose cannon,
shooting ideas all over the place
not working for a corporation that tells them
what to say and how to say it
Secondly, has anyone watched television lately?
The shit sucks
Strike forever, maybe TV will become the new radio
and die
I can’t possibly feel sorry for these miserable excuses for creative people
Pump out something intelligent, something witty, something real
then maybe you’d be worth what you think you’re worth now
I understand wanting more money but you gotta earn it
Judging by their output, I’d say a current Hollywood writer’s salary
should equal what their peers from the 1950s earned because
this new crop ain’t much better than goofy whitebread cornball shows like
“Leave it to Beaver” and “The Adventures of Ozzie and Harriet”
Have these brats not learned anything from the shift toward reality based programming?
This watered-down format wouldn’t exist if any of you could create interesting fiction
But you can’t
Keep holding those poorly-written (what did you expect) signs and
walk in circles until you lose that spare tire around your gut
you whiny attention-starved assholes
giving the rest of us a bad name
Their leverage is the fact that new shows will be replaced by reruns
God forbid! Oh the humanity! Whatever shall we do?
Read a book, perhaps? Take a walk? Play with our pets
or our kids? Get to know our neighbors over a glass of wine?
Organize our living rooms so the television set isn’t the focal point?
The scabs will be in soon and you’ll be out of a job
your former bosses and the rest of the world will realize
how unimportant you were to the whole process
and you’ll wish you never brought any of this up
I’d recommend writing a book about the experience
but I have no faith in any of you to do such a thing
So long suckers –
Yes, I DO want fries with that

Tuesday, January 8, 2008

Raiding My Medicine Cabinet (or Standing in Line at the Pharmacy)

Fuck Christmas, Easter, New Year's and all those other shitty holidays. Today is January 8 and to the uninformed, that means it's Elvis Presley's birthday. How old would he be? Not quite sure, but he'd be old. Ask an old woman in a cross-stitched sweater. She'll know. We're subjected to celebrations of all kinds, but a day like today passes unnoticed to most. Without Elvis, where would we be? Tough to say, but I know it'd be a much shittier place. He's been dead since '77, but is he really gone? I could argue Elvis lives each time I run grease and a blow-dryer through my hair. I'm no religious nutjob, but if we look close enough, it's pretty scary to see the comparisons between the King and Jesus. Is there a celeb worshipped more, even 30 years after his death? None but our Lord and Savior. So here's to you EP. Not sure what pills I have on hand to commemorate your birth, but I've got some Pepcid heartburn medicine. It's the thought that counts. Oh, and I suppose I should also send a Happy Birthday to Elvis' older-by-35-minutes twin, Jesse Garon, who died at birth. Jesse, we hardly knew ye. Although I treasure life as much as the next guy, you're better off. Besides, eventually you would have killed yourself once you realized how awesome your younger brother was and how you could never live up to that. I'm sure you woulda gotten laid like a motherfucker for a while there, but the come down woulda been a bitch.

Monday, January 7, 2008

The Beginning

Part of the reason I created a blog was to publish the backlog of stuff that sits patiently on my hard drive, keeping its fingers crossed that one day someone other than me will read it. While I'm not totally sold on that yet, at least it's finally out there. The rest is out of my hands. Here's the first of many.


