Death Begins in the Colon

2010 San Diego Padres - Early Season Review

2010-04-18T16:10:00.000-07:00

The Regunevated Barry Zito/Lincecum Bay City Giants, los Manny Ramirez-led Dodgers, Chase Headley, Dick Enberg, and the Friar of America's Finest City, San Diego, now symbolize the excellence contained therewithin, Major League Baseball's National League West Division.

George Brassens - Le Maitre. D.

2009-09-30T16:24:00.000-07:00

Glass Art + Booze = Patriotism

2009-09-09T09:25:00.000-07:00

Sending the US national team some mojo with a handmade yard glass, adorned with the colors of old glory.

Update: This piece is now on display (and sometime use) at O'Brien's Pub in Kearny Mesa - best place in SD to watch soccer, specifically of a US variety.

Glass Vegas Nerve

2009-08-28T01:46:00.000-07:00

In no particular order, these are pictures from a recent trip to Las Vegas for the AGE show.

San Bernardino national Forest..
West on I-15
Water Pipes!
Hookahs, Steamrollers, and Water Pipes!

Steam Rollers!

Fireplace!
Display before I unpacked it!
Me after I got home from driving through the desert! With sleeping cat.
Driving through the desert! Rest stop outside Baker, Ca.
San Bernardino national forest!
That rest stop outside of Baker!
More water pipes! And larger hand pipes for those who like the bigger, yet dry style.
More of San Bernardino National Forest!
Rest Stop! Ford Explorer!
Check out them larger water pipes.
The full, final display. Not bad, eh?
And there was a hot tub in the stairwell! With a VIP chain. Sadly I had to wait outside for entry.

Notes from a Wine Tasting

2009-08-02T02:01:00.001-07:00

A wonderful summer solstice. Several varietals of excellent wine.

Friday Smorgasbord w/Garden Update

2009-05-29T09:10:00.001-07:00

First of all, I'll give you all a garden update...

Compare the picture to the one from this post a few months back and you will see the power of THIS FULLY OPERATIONAL SAN DIEGO CLIMATE.

*The Swedish word "smörgåsbord" is a word consisting of the words smörgås ("open faced sandwich") and bord ("table").

Secondly, my stock picks from my last post? Absolutely fucking tearing shit up. I imagine this may jinx them, but damn, I publish one stock tip and the shit explodes. My Penny stock, Cerro Dorado? Up to 5 cents! That's a GOD DAMN 500% increase. So, then Hubris came over, and, well, anyway..

Thoughts on the Champions League final - Barcelona have a great team. Also, Man United did not show up. I do not truly believe Barcelona was THAT much better than Man U - Ferguson got his tactics and lineup wrong. Truthfully I like Barcelona more, and am glad to see Henry get his winner's medal, but In would have preferred to see a much better game - especially given the presentation, in stunningly clear HD, was the best visually presented soccer game I have ever seen.

Perhaps some more thoughts as the day continues..

The Great Oil and Gold Play of 2009 - Summer Edition

2009-05-18T11:23:00.000-07:00

As a loyal reader to Death Begins in the Colon, it's high time I let you in on a little secret: I am quadra-positioned.

Primed, if you will, for geo-financial, nay, pan-financial dominance. Or, at least, Profitability, situated above the ruins, in a nicely adorned alcove, with a clear view to pounce in the Golden Age of Globalisation.

How, you ask, is this possible?

With my four horsemen of the forthcoming pro-pocalypse - CDCH, MDMN, DBO, and last, but not least, DXO.

What the hell are those, you ask?

The first, Cerro Dorado, or CDCH, is a penny stock (now 3 pennies!), which I first purchased in January, a Gold Mine in Chile, showing "Promising Core Samples." Someone told someone who told someone else about it, and the next thing you know, Whammo! I needed several thousand shares STAT. (That's what I call due dilligence) I bought in at .016, and it went to around .037 or so before settling around .03, where it currently lay. The big gossip: The CHINESE are showing interest in buying the mine, and if purchased, the stock has potential to reach the $10.00+ range. This would, of course, be a nice chunk of change. My Verdict - Horseshit, but hell, I've already doubled my money (if, of course, I found a buyer, err), so I'm in for the long haul. For now, anyway.

The second, Medinah Minerals, is a sister company of CDCH. Same idea - Mine in Chile, "Promising" core samples, "Promising" potential JV (that's Joint Venture) with the "Chinese" (love how they throw them Chinamen around to get the investors salivating), purchased at .007, now around .02 - more than doubled my money, but staying in for long haul anyway.

Both of the above, of course, have the potential to crash to 0.00, but that's the nature of penny stocks. But they can RISE! Like a glorious Phoenix, doused in Gasoline with a firecracker up it's ass. Beautiful spectacle.

That, my friends, represents the Great Gold Play of Summer 2009. The Great Oil play awaits!

Act One of said Oil Play? DBO, the oil ETF also known (formally) as "PowerShares DB Oil Fund." I bought at the (current) 52 week low of 15.75, and it is now hovering around 22. The reason I bought? It's 52 week high - 55.65. Sure, this was when the Oil prices peaked like a phish fan on a ten strip last summer, but hey, with Peak Oil and whatnot, it's sure to come back around. Right? (Silence.) False economic recovery? Um, er, well, Maybe! Hey, I'm up on it, but we'll see. I'm going to wait with it and see what happens.

Act 2, the final act of our summer of profitability and, possibly, shame, ends with my final of the quadra-positions, DXO, also known (even, sadly, to it's closest friends and relatives) as "PowerShares Crude Oil Double Long ETN." Truly, I don't really know what this means. I bought at 3.17, and unlike the DBO before it, it immediately went down, to around 2.60 something, and I was unhappy. Then, it rallied, and currently sits around 3.50 or so. It's a strange beast, and I don't really know what it truly represents. But it did have a 52 week high of 28.61, so if it gets anywhere near those levels I would certainly be quite delirious with an emotional reaction resembling joy.

The rise in the price of oil lately has been attributed to a feeling (and hope) of economic recovery, so all of this could blow up when the world realizes that hey, we're not really recovered, and another gas gauging comparable to last summer might just be a death knell to any near term stability (or point for recovery). But hell, we're printing money again, and summer's around the corner - everybody get in your car and drive! And if you know any Chinese, specifically "The Interested Chinese Parties" encourage them to buy both Medinah Minerals and Cerro Dorado. Thank you and drive through.

Successful Overstock.com Cancellation story!

2009-04-28T12:42:00.000-07:00

I have successfully, unequivocally, cancelled a purchase with overstock.com, AND received a refund. In a timely manner. Praise the Lord.

Here's the deal. About three weeks ago, I drank a very large amount of coffee. Thusly caffeinated, I decided I definitely, 100% to purchase a new rug for my new room. After much careful searching, I decided I needed something made of "Natural Fibers," with Seagrass leading the way.

So, I navigated the morass of Seagrass rugs through the various sites - I believe my favorite was NaturalAreaRugs.com, but frankly I didn't want to spend $500. But $284! Yes! I will, in fact (and in deed) spend $284 on a rug. A "Jute" rug! THIS one, in fact. Why not Seagrass? Impatience!

So I made the order around 10:00 am on a Tuesday. By 5:00 pm, I was down off the coffee and suffering from serious buyers remorse. So I called them up and requested cancellation. "Well," the guy (not verbatim) explained, "Once something is ordered, it's ordered. It will ship from the warehouse. What I can do is send a cancellation email to the warehouse and see if they can stop it. We'll let you know in 1 to 2 days." I asked, can't you call the warehouse? No, it apparently doesn't work like that. Just where was this warehouse that you cannot call? "Georgia, I think," he stated. What are the odds this cancellation will be successful? "About 50-50."

Then I proceeded to google "Overstock.com" and "cancellations" and a whole slew of bad information came up - basically everyone stating what happened to me in the above paragraph, and never getting their money back or sometimes even the product at all.

So, the next day I called them again to try to cancel and recieved a similar response. I called my bank to see if a stop payment was an option, which it was not, as I authorized the transaction. Then I just gave up on it, accepting that I had purchased a giant rug and it was coming. Oh and did I mention my girlfriend completely hated it? Well that was a small part of the cancellation desire, bien sur.

But then - Salvation! On Friday (same week) I get an email saying "We believe that we have resolved your inquiry." The following Tuesday, I had the money in my account.

So, in light of all the bad experiences out there on the interweb w/overstock.com, just wanted to put out some good mojo.

Earth Day Celebration - O'Connell's Bar

2009-04-22T15:59:00.000-07:00

Come on down to O'Connell's Bar tonight, and see my alter-ego, David (well, it's my real name, but kind of an alter ego, anyway) play guitar and sing in the band Kinome.

We will rock you! If, that is, what you desire. If not, well, we will provide you entertainment in the manner that's particular to your idiom.

Garden Update numero tres

2009-03-29T10:17:00.000-07:00

Intrepid DBITC reader CMH recently indicated her interest in further garden updates, as well as plant description: Her wish is my command!

As you can see from the newest picture, there are now two gardens. The first, the OG (as Ice-T was once called, Original Garden) contains Kale, Spinach, Red Lettuce, Radishes, Carrots, Jalapeno (as yet grown, perhaps may not), a few flowers, Chard, Beets, and possibly a few others.

