Tuesday, March 24, 2009


Here's a story I wrote for the District on the Bavarian Style Hefeweizen beer at Trader Joe's. It's pretty damn good.

Saturday, March 21, 2009


I’ve submitted hundreds of poems to countless editors

and to date

I’ve got three published –

all at once by the same website.

Each rejection comes with a similar note:

You’re good but not quite there

too much like prose

read other poets

please send more.

Any response – even a pass –

is better than

nothing at all,

and for that I am grateful.

But I can’t help but wonder

who’s got the problem –

me or them.

“Read more poetry”


So I can start to write

like everyone else?

I’ll read more

but only because I want to

not because

I’m interested in

aping someone.

What do they know?

writing either the kind of shit

boring housewives enjoy


pretending to be edgy


sonnets about booze

and drugs.

Go fuck yourself,

each and every one of you.

I might bend

but I ain’t breaking

and this shit

you’re turning down now



the sort of thing

you’ll call genius

once my work

falls into the hands


people who don’t give

two shits about poetry

and just want something

to relate to.

How many famous poets

do you know?


Because they’re all too



keeping a lid on their

tight little scene

to notice

how no one




Saturday, March 14, 2009


The view from my bed into the living room.

Flat-screen tv.

Cool painting of a fisherman that my cousin nearly swiped from the wall after he saw it. He likes fishing.

This pattern was all over the carpet. Really cool when sober, but not so great to stare at after six beers.

I don't know why I took this picture.

If there was a contest for coolest cabinet designs of all time, this would win hands-down. All the people on the drawers are philosophers. My cousin mentioned something about how it probably had to do with how ridiculously smart people like their booze. Makes sense because behind the right drawer was a mini-fridge stocked with lots of alcohol. To the right, for the kids, was some sort of video game system. It wasn't Nintendo, that's all I know.

Not quite as awesome as the California King I have at home, but pretty damn close. The pillows were like sleeping on a woman's breast.

At home, I'm clean. On vacation, I throw my clothes all over the place and don't care. In this picture, that chair was where I tossed most of my gear.

The view out my window on Monday morning. Slightly overcast, just how I like it. I tried looking for people doing it, but I got nothing.

Opposite direction of the previous pic. This one looks toward all them bridges they got up there.

Straight out my window. I laughed at the schmucks who were at work while I was lounging in a hotel room. In fact, my favorite part about traveling has always been that amazing feeling of knowing I'm not at work while the rest of the world is stuck behind a desk. Next to sex and sleep, that might be the best feeling in the world.

Mi bano. Complete with coffeemaker, which was kinda weird, but when you need caffeine, anything will do.

Should shower curtains be this stylish? Is that even legal?

This was the nicest hotel I've ever stayed in. By far. So I don't know if this is a Hotel Monaco thing or a fancy hotel thing, but there were robes and underwear for sale in the closet. It goes without saying, but if I was single and had been fortunate enough to pick up a lovely Portland lady, you best believe I'da dropped the $39.95 for this quality garment.

The outside of the hotel. The same spot where I had to go in after 2 a.m. to ask them to open the garage. I have this funny feeling that I might have been the only person who didn't get to bed at 10 p.m. in the entire hotel.

Ah, beautiful Boise, Idaho. I can now cross you off my list of places I've been.

I want to be stereotyped...

...I want to be classified.

The trees were really something special. Maybe it was the time of the year, but they just had a very "awww" touch to them. I almost heard bells and saw golden beams of light coming from the sky. Almost.

The view from my window at Tamarack. And I always thought that winter wonderland was just a song.

Snow everywhere.

We were on the third floor overlooking the main entrance. Had there been a fire, I wouldn't have thought twice to jump because there was tons of snow right outside. In fact, I thought about busting out the window and doing in just for fun.

See all those pillows? Taylor and I created a wall of them and put that between us so our asses wouldn't touch. He said he was fine without it, but I wasn't taking any chances.

A TV we didn't use.

Monday, March 9, 2009


This guy greets you as you enter the ghost town.

I swear I'm going to do my best to say only nice things about Calico, but this gift shop was creepy. Imagine dolls with eyes that seem a bit too real and knick-knacks that may or may not have human hair and that's what you get here.

Jeb: "Hey Cletus, you know what we could put on top of the roof?"
Cletus: "Nope."
Jeb: "Some fake Indians."
Cletus: "Yeah, that's a good idea."

This restaurant is large, serves beer and had a cute waitress. Oh yeah, and zero customers.

This sign tells you all about stuff you thought you cared about until you actually read it and then realized you didn't care at all.

This one too.

This is pretty neat. Turns out the guy who started Knott's Berry Farm, aka Mr. Walter Knott, was responsible for re-creating the Calico Ghost Town. I think there was also something about a time capsule that may or may not be opened fairly soon.

If I could grow a moustache, I'd look like this guy. And who doesn't want smooth lips?

Did someone say "beer garden?"

Leave it to me to find the most interesting thing at a replica ghost town to be the cat that wanders in front of the cafe where employees who should be working smoke and talk about how they aren't working.

If there's such thing as Zen in San Bernadino County, this is probably it. Atop this mountain, you can look down on Calico and get a killer view and an even more serene panoramic shot of the surrounding area. I spent a few minutes up there "just being, man."

This is the beginning of the mine that you have to pay an extra $2 to get into. I mean, if you already drove all the way there, you might as well pony up. But if you don't, you're missing a low-tech laser light show that teaches you all about rocks (exciting!) and some more of those fake people who are supposed to create atmosphere, only the miners aren't Indians. See below.

Seriously, what's wrong with me? I drove to bumfuck nowhere to check out this town that I've thought about stopping at for years and all I can do is take pictures of cats? I've got five of those little monsters at home ferchrissakes! But I am a sucker for felines. I saw the first two and was trying to pet them, but ferals don't like people. Then a women wearing a period piece dress came over and explained to me how she wished someone who come and take them to get fixed. I almost asked why she didn't do it, but this is Yermo. I didn't need to ask. She then showed me all the other black and white kitties and explained to me that, yes, they did have names, but no, she did not remember them. I tried doing the slow backwards walk, the one that tells most people you are leaving, but she wasn't getting it. I damn near hoofed it back to Long Beach before she figured out that I was trying to bail.

As you can tell, I'm practicing for when Vice calls me and begs for me to write their Dos and Don'ts. But in the meantime, I'll get serious for a second. As kooky as Calico Ghost Town is (and believe you me, it's kooky), I had a good time. This is my first ghost town and I was well aware that this is a re-built version of what the town used to look like. Some ghost town websites poo-poo Calico for not being authentic, but I was a newbie and enjoyed myself enough to recommend it to others. Besides, you get to stop at that killer Del Taco in Barstow on the way.

Whether it was constructed 100 years ago or last week, there's some great craftsmanship at Calico, the kind you don't see everyday in a big city. In fact, this was probably my favorite part of my trip. I must have looked like a weirdo staring up at ceilings for minutes on end, completely unaware of the useless leather junk they try to sell. That, and the fact that I was alone on a Wednesday afternoon and there were more employees than visitors really put me in the minority. Well, that, and the fact I have all my teeth.

In what's got to be a sure sign of the apocalypse, Calico sells veggie burgers for all those vegetarians stopping through Yermo.

On the way home I stopped at the Tanger Outlet Center in Barstow and got something like 10 Old Navy shirts and a sweatshirt for like $30. Yes, I am a fashionista sissy.

Wednesday, March 4, 2009


To know me is to embrace my love of Hispanic women. And today, I overheard the hottest thing of, maybe, all time.

I was at a community college, just standing against a wall, presumably looking old. To my right was a short, cute Hispanic girl talking to a tall dude with lots of zits.

This other Hispanic girl -- decked out in her pseudo-punk look that probably came from the mall -- walked by and passed us without saying a word. The mall punk Hispanic got about ten steps away when the Hispanic girl to my right said to the guy, "that girl has a nice ass."

I was floored. I really, really, really wanted to say something, but whenever I'm on campus, at 29, I'm the old creepy guy. Saying anything to her wouldn't have been a good move on my part. So I stayed quiet, but deep down, I agreed.

Then mall punk walked back. The dude checked her out (which he probably already did but was smart enough not to admit to) and then the first Hispanic girl says, "see. She has a nice ass."

What was even hotter was, the mall punk DID have a nice ass.

There's a million things wrong with today's youth. Girls talking about other girls' nice asses out in the open is definitely not one of them.