Write more, more, more

Until the voices stop

Write more, more, more


Tonight I watched part (and way too much) of both the Republican and Democratic debates in New Hampshire. Before I get too deep, a little background might be helpful. I've never voted. Never even registered. Not even for high school elections. I simply don't care enough or pretend to know enough about these people to give them my vote. That's throwing my vote away, which is what most people do and explains how most scumbags get elected. They pander to lowest common denominators and put more effort into name recognition than the issues. I've heard all about that "you can't complain if you don't vote" shit and those people are dead wrong. I didn't sign up for this system. It's been here long before I was and because I didn't agree to it, I don't think I should have to particiapte. The problem is, although I don't get involved, the actions of these immoral slime effect (or is it affect?) who I am and what I am allowed to do with my life. My philosophy has been the exact opposite of my detractors. By not voting, I have every right to criticize what goes down in Washington, Sacramento and Long Beach and anywhere else for that matter. It's their game, not mine. I'm just sitting back and watching the dust rise. If it were up to me, I would live in this country yet isolate myself from all responsibility and live according to my own rules. Kinda like what we do with the Indians. Oh wait...Now, on to the debates. So many things come to mind. For starters, why does anyone listen to a goddamn word spewing from a politcian's mouth? They can't give a simple "yes" or "no" answer, even when the question begins with, "Yes or no, do you think...?" Charles Gibson, fuck you, calling yourself a journalist. Now, I know that's what it says on my tax forms, but I don't cover the hard shit. You on the other hand, you have the obligation to stop these five-minute tangent-filled answers and tell them they didn't answer your question. Give each candidate the simplest questions possible so they can't get off topic. When they do, cut them off. Dangle that carrot in front of their noses. When the threat of their precious time is taken away, they'll behave, trust me. And what's with the canned answers? I really don't know the answer to this, but do the news organizations give the candidates the questions beforehand? Sure seems like it. As far as the Republicans go, anyone not named Ron Paul is destined to kill us all. I feel for the lil' guy, all Ross Perot-like, talking sense and eliciting no response. All these Ken Doll and Mr. Politican types are mad. They laughed at everything he said when he was THE ONLY MOTHERFUCKING ONE MAKING ANY SENSE! If I voted, which I don't, I think I'd pop his Chad. Now to the Democats...While I think the term liberal is a fairly accurate description of who I am, I take offense when others assume that means I'm a Democrat. Again, by default, I'm nothing. Sure, tonight and most nights, the Democratic party speaks closer to my beliefs than its Bizarro, but that doesn't mean I'm on their side. They are still politicans and shouldn't be trusted. Here's what's always been my problem with the Democrats: Each of tonight's four candidates almost said the right thing, almost had the right idea, almost felt like they genuinely care. Almost. But these sheep pander to middle America (it must suck to live in a part of the country where your geographic description is a euphemism for slow, stupid and behind the times) in hopes of getting votes. Hey Democrats, that's not working for you. Here's some free advice. Instead of trying to seem like you're not that much different from your Republican counterparts, you should try to say the polar opposite of what they're about. Fuck religions nutjobs. I've always felt like what comes out of Democrats' mouths and what they feel in their guts are two separate things. By catering to conservative beliefs, they're really just watering down their product and helping Republicans seem stronger and more decisive. That being said, any of the four candidates seemed like they'd make a better president than anyone running with an "R" next to their name. Except Ron Paul. My money's on Richardson. While the other three are wasting time in pissing matches, he might get some real campaigning done. Hillary, oh how I wish you were your husband and he were you. If you'd come out and say, "Hey world, I'm running just because Bill can't. A vote for me is a vote for him because I'll just sign the checks. He'll do all the work. Ya know, like Bush," I might reconsider my non-voting stance. But you're not. As a guy without health insurance, I appreciate your efforts. What about everything else? Obama, I liked you better when you smoked. Made you seem like a real guy. Too real for the Midwest. I know, I know, gotta keep them happy, even though they can't get enough nicotine in their lungs. And don't point your fucking finger at me all the time. Take a page from Edwards' book and use the Bill Clinton thumbpoint. A note to my friends: Thumbpoint away, but I'll have one of my cats bite your finger if you wag it long enough.

Strange Day

I woke up early, 10:10 to be exact. I stayed up til 11, then fell back asleep until 1:15, totally blowing off important stuff. Oh well. At 2, I walked a few blocks to Rite-Aid. On the way, there was an apartment complex that caught my eye. In front was one pink-and-white sandal and a pair of black Dickies thirty feet away. The Dickies were on a patch of grass between two buildings. It looked like they had been thrown from one of the top floors of the building. Where was the other sandal? I thought that was my strange experience for the day. I was wrong. I got into Rite-Aid and instantly ran into Chris, who was buying cold medicine. Again, not the strangest thing that happened. This was: Standing in the prescription line, this weird guy approached me and asked in a joking manner if I was standing in the front of the line. I was third in line and even a blind man knew it wasn't the front. I played along and looked over. Then I looked down. He was five feet tall with a baseball cap pulled so tightly over his head that his salt and pepper hair made batwings on the side of his head. He had one of them fuzzy comb moustaches and his beety eyes were open real wide. Before I could chuckle at his mildly humorous observation, he went into a monologue. "What animal comes from the clouds?" he asked. I said I didn't know. "Rain...deer." Hardy fucking har, leave me alone creep. Without missing a beat, he asked me if I knew what the word pasteurized meant. There was no way out so I said no. Then he extended his right arm, hand flat, and ran it past his eyes. Past-your-eyes, get it? Before I could respond, he leaned forward in a real pathetic way and said "Pretty bad, huh?" Insead of answering, I looked for the camera. I fancy myself a well-known writer, but I'm not famous enough to be on Punk'd, am I? I stepped out of line for a second and he zoned in on the couple in front of me. They were your average early 30s boring white couple, the kind who, once they get in their hybrids in the parking lot, comment on all the weirdos in that store. They looked slightly less amused than I was. I was glad he was gone. Then I got back in line and he got behind me again. Total bummer. Someone walked passed us and he said "Happy New Year." Needless to say, I thought he was trying his act on a third victim and didn't turn around. He got no response, so he leaned over my right shoulder and repeated it. "Happy New Year." Startled, I turned around and he wished me a Merry Christmas. Today's January 6! Obviously someone needed to be bumped to the front of this line and get their meds. I wished him the same although on the inside I wished he would leave me alone. His next one really got me. "Did you hear the one about the rope?" "No," I replied. "Ah, skip it." I've never heard any of these before. I wondered if they were his own material. If he was five, I'd say he might have had a promising career ahead of him. But he was older than shit and probably got hit by a bus on his way home.

Welcome to 2004

It's official. I am lame. I have a blog.