Garden number 2, in the background, contains strawberries, tomatoes, lettuce, and still has a lot of empty space for future planting, which will include (from the seedlings shown as well) more lettuce, and, a lot of other things I am forgetting. Melon-esque things, I believe.

Garden concrete barriers provided by intrepid home co-owner Corey, retrieved from a demolished parking lot near his work.

This has been your San Diego sustainable gardening update.

Garden Update

2009-03-12T16:03:00.001-07:00

Alright, so you've been clamoring for the Garden updates.. Here's a picture from soon after the transplants were planted, about a week after we broke dirt on the whole enterprise.

(See previous post, Victory Garden, Day 1)

The Hobbit Home of Monterey

2009-03-09T12:06:00.000-07:00

From the front:

From the side:

Cleaning out the phone camera - The Hobbit Home of Monterey, CA.

Victory Garden, Day 1

2009-02-26T15:16:00.000-08:00

Soon, living off the land will not be a dream, but a reality.

Not only can I dig a hole, but I can water it too.

Updates to follow as things actually grow out of the earth.

Sheik Yourcoffi

2009-01-09T12:53:00.000-08:00

My most excellent method to avoid coffee shooting out of the spout when you go over speed bumps.

(apologies to Frank Zappa)

The Virgin Mary in Mayonnaise

2008-11-25T09:20:00.000-08:00

My girlfriend once worked at a fine culinary establishment called "The Spot" in La Jolla, Ca. One day, she grabbed the ladle and started spooning out mayo, and one big blob fell off and onto the countertop. Looking down, she saw it was not an ordinary mistake, but the will of the Holy Spirit, rebirthing the sacred corpus of the Virgin Mary in earthen condiment form, a reminder of salvation for those whose holy trinity includes egg whites, vinegar, and prayer.

The Virgin Mary of Mayonnaise appeared in the Summer of 2008, late July, in La Jolla, California.

Everything Under the Sun

2008-11-10T23:18:00.000-08:00

The Mars Rover sent its last transmission today, and then froze to death.

The credit markets, though the TED spread may lower, currently circulate 'round a similar toilet bowl. The "Credit Crisis" is but one thing: A Crisis of Faith.

If you think about it enough, the ideas of Money, Value, Gold, etc, have no real "worth." Picture a world in which apes and other simian beasts roamed and ruled singularly. Here's a piece of Gold. Now make me a sandwich. No. I don't want to make you a sandwich. But it's gold. I don't care. There is no "Gold Standard," or "Shit Standard." Here's a piece of shit. Make me a sandwich. A shit sandwich.

Returning to my original idea, the Dow is an extension of human faith and belief. Belief and faith in fellow man, specifically in America, has reached a critical low. You see, it's all about the show. During the administrations of Reagan and Clinton, our most profitable and powerful years, other Countries respected us. But it wasn't about what they actually did - it was all about how they looked doing it. Did they have swagger - did they look like they knew what they were doing? Undoubtedly. They had balls, Reagan and Clinton. One an actor, one a lawyer, and if done successfully, what's the fucking difference? Not too fucking much. Cult of Personality, as Corey Glover sang, and Vernon Reid rocked.

And those bastards were PRINTING MONEY like mad. I seriously doubt our economies were really that different or dependent on what they did - when in doubt they invented dollars into thin air and leveraged the future. And that's all anyone does anymore! Bailout, Stimulus Package - it's all crap! All world currencies have been debased, for the simple fact they acknowledge the dollar and refer to their own value in comparison. Worthless garbage. Everyone knows it. The whole Lipstick Pig thing. Until we all return to our fiefs and farm like peasants it's all an act of bravado and imagination that anything has tangible meaning more than it can be traded for food.

So, in conclusion, Obama has swagger and looks like he knows what he's doing. The other candidates? Not so much. Policies of each? Who cares? Who's going to placate the world long enough to keep them from calling in our debts? Barack, baby.

Besides, if they did call in those debts? We'd just cross our fingers and smile, hoping we skip the "War" phase of the collapse game and head right towards self sufficiency, a la Candide, cultivating our garden.

"America... Fuck Yeah."

2008-11-06T09:19:00.000-08:00

The Great Depression 2.0

2008-10-02T14:53:00.000-07:00

Sure, the Great Depression sucked, and a new IMPROVED version is right around the corner, but did it really kill anyone? Did anyone die as a result of "The Great Depression?"*

Most of the pictures we see from that time show people lining up to get food - but they're wearing SUITS! They still had time to wear ties, dress nicely, and queue up for bread and vittles.

It's not like it was freakin' Auschwitz or anything, people. C'mon now.

Smile! Flapper Dance! (with jazz hands!)

*On further review, it looks like people maybe died from starvation and whatnot, probably related to not having money, probably related to not having jobs, which was probably, maybe related to the great depression. Still, I stand by my It Ain't Auschwitz statement.

Texting from the Shitter

2008-09-18T15:11:00.000-07:00

And damn if I didn't want to entitle this post "Blogging From the Shitter," but I didn't remember if I could send text messages directly from to my blog to be posted from my cell phone, which is, in fact, a newly purchased Blackberry.

To answer the question some have posed, "Why didn't you get an IPhone?" I thusly respond, I already have an IPod. Isn't that enough?

So, basically, everytime I go into the shitter at work, 75% of the time there is someone in the stall next to me, doing his own business. The other 25%, of course, it's just me, contemplating the solitary sounds of my poop hitting the water.

But, when there's someone else next to me, you know what I hear, 90% of the time?

Text messaging fingers of fury.

That's right, you read that correctly - I hear text messaging occurring nearly 90% of the time someone is in the shitter next to me. It's unreal. And what was I, bastion of moral superiority, doing, au meme temps?

Trying out the new phone. Playing some game to familiarize myself with the controls, a "Breakout"-esque game. Can you put a hyphen after a parenthesis? I just did.

You know what else I did? Texted in the shitter.

And contemplated the imminent financial collapse of America.

Go greed!

Odds and Sods

2008-09-03T13:35:00.001-07:00

Greatest search used to find my blog: "conor oberst colonic"

I'm ranked #3 for such a search on Google. Sweet Action!

My 100th Post

2008-08-07T15:58:00.000-07:00

I have given up coffee for, er, three days now, in an ongoing effort to a) remember how to sleep again without the aid of drugs, and b) manifest better energy, as the life schedule has been rapidly increasing as of late.

Been drinking the green tea, just about a cup a day, and although no headaches to report, a definite, general malaise has crept in. More than that, though, I'm tired as shit.

And that's all I got for my 100th post.

Colon Superfood Showdown Round 3: Brett Favre

2008-07-31T11:30:00.000-07:00

Bonjour!

Aujourd'hui nous allons parler de Colon Superfood numéro trois, Brett Favre.

Yes, the entire Brett Favre situation is a superfood in itself. It makes my colon happy, resplendent with its toned excellence. Why? What does Brett Favre have to do with my colon?

The answer is: Shit, as in "I don't give one shit, or two shitts about Brett Favre's situation." Look - I like the guy, but couldn't give a crap. Sign for a team in the division, sign for the Chargers. I don't care.

Having said that, though, I actually could give a crap. Because, as you know, I love to poop. Next time I let one loose, I'll look down in the bowl, and say, "That's for you, #4." In fact, I extend this offer to all my readers (ahem) - I will give a crap, for YOU. So next time you say, "No one cares about me!" and you go into your corner, cry, or curl into the corner of your nearest shower, saying "I feel so dirty," etc, say a new mantra. In fact, here is your new Mantra:

"Someone gives a crap for me." You can even personalize it - "David gives a crap for me."

Because I do. Every day. Unless I've eaten a lot of starches and am dehydrated, in which case, I may have to Give a Crap for You Tomorrow. But I will.

I promise.

Colon SuperFood Showdown - Round Two

2008-07-29T11:24:00.000-07:00

Yes, Dear reader, it is time for Colon Super Food Showdown #2. The last superfood, you will recall, was Melon.

Today?

Tequila.

Specifically, Frida Kahlo brand Tequila.

It's delicious, nutritious, and life affirming. Also easy drinking, straight out of the bottle.

Like Mother's Milk. Which, if you desire, can be the official selection of Colon SuperFood Showdown Round #3, coming soon, you clean-colon-loving bastards.

Colon Super Foods Showdown- Round 1

2008-07-28T10:09:00.000-07:00

Yes, you read it correctly - I am going to tell you about colon superfoods.

Why all the talk about colons lately?

Well, I am a man who likes his colon, specifically its well-being, integrity, and the untenable je ne sais quoi which keeps me going back for more. Back to the john, that is, to use my fully functional eliminating matrix.

So, now that you have that image burned into your mind, know this: The Superfood I have chosen for you in round one of our showcase showdown (tm) will have you gasping for air. Screaming for Mercy. Begging for salvation. Just remember: Only the peninent man will pass. But even the penitent man has trouble passing stones. In fact, it makes a man go from penitent to suppine in minimal tiempo. I imagine I would be troubled by such a passing, as well. That's why I drink a lot of water. In fact, we'll give water de facto position # 1/2 on the Colon Super Food showdown. And remember, Radex Malores es Cupiditat.

But, now is not the time for such unpleaseantries, but quite the opposite - Es La Hora de Cucci Cucci! And to help in this time of great cucci cucci, you need the astonishing, revelatory power of my Colon SuperFood #1, which is.....

MELON.

On Friday, I ate half of a honeydew melon. Or canteloupe. Not sure which it was, but all I know is that on Saturday - Full on poop festival.

Although I did consume a lot of beer and tequila in Tijuana on Friday night, so perhaps that had something to do with it. But, I digress; today is Melon's time: Es la hora de melon. And I am not one to step on someone's hora with wanton parlance of something else. So, for a healthy colon, eat melon. You'll poop great.

Stay tuned for continuing updates to the Colon Super Foods Showdown. All. This. Fucking. Week.

The Best Colon Supplement in the History of Earth

2008-07-23T14:43:00.000-07:00

Impacted feces making you long for that great release? Is there a colon cleanse on your horizon? How about in your REAR VIEW mirror? Guffaw! Clean that colon, son.

Normally, this blog has nothing to do with colons, colonics, or any of that good stuff. However, due to the title, "Death Begins in the Colon," I get many hits from people looking for better ways to help themselves achieve colon health. Even emails from old friends. So this is for them. And YOU, dear reader - even if you have no colon problems currently, what I have to say here may prove quite informative.

The Greatest Colon/Poop Enhancing Supplement Currently Available to Humankind (or T.G.C.P.E.S.C.A.t.H, as I habitually refer to it in common conversation) is none other than Dr. Schulze's Intestinal Formula #1

Feeling a bit blocked up after pizza binge? Recently quit drinking coffee, and suddenly you're carrying around some unexpelled girth? Pop a Schulze. No, pop Two!

What also works is lots of fucking beer. Especially Fat Tire, though I imagine any beer will do in large quantities. When I lived in Colorado, people swore by it's laxative properties. And it makes you gassy! Which is great - if, in fact, gassy is a state you desire.

The 52nd state, if you will.

Thank you for listening to my poop diatribe. I love poop.

And how's the sobriety going? Six Days Strong, no alcohol, small amounts of Ambien, no weed, marginal coffee intake. Even managed to fall asleep completely drug free last night - unless you count copious amounts of feta cheese, pasta, and cheesecake as drugs. Which they could be. Especially since I snorted them.

Well, not really, but in a metaphorical sense. In the Shakespearean sense. But not a Boolean sense.

Drug free in '03!

2008-07-18T10:40:00.001-07:00

Yes, today is the fifth day of an attempted two week detox program (no booze, no weed) and, surprisingly, I am not crawling up the walls.

Kicking the caffeine and meat is another story, however, and I am not sure I am even going to attempt either. Many moons ago I managed to go three days on the "Master Cleanse" lemonade diet, but it didn't work out so well. I went into it having drank a whole bunch the day before, and really just had a sugar headache from the maple syrup. Other than that, though, nothing special. Probably could have waited it out, but didn't.

What else is new.. Hmm.. Found a great new up-and-coming San Diego artist singing about "Lime Green."

My original song "Cthulhu Waits Deaming" is climbing the charts at YouTube.

Started reading "The Power of One."

Continued my quest for colonic excellence.

How Butch Women can Heal Troubled Teens - A Match made in California

2008-07-11T14:58:00.000-07:00

I had a great idea for this and then I slightly forgot it, so I am going to attempt to remember it by typing.

Ok, so with the legalization of same sex marriages in California, I imagine there is going to be a great debate about adoption regarding these same sex couples. Well, if there isn't a debate, I am ready to throw my hat in and start one! You see, the issue at hand is this: Troubled Teens.

Follow me? Okay, so the story is this. There are some male on male and female on female couples out there who want kids, but due to their biological makeup, or lack of genetic intervention/innovation, cannot make it happen. You push, you pull, you tug, but in the end, try as you might, ain't nothing popping out of that womb (or stomach, if you are wombless, like the typical guy on guy coupling). So you gotta go get yis'self an adoption.

Now, for those of us who don't know, and adoption is different than an abortion. Yes, only two letters different, but if you google it, you'll find out what I'm saying. So, you're one of them newfangled gay married couples, and you want a kid. You go to the Adopt Mart (tm). Or, you go to Thailand, or some other country that lets you Adopt Asian Children. Whatever your need. Here's my take, though:

There are tons of "middle-aged" children available to adopt who have no shot at it. No shot. Troubled Teens, some might say, who get shuttled around from foster home to half way house, until they are 18, never knowing a mother's love. But you know what could heal these teens? TWO MOTHER'S LOVE! One caring, sentimental, and feminine love, and one short haired, masculinely built, good at softball love! That's some double loving you can't find in most places.

In fact, I think it should be mandatory that if you want to adopt, and you are a my two mom (or dad) scenario, than you have to take a Troubled Teen as a child. No fresh young whippersnappers for you, my dear(s) - California gave you a new lease on married life, return the favor and help out one of California's Troubled Teens.

Waiting for the Ambien to kick in

2008-05-12T23:15:00.001-07:00

which usualy happens quicker when you chew it.

The Celtics are mildly killing me. They're missing something.

Some random cat came through the cat door window. I was like, "hey, what the fuck."

Remember to get some beebees at that store where such things may be found, should I ever go there (or to those of its type again).

Do you hear the bells, Cthulhu?

I do.

The Best 2 Post Blog in the World

2008-05-07T16:04:00.000-07:00

.. Was, in fact authored by myself.

Or Barabbas?

No Drinking for Four Days

2008-04-15T18:18:00.000-07:00

..Except for last night, which ended the valiant streak.

And how's the poop, you ask?

Dynamite.

And how about a transcript of a recent Gmail chat?

me: Kinome
6:16 PM Corey: KYgnome
me: MyGnome
Corey: Gynome the gynocological "ome"
6:17 PM me: The Gynecological One
Corey: All things vaginal, including blood burps
me: Discluding
Corey: discharge
me: 'DisCharge?
6:18 PM Corey: Deez Chargers gonna kick ass dis season meng

I would have to agree with such an objective statement. Such reasoning, from such a reasoned man.

Yoga for Elimination

2008-04-07T13:23:00.000-07:00

Hi All!

Welcome all readers who are arriving via http://www.sciencebasedmedicine.org/, specifically their mention of my blog on this page.

In case any of you are constipated, I highly recommend Yoga For Elimination. If I was smart, I'd have a link where you can buy my favorite flax seed supplement, and I could collect $ .05 for my troubles.

Also, for the many of you who reached this blog for a search for "The Sparrows are flying again, George," that is from the Steven King novel "The Dark Half" - one of my favorites.

If I was smart, I'd have an Amazon link so you could buy that book right now, and I'd collect $ .05 for my troubles. But I don't.

I have now decided to monetize this blog. Look for links to purchase great literature and great fiber in the coming days. I will also regale you with tales of my gastrointestinal system, the ins, the outs, the bulk of it all.

And whether or not it sinks or floats.

If they Nationalzed everything

2008-04-02T20:09:00.000-07:00

Would it really be that different than it is now? Would we not just go about applying the same level of industry toward the activities and endeavors we currently embark upon, and experience the equal plateau of satisfaction in relation to our environment? Would anything really change?

What I'm Reading

2008-01-22T21:21:00.000-08:00

SO fucking good.

And what's up with the whole trimming the wick when you re-light candles? I never knew about that - never did it.

Now, I do it.

Slash didn't teach me that, but he definitely taught me many new things.

Yule Loggin'

2007-12-30T17:15:00.000-08:00

Good tidings, I bring, for you and your kin,

Like Mr. Quasi-Santa Purple Death Zeus.

And isn't it the time to go out into the frozen yonder,

And chop yourself down a tree,

Well, maybe another type of tree,

Turn the light on one's own inner purple, making it manifest,

.. prescient, and most important, forboding, brimming with good tidings for the new gaggle of days to come.

Support Your Team

2007-12-17T18:32:00.001-08:00

San Diego

SUPER CHARGERS!

Farm Dogs

2007-11-08T22:32:00.000-08:00

Last month, I went back home to Massachusetts, to visit not only family, but friends.

Yes, both.

I have a friend who lives in Vermont - this picture was taken just down the street from his sweet ass house.

It was here that I learned about Farm dogs.

You see, we were walking said Friend's golden retrievers, and went into the driveway of this farm, to talk to his neighbors.

Immediately, three dogs begin barking. One, a boxer-pit bull hybrid (pictured!) , chained to a picnic table. No real threat there. The second, a little yappy dog, whom I figured I could put down with minimal (strong kick to head) force.

The third, however, was unlike any beast I have ever seen. I just did a google image search for "Farm Dog," and nothing came up which remotely resembled this terrible beast. Then I tried "disgusting dog," and again, nada.

This dog looked like a lion. Crossed with a poodle. It had nasty white curls, poodle-esque, but dirty. And large. And blood dripping down it's jaws and chin. Looked kind of like a sheep dog, but much, much larger. If you were walking down one of these Vermont roads, nothing but countryside surrounding you, and this dog came waltzing down the middle of the road toward you, you would fucking die. Shit yourself with fear. Just a scary beast.

And the reason the animal had blood all over his face?

One of the cows had just given birth. After inspecting us, deciding that the two retrievers made us slightly not killable, the Farm Dog strolled back over to his side of the yard, where he resumed nibbling on something.

Cow Placenta.

"You see," said the farmer, walking toward us, "Every farm needs a good farm dog. Say you got a sick animal, you gotta put it down. What the hell you gonna do with what's left? Farm Dog take care of it. Stray Cats, Dogs getting at your animals and their food? Farm Dog. Afterbirth, animal parts - Farm Dog."

Farm Dog Indeed.

Monolith - A retrospective in low resolution camera phone images.

2007-10-03T11:46:00.000-07:00

Ah, the pillars of Red Rocks ampitheatre.

One such pillar, anyway.

I recently had the fortune, my poor and unfortunate guest, to attend the inaugural Monolith Festival, held at the aforementioned Colorado arena.

Dare I say, it fucking rocked, although with such impressive photographic evidence heredisplayed, who needs my words to thee sway?

Some band from the first day who moderately rocked.

Maybe Kings of Leon, who rawked the haus on the first night. Maybe not, though.

But certainly not the Decembrists, to whom I immediately bid adieu and headed to the downstairs bar.

I sent a text message describing their performance as: "If Jesus made Christmas Boring. The Decembrists."

This picture, though, Though, may be Art Brut - who I thought were kind of OK. Vocally loud.

The night ended with Cake, who were pretty fucking good as well. "Play She's Going the Distance, for fucks sake!" being a common refrain. "Or that other fucking one I know."

That night, deciding to take it Chelada style..

My accomplice and I ran into the lead singer of the (below pictured) Brian Jonestown Massacre in the parking lot outside "Jose O'Sheas" apparently Mex-Irish palace of destruction (with a free mexican food bar buffet!).

He is an intense man.

I will not regale you with a full transcription of our brief encounter, for it it ours to treasure alone, but I will relay one morsel he spaketh to said accomplice:

"Your father fucked a good looking woman but you still have the traits of your father."

I still have the traits of San Diego.

This is probably Cake again. I took none of the Flaming Lips, who I thought ruled.

Ah, Yoshimi.

The Post to End all Posts

2007-08-01T21:54:00.000-07:00

There is a great, hidden story in my life.

Not a vainglorious epic, nay. Were I to danse in the idiom of another, your love for me would wane.

Many years ago, mine eyes did see the glory of a college dorm room. Fastened as a veritable Chateau, my room was, quite literally, the Turret.

Numerous hours were spent synchronizing Alice in Wonderland to Dark Side of the Moon. At the 3:14 mark, I believe - at least that's what the timer on my VCR said. And says.

Also, playing Twisted Metal 2.

One night, we established a truth so wonderful, life-affirming, and prescient, one wonders how the great continuum of human thought hath not pontificated in it's general direction.

It's basically, unequivocally, The Chinese Baby Island Quorum.

Now, I know what you're thinking. No, not that. Listen - yes, That's It. That's the One. Move with it. Mull it over; let it meander through your own mental ranch dip, marinade. And then, nod slightly, feel the beginnings of a smile appear on your face. Let your face relax. Swallow the visceral composite of your own mental excellence.

"Look at your old men dying..
Look at your women crying..
Like they've always done before."

I'm hyponotized.

So, the theory, nay, the Great Chinese Baby Island Question?

Well, it's actually more of a Great Chinese Baby Island Experiment. It was begat, in the Turret Room of the Chateau of an Unnamed College or University, in the late 1990s. Down the hall lived an Albanian woman, who, if Albania still had monarchy or royalty, would have been a Princess. She had a monster Rack, and a haughty, regal, yet totally good person being demeanor.

But the Theory! Ah, yes. The theory was begotten, AND Made. Now, the Chinese. I LOVE the Chinese. And, more importantly, They're Coming. That's the general undercurrent of most political discourse. They consume natural resources like locusts! Shady Oil Dealings! Damn it, I'm in. I will welcome them, though not as invaders. As neighbors in our complete global consumption.

Also, I'm welcoming them as fellow members of The West, for what is direction, if not Relative? In fact, they are no longer from the "Far East." Us and China, we now the West.

Much like others before them, however, China have done (and may, perhaps continue to do) some Weird Shit.

For example, the whole If-it's-a-girl, Drown-it-Thing, as well as the Binding-O'-The-Feet.

So all that I have to say stems from an analysis of the first option - Say a family gets rid of their firstborn because it's not a Son, or perhaps chuck the male child, since they needed a Daughter (to sell for a high dowry to the local magistrate.)

My View? DON'T DROWN CHILDREN. Send them to an Island. Haul the fuckers down the Yangtzee (or your preferred Chinese body of water) and drop 'em off on the island.

The Island variables aren't too important; let's say, for shit's sake, that there's some trees, but not much else.

So, it goes like this - you're an unwanted baby. Your parents, instead of going for the Permanent Underwater Baptism opt to do a more Darwinistically Humane thing - contribute to a study which may provide the ultimate answer to questions of free will, culture, civilizations, destinies of man, and the deepest, darkest, Heart of Goodness of it all: Will a child consume his fellow child?

Such a question can only be answered by the correct response. A summation of the general theory is as follows:

In the initial stage, you drop off 100 or so babies, complete infants. Please keep in mind, folks, that this is INSTEAD OF drowning them, which makes everything A-OK! So, you drop them off, with no food.

One year later, you return (Armenia, City in the Sky!) And drop off another 100 or so babies. Would there be any there to greet them? What happened to the original bunch?

I wager most would die. But I believe the indomitable spirit of one (or a few) would fight and survive, but it would be a success achieved haphazardly, almost randomly - some, however, might say destined.

I think that they wouldn't be able to eat and would perish, but this is where random DNA mutations would kick in. Say, for example, some kid is born with a rare affliction where he bites constantly. Perhaps he, lying in the sand with his other brothers and sisters, no hope, completely helpless, rolls onto the kid next to him.

Then, he starts biting, as he has no control. Say he bites the kid and starts eating him. Sucking his nutrients out, whatever vampirirc possibility you could imagine - yeah, I've thought them all out. These are INFANTS - gumming their way to gastrointestinal satisfaction.

That one would stand a greater chance. Say he rolls down to the ocean, and keeps chewing, and he eats some bugs, maybe swallows a live crab walking across his helpless baby face, and a HUGE choking struggle ensues, which the baby eventually wins, through reaction alone, Heroically. Then the monolith from 2001 descends, and man achieves a state of evolution.

This baby slowly ages, makes it to year two. Not eating much, but getting by. Inadvertently eating some sand, brush, perhaps eating his way through the shit heap of corpses gathered on the beaches, catching some dangling flesh from the carrion passing overhead.

That baby could stand a chance. When the boat arrives dropping off the participants for year three, it's a free for all. The question is, what would that child now be like, having grown up on an island of abandoned Chinese babies?

Eventually, he would feel the familiar instinct, and want to protect one of them. He would take a child as his own, and raise him on the island's most fertile, consistent, formula: Chinese babies. Probably sushi-style, as I doubt cooking implements would evolve sooner than age 6 or 7, but you never know. What would such a child create?

Would s/he reach into the bowels of the delivered masses to build a theater of existence, and in it, achieve reality?

Would he raise a child, a wife, a husband, a civilization?

Or would he just club and eat babies?

You decide. I may just turn this blog completely over to Google AdSense and reap the benefits of such a wondrous inquisition.

The Stingaree Phenomenon

2007-07-09T14:20:00.001-07:00

So, I was perusing the San Diego Craigslist "Women seeking Men" listings, and came upon this posting.

I thought it to be quite interesting. Monkeypants has had some interesting postings recently regarding dating "fun" so I guess this seemed particularly poignant after reading some of those, although it's not specifically related to her trials and or tribulations.

Also, yes, I do peruse the Craigslist personals.

AND, I sometimes even blog!

Yeah, everyone go shit yourselves with sheer joy.

Leon Russell

2007-06-13T18:18:00.000-07:00

Went to see Leon last night at the Belly Up in Solana Beach.

'Twas the first time I've ever gotten to see him, and I happen to be a huge fan.

This is the best my camera phone could do.

Leon kicked ass. Still rockin' after all these years.

Holy Shit Look at this Fucking Triscuit I ate

2007-06-06T20:36:00.001-07:00

I don't cry, I kill.

2007-04-01T00:40:00.001-07:00

And the first victim is this one - right here.

You can be next. Just check out ... Or Barabbas?

The Tithe of Greatness... Revealed.

2007-02-24T00:29:00.000-08:00

Exemplifying greatness, general beattitude, and anthropomorphic alienation in a general, non-specific (and wholly untenable) way, I hereby present to you, Luckiest Reader whom ever walked the earth, the Mona Lisa Tea Compliation.

Not since I supped the blood of an Avon lady hath I consumed such pleasant spirits.

Trader Joe's night time, Breathe Easy, Ginger and Licorice teas combine with soporific splendor and magnitude con Tequila Gran Batallon (reposado), straight out of Rosarito.

And why, dear Reader, should I deserve such.. Pleasaunce?

For I have won.

The greatest prize that nary a mortal competition hath wrought.

The Bacon Wristband.

In Honor of William "The Refridgerator" Perry, I give you...

2007-01-17T21:42:00.000-08:00

POST # 72!!

Figured I'd make this my music post for the year. All I gotta say is, look at song number 20 on my top 25 most played list. It's not a comprehensive list, but apparently I do listen to a lot of Jeff Buckley, Serge Gainsbourg, Boz Scaggs, and, er, alright, I'm a fucked up dude.

But as I just stated to my friend Melina, I just downloaded two versions of "Bridge Over Troubled Water" : Elvis, Live in Vegas 1970, and Willie Nelson. Both versions rocked my world, and will soon find themselves climbing the list.

Saw "The Devil and Daniel Johnston," and also gaining ground are "Do You Really Love Me," and "Some Things Last a Long Time."

Extremely bummed about the Chargers. More than I care to admit. Ladanian Tomlinson, you did not fail; your team, and the city of San Diego, failed you.

I won't forget the things you did. Some things last a long time.

Memories of Temps Perdues

2007-01-04T23:30:00.000-08:00

Angelina had an interesting post earlier this week on something I hadn't conceived of: passports which transmit radio/cell phone-esque signals, which allow you to check in to customs, track your location, download music, shank a fellow prisoner in the yard, etc.

She also had a funny passport photo of herself, which, of course, brought forth memories of mine own international identification thing, and, of course, the last time I used my passport for international travel: The Year of Our Lord, 2000.

Yes, that picture of myself as a 23 year old man, living a carefree life, tells a wonderful story. If you'll notice, the passport itself was issued from the U.S. Embassy in Paris, as I had lost my original documents the day before.

I left my original passport in the side pocket of a Martin backpacker guitar. In a phone booth. Just off the Champs-Elysees. I walked about two hundred meters down the street, and had one of the most major "Oh, Shit!" realizations of my life. I turned around, walked back to the booth, and it was gone.

Also in the side pocket of the backpacker guitar - a container of Sweet Breath brand breath freshener. Filled to the brim with liquid LSD. Straight from the crystal. Like my old friend "Tattoo Vinnie" used to make up in the mountains around Boulder.

Somewhere, someone, be it some gypsy, criminal, normal Joe, or none or all of the above, found my sweet guitar. They also found some breath freshener, which they may or may not have tried. And, of course, my passport, so they know who their benefactor was. I like to think they took that guitar, took a whole bunch of dose, and wrote the album that will sell a billion copies worldwide. And then they'll look me up, since, you know, they fucking know who I am. And hook me up.

Or they'll hunt me down for making them insane. I never promised you a rose garden..

The Commonwealth

2006-12-27T22:34:00.000-08:00

Of Massachusetts..

IT'S EDUCATIONAL!

Christmas In the Hole, also known as Double Deck, one day befoe Christmas Eve, or two days before Christmas (the Mass of our lord Jesus).

Hanover Street, in the North End. Had a fabulous Italian Dinner at La Cantina. Bombolatti alla Aragosta.

And then.. Drinks. Lots of drinks.

Photo taken at the next bar, which just came up on my online bank statement. Only a cool sixty, if you're interested. "The Something," I believe it is called. Or kind of close. This is a sign that hangs above the stairway, leading down to the respective restrooms of both sexes.

The bartendress poured me the largest Jagermeister/Red Bull beverage I have ever had.

We walked though downtown Boston and embraced the annals of East Coast history. A divine wind blows through said city, and not in the Kamikaze sense. A Philadelphian kinship, with the weight of a Liberty bell hanging in the balance between grace.. and modernity.

Back in California, deer walked through the parking lot of my work building. Your ability to spot them in this photograph depends on thine own sensibility to light, passion, and pure, unadulterated wonder.

New Post, in which I figure out how to Download pictures from my cell phone (email them, damnit)

2006-12-11T23:18:00.000-08:00

In the several months since I've gotten my new cell phone, I've seen, and, as you will see, photographed many poignant moments.

I've seen little babies (ain't mine!) rejoice in my presence (if in = "for the reason of")

I have seen the 11-2 San Diego Super Chargers dismantle the Denver Broncos 48-20, with L.T. setting the single season T.D. record...

Saw Tom Petty in concert, Stevie Nicks came out on stage.. and neither of them died!

In addition to such, I sat around a fire the eve of my 30th birthday..

Reflected solemnly on mine own age and wisdom.. using said wisdom all the while. How was that wisdom utilized? To reflect, naturally. Solemnly. Outside of a boat parts store, near Huntington Beach.

Drove a large car down the famed Beach Boulevard..

Ate a wonderful breakfast in bed...

Photographed myself as a 30 year old man. They say Narcissus was a virgo, you know. You know what else?

Ilearned the most important life lesson one can hope to acquire..

.. That All Honorable Men...

.. Belong to the same tribe.

Rosarito

2006-12-04T20:37:00.000-08:00

Recently went with the lady friend to Rosarito, about 45 minutes south of Tijuana on the Baja coast. Where decrepit old homes sit on bluffs overlooking oceanic majesty.

In this house live many birds. Under the house, lots of bird shit.

The back of the house, though, still pretty nice action happening.

And what's that sailboat looking thingy in the distance?

One of the props from Master and Commander. That outcropping of land is home to Fox Studios, where they shot Titanic and the aforementioned boat movie.

Ah, but all good things must come to an end.. Like the tenure of the lady friends' family trailer, having stayed on the same lot for 30+ years. And most of the homes seen in these photographs. Because of this good ole' monstrosity, now under construction a couple of hundred feet up the beach.

Viva Mexico.

2006-11-26T11:19:00.000-08:00

My Glassblowing Studio

Meatwad make the money, see.
Meatwad get the honeys, see.

2006-11-24T14:52:00.000-08:00

Merry Fucking Turkey Face

Yes, I finally figured out that my digital camera shoots movies - WITH SOUND! And I've had the damn thing for about four years. Geesh.

Incidentally, I am now a Vlogger. My Thanksgiving test video / pre-yule tide greeting to you and yours, from Gumby, The Minnesota Vikings, Bobby Orr's Autographed picture, and Classic Disco.

Saturday Night Live Blogging - Brought to you by the music of Rita Coolidge

2006-11-11T22:19:00.000-08:00

The perfect combination of Saturday, night, and Energy Drink/Quality Gin Martini mayhem.

The Furious Sapphire Martini.

Drink a few of those, however, and the next thing you know you're on Itunes, downloading Rita Coolidge's "We're All Alone."

"Close... the Window
calm the light...
And it will be alright..
No need to worry now..
Let it out.. Let it all begin...
Learn how to pretend..."

Although the reason could have been that I perchanced to partake of one of the several items within the lampstand's marsupial-esque pouch entity, the inner chamber....

.. Where I learned the value of choice, through weighing the pros and cons of hookahs, pipes, mini-bongs, steamrollers...

.. Which, spurring on my intellect, led me to download the sheet music to the aforementioned symphony of aural intoxication..

.. And try to learn it on Piano.

Fellow connosieurs of greatness, knowest thou the magazine contained in the bookendish rag holder to the left of The Piano?

Yes, it be the Playboy collection.

Barest, I cannot, to jettison the elder members of said publications family, despite the amount of time it may have spent on the bathroom floor.

I could probably cure cancer with what's on my bathroom floor.

Or cause it.

Currently, I am sitting in front of the computer, writing this.

CHECK IN FOR LIVE SATURDAY NIGHT UPDATES - ALL THROUGH THE NIGHT!!

If you have something better to do, stay in.

Really.

Everything you know will be changed - Sky's the limit and you know that you can have what you want, be what you want. Sky is the limit and you know that you keep pressing on.

Like they told you on Classic Disco - but only when they're not playing Old School Rap.

**** UPDATE **** 11:09 pm, PST

I was just walking around the house listening to the aforementioned Rita Coolidge masterpiece at max volume on the Ipod, and I was thinking - It's so loud I can't really hear anything else in case anything crazy happened, like somebody jumping through my window and trying to go like the guy in Manhunter when "Inna-gadda-da-vida" comes on, only Grissom from CSI guns his ass down.

Grissom ruled in that movie.

Damn, has it been a month?

2006-11-02T10:00:00.000-08:00

Hey Y'all -

My bad in the not posting for a month thing. My bro called me up and said "Dude, I've seen the UConn women's basketball preview up for a month now..."

Yeah, well, I had to be sure everyone knew what was going to happen in the world of Big East women's hoops.

Then I get an admonishing message from Mr. Redfoot, and, well, it's on.

So, today will of course be brief, as alas, I have what is known as SHIT to do, but here's a little tale to whet your whistles-

I had this crazy dream the other day, involving two key personnages from our collective social history.

Protagonist #1:

Rudy Fucking Huxtable.

For some reason, she was there, with a younger, but still successful version of..

Protagonist #2:

T. Eldrick Woods.

Truthfully, I forget what the dream was about, but I'm sure it involved some sort of US Weekly pairing off/breeding the super child prodigy, as they have both been, well, prodigious in their youth, with only Tiger truly capping off that youthful exuberance with professional success. But if your focus was only concerned with child prodigies, and african-american ones at that, that's you combo.

And you wonder why I've been away so long.

Like a fine wine, peoples. Like a fine wine.

Women's NCAA Basketball Preview: UConn

2006-10-04T22:19:00.000-07:00

"In this position,
I would be primed to receive
Pat Summit's.. queries."

"Not just Sue Bird,
or Diana Taurasi.
I have banged them all."

"If Gino asked me,
I would get into coaching -
I can scout them girls."

Decorum in the face of wondrous urbanity

2006-09-25T19:15:00.000-07:00

J'ai vu New York.

New York, U.S.A.

I've seen your sacred buildings..

Your odes to backdoor action, etched in stone doorways along nameless northbound streets.

And structures. Large, impressive odes to domination, and not in a hubristic sense. More of a "Take this fucking shit" way.

I also ate a hot dog with onions, ketchup, and mustard for breakfast, at the south named pier/mall structure from which, on a clear day, you get Lady Liberty's left side. This taken slightly north of said destination.

Said repast of champions led to a desperation-defying celebration of Ameri-testinal fortitude and Red Blooded, Sleeve Rolling, Bible-Thumping Beattitude manifested in the Eagle Statue of Battery Park..

.. In front of which roams the night-gauntesque Beast of Battery Park, the Turkey Looking Thing...

.. who has been known to roam near the official outdoor lavatory of north-east Battery Park, where, due to the aforementioned gastrointestinal negligence at breakfasttime, I decanted a certain family's kids for their afternoon swimming rendez-vous.

Then, walking, I strolled into America. America looked at me, smiled, and said "Money. America. Have some."

I gladly supped from its bulging teet.

My Native New Yorker co-worker asked me"Did you go see the 9/11?"

The prophet of Ground Zero.

To Strawberry Fields, the segment of the Grand Park whose name, and, of course, existence, celebrates John Lennon.

The rains fell. Fifty yards in front of these folk, one would find yet another decantment. Fleeing the rain, various men without homes took to the stalls of all the public restrooms.

Chocolate Covered Strawberry Fields.

And now, I can truly, and without pretense state, that I, Dear Reader, have been laid down..

.. Like a Bridge over Troubled Water.

Serge Gainsbourg

2006-09-15T08:49:00.000-07:00

In scrolling through google images I came across this pic, photoshopped by a french person, with the caption, "Ou etait King Kong?"

Which, to the non-francophones, means, "Where was King Kong (on 9.11)?"

I cannot answer that question, but I can point out that this picture serves as a perfect metaphor for something occurring in mine own life - I will be hitting that famed city of blogs, New York City, right in the mouth, at some point during the week of September 18th - 22nd. I am visiting an old friend who is going to show me cool shit and instruct me on the ways of urban goodness. Like Kong, I am a hairy beast intent on destruction, and will be, like the Muppets, taking Manhattan. And it may not be a consensual taking.

Should any of you N.Y. blog folk desire to buy me drinks, trinkets, or otherwise, drop me an email or comment. I'm also available to speak at public schools, art gallery openings, college lectures (more toward the graduate students), NYU, RISD, Harvard, NOW, MADD, and, of course, AA. And AAA. And single A, but the minor leagues are called such for a reason.

9/11 - Whoop That Trick

2006-09-11T22:28:00.000-07:00

Yes, I have been away for quite awhile.

But, you see, there was this thing happening, in early-mid September. An anniversary, an event, that only occurs once in a lifetime. And the only, well, appropriate analogy to draw, would be with, of course, my friend and yours, 9/11.

So take the first tower, and let's call it my youth.

And that second tower, well, we'll call that innocence.

The planes can be whatever you want them to be.

Ladies and Gentlemen, On 9/10, the eve of the Fifth Anniversary of 9/11, I turned 30 years old.

To paraphrase my old friend Meredith, I am now the dirty old man she always knew I'd grow up to be.

Return to the City of the King

2006-08-17T18:47:00.000-07:00

The greatest flight in America: Southwest Airlines, San Diego Lindbergh Field to Las Vegas McCarron International - 45 to 65 minutes, depending on wind, zeal, and the wide-ranging and oft ignored ball bearing factor.

'Twas Tuesday eve I boarded the young colt, eyes betraying dollar sign envisioning ambition, waiting with gusto the opportunity I had long envied:

The drinking of an airplane beer.

Yes, I went with the Heineken, over several other domestic suitors, whose favor I would usually deign to attract and reward.

I jest. My real reason for such a mid-week escapade was due to matters of a more, daresay, judicious nature.

From out of the desert I journeyed, from the mountains, to the foothills..

.. to the Heart of the City of Sin, Las Vegas. That's Nevada, folks.

You see, my discriminatory tastes were needed as a judge at the Bikini Cup, an herbal tasting presented annually, courtesy of High Times Magazine. Boldly supporting Glass Art, Contemporary Tobacco Accessories, and Love for all humankind.

Not only did I get to play a very nice, unphotographed white piano, but all who attended received party bags, filled with excellent gift swag.

The contents of mine own.

Oh, what's that I hear? Where did I stay the night, you demand? Gathered masses, first, I demand thee huddle closer and hearken, nay, heed these words: The Motel Villa Roma. $35 a night. On a Tuesday. Across the street from the Stardust. Rated "One Star" by Expedia.

I rate the interior room quality at least 5.7 - 6.3 out of a straight 10. But still, a solid 6. Won't impress a girl, though.

.. but then again, that's why you're paying her $500 for the night!

(Ba dum dum CRASH!)

I jest again, Dear Reader. But I did make the Stardust Roulette Table pay my $41 Two Day Airport Parking Fee.

The Sad, Sad Truth - The Dirty Lowdown.

2006-08-10T20:48:00.000-07:00

So just what the fuck have I been doing that's been SOOO important, keeping me away from blogging these past, er, 16 days? Well, Dear Reader, I've been having..

Meetings with Remarkable Men...

.. like this man, Boz Scaggs.

To back track, one of the things I have been doing in this, the greatest of gaps, has been playing with my new computer - one of the Sony Vaio laptops, only with a Mother Fucking 17" monitor.

Yes, It fucks Mothers.

Also, because I tried to interface my I Pod with my new computer, I wiped the whole fucking thing out.

And I am one of those who loaded his ENTIRE CD collection onto his I Pod, because, well, I could, and, frankly, I'm anal like that.

Apples, Macintosh, whatever - you can all lick a dick. I'm a PC guy, always have been, longtime BBS SysOp geekness manifested through my first babe, a 386-16 MHz Bad Ass Virgin Violating Fucker of all that Receives.

Incidentally, as a grown man, that is now my currect nickname.

So, I now have 16 total songs on the Pod - down from 2200 plus - mainly consisting of Jeff Buckley's "Grace album" (just bought it for the first time, pretty fucking good), a Chris Whitley tune, Boz Scaggs, "Lowdown," and my favorite, "Lido Shuffle."

Also just downloaded Janis Joplin's "Get it While You Can," my favorite Janis performance - and basically the only one I can tolerate after listening to her greatest hits tape as an apprentice glassblower OVER and OVER since one of the girls working there liked to hear it.

Also I did some Bikram Yoga today for the first time. Shit was mad hot.

Also, I've been doing the mother fucking New York Times Sunday Crossword Puzzle..

.. From July 26.

But look how much of this mother fucker I have filled in!

I make myself get at least one clue a day. Except on those days where I don't fill in any fucking thing. It's sat bedside since the very Sunday whence twas printed. Getting "Arthur Conan Doyle" was the highpoint. "Elvis Aaron Presley" came instantly - I felt the presence (and, thusly, the prescience) of the King, and he ordained his grace through mine own pen - the ink, his lifeblood.

Also notice the top where I spelled out the word "Racoon" four different ways trying to figure out if it had two c's, one o, good christ.

Feel free to help a brother out.

I Heart Cathy and Haikus

2006-07-25T20:16:00.000-07:00

"Where's this finger been?
Pie, then Irving's special place,
Then more pie, donuts."

(spoken by Irving [or perhaps the dog])

"No boners for me,
How I long for death's embrace,
or a Good Crack whore."

"I ain't no crack whore,
It's just that, well, I smoke rock,
and I whore myself."

Girl, You Know It's Vrai

2006-07-12T16:24:00.000-07:00

The finest tobacco in the world, as my palate discerns, is... Amsterdamer a Rouler. Having lived for a spell in Paris, there's nothing more relaxing than sitting back in a cafe or tabac, sipping a nice cappuccino, perhaps a glass of biere, and rolling, then smoking, a fine cigarette stuffed with said tobacco.

Unfortunately, you can only purchase this wonderful goodness in Europe, so in order to get ahold of such splendor, you must order online from wholesalers, and buy in bulk.

Thusly, four years ago, I came into possession of twelve packs of the eponymous goodness. Perhaps these days you can get it somewhere in major American cities (probably New York, Boston, etc..) but that was not the case then. So, as I am not much of a smoker, and usually smoke American Spirits when I do, for the last four years I have had this stuff in my freezer, slowly making my way through its wondrous, lung-buttering pleasantry.

Finally, I am on the second to last pack.

Which has absolutely nothing to do with this blog posting, other than the fact that I just smoked one. And it was wonderful. Especially with a beer, on a beautiful summer day, in my backyard, having worked a long 8 hour day, and, most importantly, after my self imposed sobriety ban - which was supposed to last at least six days, but made it three. Apparently, my body (or intensely racing mind) has not figured out how to sleep without drugs in it, so after a few three hour of sleep nights I had to put the k(i)ybash down on that one. At least I made it to to hump day, damnit.

My backyard is an interesting amalgamation these days. First of all, there's some construction going on. Namely for Suzie the Turtle, who lives in this aquarium, which the cats decided to investigate.

Soon, however, she will live in the splendor of the Turtle Pit...

.. situated immediately beneath the tree house.

Finally, for all you lovers of fine art, I present you my latest glass creation:

I call him Resin Man, or what happens when you get high, accidentally break a bunch of shit, then stick it all together. In a 2,000 degree flame of Oxygen and Propane.

You can't inspire everyone with such greatness.

Sobriety Ban, eat shit.

The Knee of Listening

2006-07-04T18:47:00.000-07:00

Since it is, indeed, Independence Day, I decided that, in honor of mine own personal celebration of non-enslavement, I'd deign to share a bit of myself, with you, Dear Reader.

First of all, I am thrilled that Italy went through against Germany - I love the run that Klinsmann and the boys had, and I am a big fan of Jens Lehmann, as I do favor Arsenal as far as club teams go - but I am, at heart, an Italian American. The resolute Cannavaro and amazing Buffon merited their illustrious win. For my Peoples.

However, I remain despondent over the England loss. As a fan of the Premiership, I have come to know and love this England side. Crouchy, Rooney, Gerrard, Terry, Rio - all excellent players, and I sincerely believed a victory over Portugal was the likeliest result. My damn English friend got me hooked on Euro 2004 and that was it. A tough loss - but please, make your fucking penalty kick. And if you don't, at least kick the fucking thing hard.

Another thing that I shall share today is that I am, at heart, not only an Italian-American, but a Musician, as well.

Yes, it is true.

So, in honor of the Candy Minx, who left two comments on my last post, thusly earning automatic honorable mention (and possibly the title) for Commenter of the Year, and Melina, who staunchly supports and loves independent music (after all, it is Independence day), and finally, Miss Tanya, who, unbeknownst to herself, showed me how to host music through CastPost and put it on this here site (and also has a penchant for cover songs), I bequeath to all of you, originally recorded by 10,000 Maniacs, as the Candy Minx exclaims about herself, she's...

... Candy Everybody Wants.

The Figs of June

2006-06-28T18:18:00.000-07:00

Through a tree lightly.. I espy such visions of summeresque beattitude that frankly, even a stout hearted man such as myself finds leanings, nay, subdued and long thought dead longings for whole, natural communion.

And what better moyenne, if you will, to achieve such communion, than through eating the fruits of the earth.

Early came the figs of summer.

Though the majority of said fruit ripen near the middle to end of July, there are some that yearn for release under a Gemini sun. These are the Figs of June.

Foolish are those who do the Dirty Work of others, said one Donald Fagen. Tending to agree, I thusmindedly appraised the situation of our early spawned protagonists.

A little wrinkled, for unnoticed go the Figs of June by unassuming human eyes.

The Ravens, however, know neither season nor master.

They feast on the bounty of lazy man, gutting nature of her bounty, leaving exposed, violated remnants of perfection..

.. which are themselves perfect.

Coming soon: The Peach tree of mid July.

Billy Ocean is a Queef Recipient

2006-06-25T16:44:00.000-07:00

Suddenly...

... it was Sunday.... Sunday Afternoon... And I had consumed some cool, cold, genuine, draft-poured Coors. Original Coors.

And decided, hey, why not get high? To Reward Myself?

And, well, since it is Sunday and all, why not have a Pepsi and Wild Turkey? Well, maybe a Double? Ok, no bigger than Half and Half?

And why not capture the essence of the moment, the veritable tableau of existence, in a digital photograph?

Why not indeed.

High atop heavenly encampments, Angels wept, bled, orgied, and feigned interest.

Rampant Consumerism, Commodity Fetishism, and the Ducks of Capitalism walk into a bathroom...

2006-06-21T20:59:00.000-07:00

Yea, has been many a day since on this blog posted I. No, Tiny Gunpoint Dancer, I was not chained to a radiator - more like an engine block. Virgle, I heard your call, and your worrying was not in vain - I acknowledged it, and thusly held it aloft amongst my beatific visions like a beacon of the grail hovering in heavenly heights to a famished crusader, ambling toward his homeland, besmirched with the blood of the infidel - yet driven by the promise of survival, a simpler tomorrow, and, ultimately, redemption.

But, as Copyranter pointed out, I have been infiltrated by the forces of rampant capitalism.

So, I asked myself, where else hath such terrible penetration occurred? Incidentally, all of my former lady friends have asked themselves the same question. Ba-Dum-Dum (CRASH!).

Naturally, to begin such an investigation, I went to the bathroom.
And what did I see there, mis hermanos?

Firstly, a duck. Resting on the outer banks of the Great Wall of Tubdom. Okay, sure, one duck.. What's the big fucking deal, right? For wasn't it the Dead Milkmen who asked, innocently, "My baby drives a truck, My baby sure is good luck, My baby has a pet Duck, and my baby is a heck of a F......Friend?" Sure, that's a statement, not a question, but who's splitting hairs? Especially when you can pull whole ones off the bottom of that tub?

So I looked above, to the perch where resteth the Shampoo. And what do I see?

Another Fucking Duck.

No, dear Reader, I would not stage such a scenario - There really are two such Ducks in my bathroom.

And really, why not have one to work the top, while the other, well, what the fuck am I talking about?

Product Placement Gurus: READ IT AND WEEP.

I don't know what the fuck Precision makes, but call 'em. Someone in the Biotechnology field wanted me to have these.

And let me tell you, I've had 'em.

Had 'em good.

Squeaky little bitches.

My Beer? Go Fuck Yourself.

2006-06-11T20:57:00.003-07:00

Pictures of my desktop - The first photograph in a highly entertaining and heartbreakingly realistic line of portraits coming to you, via this blog, every day for the next six years, until you see the horrific, breathtakingly true, painstakingly recreated (through the power of the medium of film) representation of my own life, and, particularly that of my desktop, aging and living together; a symbiosis of flesh and furniture, wood and man, till death do it's part and render us similarly unliving.

Besides this exciting new project, the greatest thing this blog has to offer simply has to be the link on the right, which happens to say "Currently on tap in the kegerator" etc.

It used to say Michelob.

Now, Original Coors.

I originally decided today that I would not drink any beer in the evening. I substituted ice cream in its stead, hoping to extinguish the alcohol cravings with the cool, soothing over and under tones of frozen dairy. Upon completion of said uberbowl, my housemate walks into the room, handing me a freshly poured beer. 'Tis a sin to refuse the simple courtesy of another, and nay be I the one to break the sacred bonds of beer giving. Throwing caution to the wind, I throw Coors on top of a bowl of ice cream in my belly.

Baccus high on his debauched, decadent ballustrade nods in knowing approval, and whispers solemnly in my ear:

"KNOCK THREE TIMES -
On the ceiling if you want me..
Twice on the pipe...
if the answer is NO...
OH MY SWEETNESS!"

Oh wait. Maybe that was Tony Orlando and Dawn.

"Hey you hip young kids, gogettin' it and making it Groovy! That's right, Tony Orlando here - Dawn too! and Three! Nothing soothes the palate after a day belting out "Candida" then cold beer and a threesome. Our beer? Black and Tans, of course.. Made with Rocky Mountain cold Original Coors.. and Dawn. And Dawn! Remember, ladies - the Tony Orlando Manwich is best served between two slices of choice Dark Rye. Heil Satan!"

Kitchen at night..

2006-06-07T23:14:00.000-07:00

..KITCHEN AT NIGHT!

Kitchen at Night....

KITCHEN AT NIGHT!

OH! BGAAOOO!!!

These past, UnBlogged Days, I've Been up To..

2006-05-30T17:46:00.000-07:00

.. just above my elbow.. in another man's.. Oh, who am I kidding. Cheap Puns Never worked for me. They're so.. middle class, you know? Indeed. To tell the truth, I've actually been.. You know..

CHOKING THE CHICKEN!!

GUFFAW! FUCKING GUFFAW! NOW! EVERYONE!

GUFUCKINGFAW!

Sorry. Getting up at 5:37 every fucking day is getting to me. Especially when I had to battle a damn mosquito until 2:30 am hier soir.. until which time I turned on the lights, saw him in full, resplendent, 60 watt glory.. and mashed him into the palm of my guilty hands. Or perhaps it was a her.. no matter. I am nonetheless operating on three hours sleep. Making crude puns.

And loving every minute of it.

So.. what have I been up to? Well, a little hiking about the canyons near ma maison, seeing as it is San Diego in near-Summertime..

.. and soaking up the splendor offered forth by our Mother Nature.

Yes, have some more nature photography. As I hiked, I may or may not have been listening to...

.. My motherfucking top 25 most played list! Yes, I know you, dear reader, constantly emailing me, asking, "David, I have this chouette fete I simply must host.. What shall I spin for the homies?"

Fear not, young troubador. Simply click on the picture, enlarge, and do what you must. If it's hard to read.. Tough shit, eh? Eh. The number one song is, of course, "Bridge over Troubled Waters," by Elvis Presley. And don't forget to, you know, pour out a little. For the homies. The homies who ain't here.

I usually only listen to random shuffle, anyways, so the "top"choices are by no means 100% accurate.. although the King would be near the apex regardless. Not seen, but likely atop? "Sylvia's Mother," by Dr. Hook and the Medicine Show. Written by Shel Silverstein.

I call it "University of San Diego, as seen between two power lines." And then, wearing a black turtleneck, I piss on art and all of her tainted majesty.

And then -

Cut to Kicking it in the front yard, garden style. I water these flowers with Martha Stewart's tears. Tears of shame, of failure. I devilishly smile, relishing my victory.

And then.. I wax her like Daniel-San waxing his new Buick before he goes to wax Elisabeth Shue after learning the Wax-on Wax-off technique and tucking in a drunk little Mr. Miyagi, giver of cars, survivor of World War II related atrocities.. bemoaner of a love now gone.

As this tale suggests, such regal beauty comes at a price; a life truly lived ages thrice where others.. only twice.. even the brightest flame must diminish. I encourage my lovelies to rage, rage against the dying of the light. Like Thornton Melon. And Jean Claude Van-Damme. One could say that, well...

Every rose has it's thorn.

Much like every cowboy sings a sad, sad song, I continue on, Delicately, and intricately pondering the mysteries of life.. the intangible je ne sais quoi.. the things that make you go hmm.. that which is, and nary is not.. that which is to come.. and those who are to come. And come often. With style, and unprecedentedly dignified hauteur; pregnant with the splendid joie de vivre so many find so unattainable.. while mine own chalice, findeth I, overrunneth.

Oh holy Fuckl.

2006-05-19T04:07:00.000-07:00

It's 4:05 in the morning.

I am drunk and high.

I have to drive my visiting friend, to whose wedding I was a best man, to the airport in the morning. My alarm is set for 7:27 am.

Oh fuck.

The wedding was two years ago; the friendship stems at least a decade, probably fifteen years, maybe more.

I have the day off tomorrow (today). This is good.

I drank a shitload yesterday too. Today was painful; tomorrow, probably worse.

I Can Do It.

Somber Sunday Reflections of.. The Way Life Used to Be. Reflections of.. The Love Dana Delany took from Me. On China Beach.

2006-05-14T21:26:00.000-07:00

When I lived in Boulder, CO, I knew a man named Robert.

He looked nothing like Dana Delany. Not unless you really stretched it.

Let me backtrack a little. As a young artisan, I rented space in an area known as "Naderville," the cheapest rental area in the city proper, on the outermost extremities of Boulder County. It was known as Naderville because the owner of the property, an Arabic/Persian/Greek/Something man named Nader SomethingOrOther, was worthy of such nomenclature. He didn't give a fuck what the people were doing in his Warehouse Space, as long as they paid the bills. And, in his coolest gesture, he refused to sell his downtrodden but extremely valuable piece of property to the city of Boulder, basically telling them to take their 6 million dollar offer and fuck themselves. He was going to milk every last penny out of that property, investing nothing further, and sell years from now for $20 million. God bless him. They wanted high value condos and tract housing; he wanted to maintain the only piece of commercial/industrial real estate in the county situated next to the only strip club in Boulder Country proper, The Bus Stop Lounge. Which, of course, buttressed the last stop on the Skip, the bus route running up and down Broadway, the heart of the small but wonderful city.

The Warehouses were cheap, spacious, dirty, rat infested, with no Zoning laws, or, at least, completely ignorable Laws, filled with musicians, mechanics, and primarily and of course, oddly enough, Glass Blowers. We were all making contemporary tobacco accessories, and frequently thoughout the day we would meet to compare, contrast, and utilize the very products we created. Meetings of minds, foundations for a hoped for but not often attained future excellence, replete with progress and realized potential. Indeed, potential we did have.

One such fellow glassblower was Robert. Robert was a long time tour head, as they are often described. He had been on Grateful Dead tour, Phish tour, Widespread Panic, whatever else tour, selling glass, weed, all schedules of drugs, you name it. I can only speculate his hallucinogenic intake over the years of his life. He was around thirty, about five foot eight, but with an enormous gut. Not fat anywhere else, just the gut.

Once or twice a year Robert would completely lose his shit, and he would have to go away and spend time in a mental institution. He would return, taking his lithium, pledging sobriety. For the next two weeks he would give away all the weed in his studio, all his dirty pipes, He was an extremely talented glassblower, with an unparalleled ability to wield dichroic glass in the flame, and when sober a truly funny guy.

He's not dead or nothing, but the reason behind this tale is the following story. When I moved to San Diego two and a half years ago, not two days had passed when I got a call from Robert. It was all garbled, and it was around 11:30 or so at night, and I didn't take the call, just heard the voicemail. I couldn't make out what he said. The next day I called my buddy Jefferson, a fellow glass artist, and he told me the tale.

As a LampWorker, you use Oxygen and Propane (or natural gas) and mix the flame down through your torch. Robert had been having another bad swing, and decided to gather all seven of his propane tanks and stack them in a pyramid in front of his studio. He then poured some sort of inflammatory substance around the pile, and before lighting it, decided to call the people in the complex, those of whom he liked, to warn them of the impending explosion. The third or fourth person he called took him at his word, and immediately called the police. They arrived, found an incoherent, raving man, and took him away, inevitably back to his traditional summer destination, the mental hospital.

Robert hadn't realized I had moved; he had called to save me from his own inferno, and for that I am grateful. Today, after a long weekend of glasswork and smoking, I began to see my own inner Robert, and it is an ugly, but not too distant vision, one I hope to never realize, but merely keep in the distance, as a reminder of what could be. Ah, the sacred but overabused herb.

But, as you know, Dear Reader, it's already here, reflected in the words you read - Me Minge, oh, me dear dear Mingey, Oprah never got time for her Minge. Mingey!

From Tucson to Tucamcari, Tehachapi to Tonapah.

Gumby Hollas at Bitches in Iambic Pentameter

2006-05-10T19:00:00.000-07:00

Phase One: In Which Doris Gets her Oats

"Yo Doris - How bout I Holla at You?
Holla Holla Holla Holla Holla
Holla Holla Holla Holla Holla
Holla Holla Holla Holla Holla
How 'bout Gumby up in your vagina ?"

"Aww.. Gumby, you all up in my shit'd be like a whale swallowing a tic-tac. Hell Naw."

"My lady, when such sentiments I hear,
My mind doth bend to tales of yester-year,
And a life without me, I must declare,
would leave you like another, also fair,
Adrift on rough seas, no sails guide your boat,
like Harold Melvin without the Blue Notes,
You Ain't Never Goin Platinum. Bitch.
Enjoy the crabs, think of me when you itch."

"Aww.. Gumby, you don't really have anything so.. unsavoury, do you? I mean, like, ummm, that'd be like, really, like uncool, after our, you know, intimacy and all. "

"Chill, bitch; you know Gumby wraps his shit up.

It's that Knoxville you gotta worry 'bout,

Looks like he Donkey Punched you good, my dear.

Lucky you got out before the Sanchez."

Keith Moon, Axel, Thierry Henry, Ralph, Jack, Piggy, the Pope, Grasshopper, and Minion walk into my Sunday... and out breaks Twisted Metal 8.

2006-05-07T20:48:00.000-07:00

Bougainvillea.

Or, as we say in English, Welcome, dear reader, to the latest installment of naturalistic photography depicting the environs of yours truly, endowing thine own retinas and corneas to a cornucopia of both flora and fauna.

Truly divine, n'est ce pas?

Once did verily lurk a pumpkin beneath the bushes a gauche..

...governed by sprawling beasties. No, not this enthralling young feline..

But this one.

And, in a shocking yet wholly unremarkable coincidence, nay, liason of concommitance, I again regale you with a photo referencing video games: I thee tell, dear reader, the tale of the following photo. T'is a tale of devastation, loss, betrayal, greed, heresy, ignominy, destruction, and, of course, Besmirchment. It is also, however, a shining beacon of hope and dignified self-expression, a solemn reminder and embodiment of True, Wholly Religious, and ultimately, Purifying Redemption.

T'is a tale of The Grid. And to tell the tale of the Grid, you must know, or be told, the tale of Twisted Metal 2.

Clink the link for a comprehensive overview, but for a brief synopsis: You have a vehicle. Your partner has a vehicle. Your mission is to go through the cities of Los Angeles, Moscow, Paris, Amazonia (fictional) New York, Antarctica (not a city) , Holland (country), and finally, Hong Kong (city-state), blowing up cars, kill or be killed. