Wednesday, April 30, 2008


Hopped aboard JetBlue this weekend for a mini-getaway. And by mini, I mean 24 hours. I've never been on JetBlue before, but now I understand why everyone loves that airline so much. I get on and the first quarter of the Raptors/Magic game was on. I watched and didn't even realize we took off or landed. In fact, I was kinda bummed when we hit Oakland because the game was at a crucial point. Flying three times since December has made me something of an expert. I used to be very afraid of flying. Not anymore. Now I'm one of those assholes who acts likes every step of the process is a burden because I'm so well traveled. But I gotta say this: The Long Beach Airport is the best in the nation. Get there an hour early? Hell no. Try 30 minutes. Of course, you'll wait for 20.

God bless public transportation in the Bay Area. I got on a bus that took me to the BART station near CENSORED (they can buy an ad if they want me to mention their name) Coliseum where the Raiders and A's play. I busted out the ol' digital camera and snapped a few shots. It was an absolutely beautiful day, much nicer and cooler than it was in Long Beach, aka the home of global warming. Fuck it's getting hot here.

The BART is something else. While waiting, I saw this beat up white guy wearing an old Jason Kidd jersey and a red shirt underneath. His pants were way too big, he had an out of control goatee and was rocking a beanie. I'm gonna call this the Oakland look because only people in this city dress like that.

Here people are very quiet and reserved on public transporation. Not up there. It's like a party on wheels, except the BART doesn't run on wheels. It's like a party on a track, how's that? I left my sunglasses on for most of the trek through Oakland because there was a family -- father, mother, daughter -- sitting across from me. Now, she looked at least 18, but however old she was, she was fucking gorgeous. So gorgeous I HAD to leave the glasses on. I knew her dad was hip to what was going on. I mean, how many times could I pretend to look out their window when I had the better view from where I was sitting? Hey pops, don't make 'em if you can't take it.

I exited Civic Center and walked up Hyde to my cousin's apartment. This part of town is a trip. There's an intersection three blocks from where she lives where a bunch of dudes lean against a chain link fence that surrounds an open field. These guys were selling bootlegg DVDs. One was drinking a large Colt 45, no brown bag, just chugging it. At 3 p.m. Gotta love this town.

My cousin lives in a killer building that probably used to be really cool. Now it's in the worst part of town I've ever seen in SF. Her place overlooks the intersection of Hyde and O'Farrell. Now don't go stalking her. For starters, she doesn't look anything like me, so you won't know it's her.

I got there and felt kinda bad because, as much as I wanted to catch up, the Lakers were on. Turns out she's a basketball fan and we watched as we shot the shit. That's what they call killing two birds with one stone.

We talked until the Lakers destroyed the Nuggets. Then I went around the corner to buy some medicine. Same as it is in Long Beach. Got some stuff called King Kush. Three js later, I was on my way.

I couldn't not get some. It's San Franfuckingcisco for Christ's sake. There was a guy puffing a doob near the entrance to the place. He wouldn't be the only public pot smoker I'd encounter that day.

Got back and talked some more. Then cousin needed to shower, so I took a walk around the city. I got lots of good ideas. I need to start bringing a notebook with me on these walks because shit just starts pouring out of my brain when I do things like this. It's been four days, so lemme try to rememer what I saw.

Old black guy yelling "Shoeshine. Shoeshine." I walked behind and saw him checking out my kicks. Sorry, winos don't get shined. They get vomited on, then you buy new ones. I talked to him and asked what was going on that I should check out. He told me he liked pussy and gave me directions on where I might be able to score some of that. Then he tried to sell me weed. Told him I was cool, then he asked for money. I lied and said I didn't have any. HA! I did.

Walked into a store called the Magazine. Hey, I like magazines. Why not? The front of the store was your average newsstand with Details, GQ, Sports Illustrated. Then I got deeper into the store and saw it was damn near packed to the rafters full of porn. Gay porn. Where's the exit?

Left the Magazine and started walking behind an art student carrying some sort of supplies under her right arm. Over her left was the obligatory bag that all hipsters must carry. If I could draw, and someone asked me to draw what I think of when someone asks me what women in San Francisco look like, I'd draw her. Hair dyed blue-black. Boyish haircut. Faded jeans. Tight striped shirt. Puma tennis shoes. People have to be aware when they walk in SF, especially women. She turned to see who the guy walking three steps behind her for eight blocks was. We exchanged glances and my heart melted. If I lived in the Bay Area, I'd date all sorts of girls just like her. Kerouac-ian thoughts of getting lost in San Francisco filled my brain. Ah, to be a young white hipster.

One cool thing about SF is how people cross intersections against the red. It makes sense. I do it here and people give me dirty looks. But not San Franciscans. They've got places to be.

Walked down Van Ness toward Washington. Three teenagers approached. They were passing a joint between them. More Kerouac-ian thoughts.

Got back to cousin's place. I watched the Celtics/Hawks while she got ready. Then we hit the bus to go to an Italian restaurant whose name I wouldn't remember if someone said it right now. Again, public transportation is odd. People are loud, they have no qualms stretching their legs into strangers' comfort zone amd plop down in unoccupied seats by bumping into the person they are now sitting next to.

Food was good, but having just been to Italy, it wasn't all that special. What was special was a vegan ice cream shop named MaggieMudd. Holy shit was the place heaven on Earth. We were the final customers of the night. I had no idea what to get, so naturally I got the largest, most expensive thing on the menu. It's called the TarMack Fan. Chocolate brownies covered in chocolate ice cream with peanut butter dressing, chocolate dressing and whipped cream. I couldn't believe my eyes. It was served in those cardboard boxes that used to come with taco boats in elementary school. Of course it was windy outside and the ice cream didn't help with that, but I was a trooper. I ate as much as I could, but I am sad to report that I finished only half. On our way back to the busstop, we went into a bookstore and discovered Neal Pollack read earlier that night. Bummer, that woulda been cool.

Cousin took me to the Mission, where the law states every tattooed, pierced, dreadlocked, cigarette smoking drunk (shit, I just described my friend Chris) must go out on Fridays and Saturdays. There are also a bunch of Mexican dance clubs with real long lines to get in. The hipster shit was cool, but I'd rather check out the oompah bands. We didn't actually go in any bars because it was midnight and we would have waited til last call to finally get a drink. I was thinking of Jawbreaker as we passed Valencia and headed toward Mission on 16th. This area is a clusterfuck of people, but it's exciting to see nonetheless. People sure love their booze in this part of the world.

Got back on the BART to get some rest. My legs were sore and I needed to be up early to get back home the next day. Plans are in motion to return a few times this summer. It's too cool of a city not to visit regularly. But I'll say this: That early 20s whiteboy hipster who romanticized the life I'd had if I lived in the city is dead. San Francisco, you're a great place to vacation, but I can't handle you full time. This is merely another unnecessary example of how I am getting old. Maybe I could be convinced otherwise. Anyone out there wanna give me a reason to move there?


I'm pretty sure I said the Nuggets would be lucky to get one game against the Lakers. Well, luck was not on their side. Now before anyone goes and calls me a basketball playoff picking guru, I must say that was a fairly easy series to call. Next up for the Lakers is either Houston or Utah. This one's tricky. I'd prefer to see Utah because I don't want Houston or Tracy McGrady to ever get out of the first round, sorta like how I always root against Peyton Manning. But Houston would be an easier match-up for the Lakers, so I'm stuck. I won't make any predictions until we know who the Lakers are playing. And in case you were wondering, I'm still not convinced this is the Lakers year. Boston is pretty good. I don't see how anyone can beat them. I'd rather the Lakers lose in the Western Conference finals than the NBA Finals to the Celtics. I'm 28 and in my lifetime, the Lakers have owned the Celtics (excpet for '84, but if you do the math, you'll see how I don't remember that series). I don't want to rivalry to swing back in Boston's favor. So if the Lakers plan on losing at some point, how 'bout they not do it against the Celtics? Then they can re-tool for next year with a healthy Bynum and Gasol for a full season. That's a championship contender.

Thursday, April 24, 2008


One of my favorite things to do when I'm not sleeping is eating. More specifically, eating burritos. Here's a link to a story I wrote for the District. It's about a place in San Pedro called Burrito Factory.

Wednesday, April 23, 2008


Today we celebrate another unoffical holiday, National Secretarys Day. Or as my daily planner calls it, Administrative Professionals Day. So here's to you, secretarys of the world (or is this only a national honor? Either way...). Instead of wanting to put a bullet in your brain, today is the day when you should be proud of your job, that jerk boss of yours and all his ridiculous demands. Play an extra game of Tetris online today. You've earned it. Have that fourth cup of mass produced coffee that your company is oh so kind to provide. Let the phone ring three times before answering. And when you do decide to finally pick up, don't tell the caller what your name is. Make them guess. In fact, answer the phone like this. "Hello. National Secretarys Day. How much do you love me?" Check out fifteen minutes early. Get in the carpool lane even if you are alone. Speed down the 405, 110, 710 or wherever it is you drive. When you go home, kick up your heels and make someone else do the dishes. It's almost your birthday fer Chrissakes.

Me? I am my own personal secretary, so I am going to go easy on myself today. No slamming papers down in front of me (when I get mad, I take a stack and throw them over my shoulder to pretend like they come from someone standing behind me), no calling for myself from other rooms, no asking where the paper clips are or what time so and so is supposed to call. It'll be fun. I've been trying endlessly to train one of the cats to do some work around here, but they're so lazy. All they do is sleep all day. They nap so much they make me look like a go-getter.

Sunday, April 20, 2008

HAPPY 4/20!!!

Today is April 20. Or 4/20. Or 420. Or Fourtwenty. However you want to spell it, it's a pot smokers Christmas, New Year's, birthday, Easter and Halloween rolled into one. Get it, rolled? Sometimes I can be funny.

Stoners usually smoke a ton of weed on this day. Truth be told, it's 4 p.m. (oh shit, almost 4:20. That changes what I'm about to write) and I haven't gotten high yet. I'm working on a killer coffee buzz and sometimes the two don't mix well. That, plus I've become somewhat of a nighttime smoker in my old age. I can't keep up with the young kids like I used to.

I was going to write a lot, but I gotta pack a bowl pretty soon. More to come after I've celebrated.

Friday, April 18, 2008


The idea is enough to make me puke, but I changed my mind after reading Acres of Books' website. It reads "April is National Poetry Month! (take a poet to lunch)." I'm all in favor of free meals, so come on people. I'm a poet. Pony up and buy me some food.

Maybe I should try to earn that meal. So here's a new poem. I combed through my stacks of unpublished poems and found this nice ditty about religion. I thought it to be timely considering the pope, who by the way looks and sounds like a creep, is visiting the United States.

I hope you like it. If not, send hate mail to Tim Hull. He'll get right back to you.

dumber words have never been spoken
except for maybe those in the bible
but I wouldn’t know – I don’t read fairy tales
a person who says they are spiritual but not religious
is obviously a young adult looking for a way to comprehend
their growing feeling of apathy toward a belief that was shoved down their throats
beginning the second they popped out of their mother’s nether region
or a slightly older misguided wannabe intellectual who thinks
before they speak and gets through life by regurgitating tidbits of info
they’ve overheard from mouths attached to brains they assume are smarter than theirs
saying a person is spiritual but not religious is like me saying
I’m gay but I don’t fuck dudes –
you can’t have one without the other
religion is spirituality and spirituality is religion
they’re both just words that mean roughly the same thing
those who say this silly statement are too close to the fire to see the flames
because if they could, they’d realize how the influence of religious leaders worldwide
has created an environment where supposed spirituality can’t be outrun
so when you say you’re spiritual, you’ve already lost
because you’re speaking their language
the preachers, pastors, fathers, rabbis, shamans, popes, gods, sheiks and monks
succeeded in planting their vocabulary into our brains, whether we want to pretend to dislike it or not
because saying what they really mean could cause harm in all sorts of ways
funny looks from strangers
scoldings from parents
disapproval from co-workers
no Christmas gifts from friends
these people are afraid to offend a higher power
but they shouldn’t be
there is no higher power to offend
but the implication of I’m spiritual but not religious suggests otherwise
it’s the PC way of telling the world a person isn’t happy with organized religion,
the kind that wastes Sunday morning sleep-in time,
but who is?
the world would be a much better place if those who preached this hypocritical mantra
would ditch the act and join forces with those who aren’t afraid to say in explicit terms
what they believe
and what it is these people believe, you ask?
not sure, but my guess is it has something to do with the ability to see how thousand-year-old works of fiction continue to wreak havoc on daily life circa 2008
shouldn’t we be smarter than this? the educated ask
yes, we should
but we’re not
because a major percentage of the population is more than happy to go along for the ride, even if that means ruining the one shot we’ve all been given to make this life as exciting and entertaining as possible


It's 1:46 a.m. Still up. Not really doing much though. I wrote a bit, but I worked a lot today and my eyes are kinda blurry. But my mind seems to be awake. I could write about all sorts of world events, but that would require thinking and I don't want any of that right now.

I'm excited to announce I am going to San Francisco next week -- on someone else's dime! That's right, Jim Hall is taking this show on the road. I am meeting my cousin and we are gonna party. I hope to chow down on all sorts of vegan food and maybe smoke a lil SF herb. I hear their stuff is pretty good. I'll be the judge of that.

I caught some of that presidential debate last night. Boy, are we fucked.
"Who you gonna vote for?"
"Geez, I don't know. I'm thinking robot zombie number one."
"But robot zombie number two is just as good."
"Yeah, I guess you're right. They're both pretty good at being robot zombies. It's a tough call."
"Well, they are the cream of the crop. No one avoids answering questions like they do."
"Don't forget their near equal ability to have lots of words come out of their mouths without actually saying anything."
"Duh. That's my favorite part."

I gotta be honest...the Democractic candidates are boring, but their spouses are where it's at. First, we got Bill Clinton. He's a thump-pointing party on wheels. And then there's Michelle Obama. Pardon my French, but va va voom. For a potential first lady, she's pretty hot. So let's see...four more years of Bill of four years of presidential eye candy? Ugh. This isn't easy. I'm gonna flip a coin. Heads, Bill. Tails, Michelle.

Speaking of Obama (OBAMA! or Obama's a long legged mack daddy!), did anyone catch the video of World's Second Biggest Asshole (and the award for World's Biggest Asshole goes to...George W. Bush) William Dean Singleton calling Obama "Obama bin Laden." To his face? This guy's in charge of the Associated Press. Wow. Here's linky link if you are interested in seeing why the state of American journalism is as potent as my dead grandfather's dick.

I almost never, ever, ever, ever re-read books. There are just far too many out there to waste my time reading something I've ever read. That being said, I picked up John Fante's West of Rome last night thinking it would be a good way to kill a few minutes. A few hours later and I was done. That's the second time this year I've re-read one of his books. The first was Ask the Dust. Reading Fante the first time changed my life. I know how lame that sounds, but it's true. Reading him a second time is just as exhilarating for different reasons. It gives me hope and the promise of a better future for my writing. He re-sets my meter, shows me which way is up and reminds me what real writing is. If anyone reading this wants to talk Fante, shoot me an email. I can go on for days.

When I started this blog, I posted some poems. They got zero response, so I stopped. But now I see people are searching the Internets for them. So I'm gonna throw so more back up and see what sticks. Maybe even a slice of a short story or two. I'm working hard on a few things at Casa de Hall. Perhaps it's high time to release some of these to the world. But only if you're good.

I've also got a killer interview with Greg Ginn that I'll be posting sooner than later. That's such a lame cliche. Who the hell invented sooner than later? I'd love to try to do something later than sooner. That'll be my thing. Jim Hall, the man who gets things done later than sooner. Maybe I'll print that on my business card.

Lakers in the playoffs! Number one seed! Here comes Denver! Too many exclamation points! Prediction...Lakers whoop on Denver real bad. Five games if the Nuggets are lucky.

This weekend is the Long Beach Grand Prix. That means lots of annoying "vrooooooom" noises for the next few days. I never understood the race until I saw it in person. It's actually much more exciting than I thought. Last year I went a week early to catch the trials. I didn't have time this year. Oh well. If anyone reading this is going down there, look for me. I'll be the guy standing at Pine and Ocean too cheap to buy a ticket looking down at the cars as they fly past me.

Scary news to report...There are talks of me teaching a few classes at Southern California community colleges. Maybe I shouldn't say that for fear of jinxing it. As frightening as that sounds, I will be very excited and honored if I get these positions. But I'm not holding my breath. For now, it's just talk.

Sunday is stoner Christmas. I'd better re-fill.

What else can I say? Oh, howzabout Italy Fuck Beach?

And I'm out.

Tuesday, April 15, 2008


Just forked over more than $1,200 to our government. Am I pissed? Fuck yeah I am. I don't make nearly enough to owe that much to anyone or anything. You best believe if I owed that much to a person, I would have gotten something in return for it. The goverment? Nope. Nothing. As a person of moderate intelligence, I understand the need for taxes for certain things such as police, firefighters, etc. My problem with the system is the lack of control citizens have in paying money to entities that we may or may not support. I'd be a much happier camper if I knew where my money was going. Give me the option of donating my taxes to causes I feel are worthy and I might not be so goddamn upset. Three hundred to firefighters? Sure, I can do that. Another three hundred to the cops? Uh, I guess I can do that too. Problem is, if we could choose where our cash went, there'd be a shitton of unemployed government officials because there is not one American citizen who would voluntarily hand over money to a system that repeatedly fucks its constituents. I DON'T HAVE FUCKING HEALTH CARE. Why don't we try fixing that before spending another billion dollars on a bullshit war? And what about gas prices? Does anyone who supposedly represents me in Washington want to stand up to these money-hungry pricks and do something for people like me? No, they don't because if they did, they'd be out of a job. You think your vote counts? You're a fucking fool. My vote doesn't count. Neither does yours. If it did, we'd all vote against taxes. No taxation without representaion sounds great, but the national government is a vicious cycle. The only goal is to maintain itself, not to get anything done. My best guess is this money goes into the already deep pockets of D.C. fatcats and bullshit causes created by dickhead lobbyists. My money, my hard-earned motherfucking money, is being put into a system that requires saps like me to work hard for a living and give all the benefits away so the bureacracy can continue to accomplish nothing. The American public is bitterly divided regarding a myriad of issues. I'd like to think anger about paying taxes is one we can all agree on. I'm so fucking pissed I could punch my hand through a wall, perhaps a goverment wall. I could put a massive hole in it and watch the days flip by on the calendar as no one would ever come by to fix it. These D.C. motherfuckers are stealing our money. OUR GODDAMN MONEY! Not theirs. OURS! I sit behind this desk every day trying not only to make a living, but doing something creative with my life. I don't write because I think I'm going to get rich (I'd be the biggest moron alive if I thought writing was a ticket to wealth)-- I do it because I have to. This is my calling or whatever pretentious word you want to use. Before getting my taxes back, I thought I was doing well. I'm not eating at fancy restaurants or staying in five star hotels, but somehow I'm getting by. Not anymore. Not only does the goverment want me to pay what comes out to be more or less my life savings, but they've suggested I also include a $300 check to pay my 2008 taxes quarterly. Fuck you. Fuck you. Fuck you. Someone please tell me where I can live in a shack in the middle of Colorado and I'm there. I hate government inefficiency. I want out of the whole process. Please, leave me alone. I will gladly pay zero tax dollars and never ask for goverment assistance. Trust me, it wouldn't be difficult to get by without a federal government. I've gone 28 years and they still haven't done anything for me. What's another 28? George Harrison, wherever you are today, I'm missing you. Let's all put on Revolver and crank Taxman for George.

There's got to be a way around this. There's just got to be...

Sunday, April 13, 2008


Today was unbearably warm in Long Beach. Most are saying it was 95 degrees, a record for April 13. I can't stand the heat, but there is one positive aspect that comes from rising temperatures. When the weather gets hot, I get grilling. Last summer I barbecued as often as I could, which translated into about three or four grills a week. I know it's jumping the gun, but with the weather so warm, I just had to get outside.

I suck at cooking, but grilling is different. I think it has something to do with the way men are wired. We love to cook over an open flame. I can't speak for every male on the planet, but I know my reasoning. I love to be outside during warm temperature days from right about the time the sun begins to set until it goes all the way down. These hours --usually from around 5 to 8 -- is when the temperature is comfortable. What better way to enjoy the absolutely beautiful weather than to make so food?

Vegan grilling is difficult and frustrating for a few reasons. Much of the food I cook is pre-packaged soy and/or tofu based, which means it requires just a few minutes of re-heating. This can take a lot of the fun out of barbecuing. I won't touch meat, but I can appreciate and miss the experience of flipping, pressing the food down to get a popping sizzle from the flame, the smell of food cooked under my nose and the feeling of accomplishment when eating the finished product.

This is a large part of why I am thinking about going from charcoal to propane. It feels like a waste using all that wonderful coal for a few minutes of grilling. I had a propane grill as a kid and loved it. But the built-in charcoal pit we have here at Casa de Hall is pretty cool too. What's a barbecuer to do? Anyone with a thought on charcoal vs. propane feel free to leave a comment.

I began by opening my grill, which had been closed for months, and scraping off remnants from the previous outing. Then I removed a few dead leaves and spiderwebs before scooping out the old charcoal at the bottom of the grill. Now to the fun part. I busted open the Kingsford and made a small pyramid of charcoal. It was time to fire up my creation when I remembered I killed my bbq lighter from last summer after using it to light bong hits. I went back inside the house and got out a regular lighter and prayed to Jah I didn't burn myself.

The spark caught and within ten seconds, I had my first flame of the year. Goosebumps sprouted on my arms. I felt like a proud papa whose son hit the winning home run in little league.

I went inside to chop up some goodies while my fire was doing its thing. I began by slicing and dicing four tiny potatoes. Asparagus was next. I freakin' love asparagus, so I threw four of them in as well. Then I got wild and cut up a roma tomato. I wanted to add some mushrooms and onions, but it was already turning out to be a lot of food for just two people. I figured I can save those for tomorrow. My bbq skillet had been retired for half a year, but no longer. It greeted me with a friendly smile and I returned the favor. "Nice seeing you," it seemed to say. "Nice seeing you," I shot back. It was like two friends catching up on old times. With a quick hit of some no-stick spray, the three items were loaded into the skillet and taken out to the bbq. I threw the food on and was met with one of the most amazing sounds I've ever heard. "POP. POP. POP. POP," went the now-grilling food. Wonderful. Simply wonderful.

I made a salad while the skillet was grilling. A handful of greens, a handful of baby spinach, some carrot and we were good. I knew it would be at least twenty minutes before everything would be ready, so I waited to put the dressing on until the last minute. I filled up two cups of water (for drinking, of course) and went outside to check on the food. Everything was going well. I got out my tongs and moved things around a bit before going back inside.

The main event was supposed to consist of two vegetable marsala burgers from Trader Joe's. I bought them this weekend and couldn't remember if I had problems grilling these last year. Turns out I did. To be safe, I followed the instructions on the package. It said to butter both sides before barbecuing. Well, I only did one, but that's cuz I'm a rebel. I threw these burgers on the grill and once again was greeted to a harmonious sound -- the crackling of burgers on a barbecue.

Inside I took the buns out of the package and set them on a plate on the counter. I went outside to flip the burgers and everything was going well. Skillet was kicking ass, as was the marsala. Things did not go as planned for the next flip. For some reason, one of the burgers lost a portion of its circumference to the burning flame below the grill. I hate losing food to that portion, but sometimes these things are out of our control. This loss could have spelled disaster, but I turned a negative into a positive and decided to whip out some veggie dogs to compensate for whomever was getting a shitty burger.

I put the dogs on and they began cooking instantly. I was now in the midst of a skillet, two burgers, two dogs, two burger buns and two hot dog buns. If only I took a picture, oh what a sight that would have been. I am sure I was grinning from ear to ear because I sure as hell was loving every second of it. The sun was just about gone and the sky nearly pitch black. The temperature was perfect and I didn't feel any bug bites. My girlfriend was talking to the neightbor, leaving me all alone to bask in the glory that is the barbecue. When she finally returned, she apologized for being gone so long and not helping out. I told her it was fine and that I prefered to go at it alone. It had been some time since I grilled and needed to re-aquaint myself to the situation at hand.

Once all items were on the grill, it was a matter of time before the food was in my belly. I flipped. I flopped. I turned. I pressed. Then, just like that, it was over. Time to eat!

I sprinkled a drop or two of bbq sauce on the dogs while my girlfriend put tomato slices on the marsala. She was shocked at the amount of food I made. "Couldn't help myself," I told her. It was the truth. Seeing that flame got me pumped up and now I want more.

I haven't written about food much on this blog, but that probably has a lot to do with me not having the opportunity to grill. Now that I can, I will, which means writing about it. This is the summer I get crazy and start inventing new things to throw in the fire. My stomach can't wait.


It's our first scoop over here at Jim Hall Sleeps All Day and we must say -- we are mighty proud of our discovery. I pulled into Hole Mole's parking lot around midnight to park for Fern's. My friend Chris and I walked up and saw a cop talking to the really cute young girl who I shouldn't even be saying is cute. But if she's old enough to work the night shift...

Anyway, we walked in to a group of our friends. They all said Hole Mole got robbed. Disbelief. I was sitting on a stool peeping my head out the door. I could see the cute girl talking to a cop. She had a dishevled look on her face. I wanted to hug her and tell her it would be ok, but that sounded way too pervy, so I erred on the side of caution and skipped that. Later, Chris and I got hungry and decided to do some investigative journalism, aka crossing the street to see if it was true. There was a cop standing by the door. He waited until we tried to open said door until telling us they were closed. Chris asked if it was because they were robbed. The cop said yes.

So there we have it. Our first breaking news story. Too bad it had to be a bummer. Chris and I saw a fight there a month ago and now this. If the people of Long Beach don't behave, Hole Mole will cease with the late night hours. If that happened, where would people like me go for veggie-friendly Mexican food at 2 a.m.? So knock it the fuck off you assholes. Some of us are trying to eat.

Thursday, April 10, 2008


I was about to give my review of the Artie Lange show last Saturday at the Gibson Amphitheatre, but there's more relevant Artie news to report. For those who don't know, the baby guerilla quit the Howard Stern Show on air today. Sirius isn't replaying the show, but you can hear the clips on Youtube. I hope Artie gets his shit together and betters himself. He's a very funny guy who, based on what happens on the air (which I admit could all be a work), seems to have some real serious issues. Let's hope this is a work and not a shoot.

Part 1:
Part 2:
Part 3:

I've got an appointment to get to that will take up most of my evening, but I might add more to this breaking news story at a later time.

Wednesday, April 9, 2008


Caught this clip on The Daily Show last night of rapper 50 Cent talking about who he supports for president. Turns out, it's no one. Why? Because "To be honest, I haven't been following that anymore. I lost my interest," he said. "I listened to some of the debate and things that they were saying, and I just got lost in everything that was going on. ... Don't look for my vote, for me to determine nothing on that. Just say, '50 Cent, he don't know, so don't ask Fiddy.'"

Somewhere there's a publicist's head exploding. Thanks 50. You, unlike every other celeb who thinks the common folk of the world should know what you're thinking, are keeping it real.

Fiddy used to back Hillary, then it was Obama (who, I've heard, is a long-legged mack daddy) and now it's no one. I wish all famous people would learn from 50 and stay away from politics.

News flash to celebs: You think we care, but really, we don't.

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Tuesday, April 8, 2008


Usually, one of the four cats wake me up somewhere between 11 a.m. and noon. I shoo them away and try to go back to bed. Sometimes I succeed. Other times I fail. I think they want to make sure I'm not dead. Or maybe they're hungry.

One of the cats wants me to open the window so she can look out at the backyard. I don't know what she finds so interesting in a coupla busted lawn chairs, overgrown plants and some weeds, but she loves it. It's a pain crawling across my California king and stretching my left arm to push the window up, but I suppose this is all part of being a responsible pet owner.

Other times our youngest cat runs in and leaps atop my stomach to rub his wet nose into my face. I consider myself lucky whenever he chooses this method because the alternative is much worse. When he's feeling frisky, he enters the room and walks to the edge of the bed, then somehow wiggles his fat body back and forth to get underneath the covers. From there it's a game of biting me in my toes, my feet or my legs. This method never fails. There's nothing like being sound asleep, the sun shining through the bedroom window and all of a sudden a blast of pain shoots through your body. I love coffee and require a few cups in the morning, but the java industry's got nothing on a cat bite to get me moving. Once I'm up, he gives me this look that lets me know he thinks he's the boss. I'd love to argue this point with him, but there are a few problems. First, he doesn't speak English and I don't speak cat. Second, I scoop his nasty poops from his boxes, fill his water bowls and feed him. It's pretty difficult to justify who's in control when you're waiting hand and foot on a four-legged feline.

Less often than the aforementioned is our fat black cat. She has absolutely no volume control on her voice. She's loud and that's that. Once or twice a week she comes in, anchors her fat belly near my feet and starts screaming until I get up. Her goal? Butt scratches. Sometimes she wants her head rubbed, but nine times out of ten it's her butt.

The fourth cat should have been named Boo Radley because he never comes out for me, which means he couldn't care less about whether or not I'm sleeping. In fact, I'd say he's the only cat who prefers when I'm out cold. He thinks my girlfriend is his real mom and has room in his heart for her and her only. At night in bed he rubs against me, but that's so he can get to her. I don't appreciate his bedtime-only love for me, but I have to take what I'm given. At least he doesn't wake me up. For that I thank him.

Tommorrow is Wednesday. The girlfriend doesn't work and gets up much eariler than I do. That means the cats will wake with her and probably leave me alone. She loves Wednesdays because she gets to sleep in. Me too.

Monday, April 7, 2008


Just checked out and read the sad news that famed Long Beach bookstore Acres of Books could be closing as soon as October or as late as a year. This is one more sign that the people in charge of this city suck. They don't care about maintaining anything already in place. They see areas they define as blighted and an opportunity to make a buck by knocking down buildings. Here's an idea -- why not work with what's already there and fix those structures? Anyone who's been in Acres of Books lately knows the building itself is one earthquake away from crumbling, but does that mean every old building in town should meet a similar fate? I hope Acres of Books relocates because it's an institution that has become synonymous with Long Beach. There are some really great people working there who not only know their books, but also care about local writers. I feel like going off on the city, but that would only detract from my main objective, which is to praise Acres of Books. Let's hope they stick around another year and find a better spot for their new location. I'd suggest moving out of Long Beach, but that wouldn't do anyone any good.

Click the link to read for yourself.

Wait, I got a last minute idea...What if enough residents got together and decided to redevelop the redevelopment agency? First order of business: Demolish everyone who works there. Second order of business: There is no second order of business. Hooray for everyone!

Saturday, April 5, 2008


Yesterday I was eating lunch at Hole Mole in Long Beach (which one you ask? Wouldn't you all in Internet land like to know...) These two 50 something guys with salt and pepper hair wearing casual Friday clothes come walking down the street when out of nowhere a pigeon swoops in and clips BOTH guys in their heads. The guy closest to the street got it worse and yelled like a little girl when it happened. The bird kept flying. When they walked by me, I said, "Close call, huh?" They smiled and laughed. I don't know why, but lately I've been catching all sorts of things like this, like someone is telling me to document these strange occurrences.

Like last Wednesday for example. Exactly one week before I was at a friend's house talking about some local tagger. The conversation naturally lent itself to the "art" of tagging and I said I'd seen upwards of one hundred instances of people spray painting or using a Sharpie on public property. The two people I was with both said they'd never see that. Fast forward a week...Driving down Anaheim right across from Rec Park. Stopped at a red light, I just happened to glance to my left and lo and behold, some teenager is hitting up one of them odd looking green cylinder thingies with the holes in them. Instantly I thought of my conversation the week prior and called both people to tell them what I'd just seen. They both laughed.

I can't talk to dead people or feel a presence when I enter rooms, but maybe catching glimpses of the most random things is my sixth sense. Like the time in Hollywood when I saw a woman in her 80s get off the bus in front of me and faceplant into the ground. I didn't know whether to laugh or cry. Then the light turned green, the bus got moving and so did I.

UCLA lost. No big shocker there. I was at a party a few days before the tourney started and got into it with some guy who thought they'd go all the way. This guy's drunk, stupid or both, I thought. I was right. I'm a pretty big Bruins fan, but even I knew they weren't beating Memphis. Maybe next year? Wait, isn't that what we've been saying for three years in a row? Is the glass half full because they've got to the Final Four three years in a row or is it half empty because they've come away without a title in any of those years? I dig coach Ben Howland, but how long before people start to criticize him for not bringing home a national championship? Getting to the Final Four is great -- winning is even better.

Going to see Artie Lange tonight. Should be fun. Full report tomorrow. Or whenver I feel like it. Maybe never.

My pea brain tells me the way to get more hits on this blog is to comment on the news and link to stories. That sounds fine, but I don't have the time for that nor the desire. I like spilling the random thoughts in my head onto the Internet for all to see. Makes me feel less crazy or something.

Sorry to sound like a broken record, but Fucking on the beach in Italy. Beach fucking Italy. Italy beach fucking. Seriously, I don't think anyone reads this blog besides people looking for those keywords.

Thursday, April 3, 2008


Lots of things have happened over the past year or so that have told me I'm rapidly becoming an old man. I'd list a few examples, but I can't remember any, which is probably the biggest sign right there. But here's a new one.

I was taking a leak in the bathroom at El Camino College. A kid two stalls down was doing the same. When I was done, I went to the sink, washed my hands with warm water, got some soap and rinsed. The kid? He zipped up and split.

Not washing your hands in a public bathroom (with others around!!!!) is a surefire sign of youth. Bitching about kids not washing their hands in a public bathroom is just one more example of how I'm not a spring chicken anymore. I'm still not sure what's worse -- noticing the kid with the pisshands or being the guy who washes his hands. I'm pretty confident that washing is the correct answer, even though I know it's what old people do.

Fuck. I'm old.


Before bed I was watching some documentary about two drugs addicts. One was shooting meth and the other snorting pills, smoking weed and drinking 40s. The latter seemed like a party, while the former was a little baby. But both were annoying. Anyway, I think this doc inspired a crazy dream.

I felt like I had just fallen asleep. Soon I was around a guy injecting heroin into his veins. Like a curious cat, I decided to do the same. I felt the needle go into my arm, even though I was sleeping. A minute later I was super fucked up. In my dream, I was having trouble standing and leaned against a doorway to keep myself from falling. In reality, I felt my body go numb. Then, in the dream, my body crashed to the ground and it sent a pain running through my body, all while I was dead asleep.

I wish I remembered more, but I don't. It felt very real and I recall (in the dream) thinking about how dumb I was to inject heroin into me. That's about as close as I'm ever getting to the real deal. So thanks druggie doc, you gave me a bad dream.

Then I had another weird dream later. I heard a man's voice yelling "Hello." He said it three times and it got louder each time he said it. By the third one, the volume was too much and I woke up to find it wasn't a dream at all. It was my landlord standing in my kitchen at 9 a.m. I'm sure he knocked, but I'm out cold at that time so there's no way I could hear it. Obviously dishevled, I looked like a wreck. He apologized for waking me up and said, "Wow. You really do sleep all day, don't you." I wanted to say, "Only when I'm not woken up," but instead replied with, "Yeah, I keep late hours."

Italy Fuck Beach -- I'm still getting hits daily about this saying. PLEASE, one of you Googling this, tell me what this means. I beg of you.

Tuesday, April 1, 2008


In theory, having the President of the United States throwing the first pitch at opening day is a good thing. An even better theory is having that president throw out the first pitch in Washington, D.C. But that belief doesn't account for our current head numbskull George W. Bush.

Check out this youtube video of W. getting serenaded by a bunch of boobirds. There's no way anyone in attendance could have known Bush would have been there. The Secret Security wouldn't let that info get out beforehand. But that's too bad because imagine all the clever signs people could have held up if they knew he was making an appearance. Shit, I'd pay money to go to a baseball game just to boo our president if I knew he was going to be there. And I don't even like baseball (but that's another topic for another day).

There's plenty of negative things to say about Bush, but I'll give him this: He's got a decent arm for an old man.

PS Click this link soon because Major League Baseball has already taken a few off of Youtube for copyright issues.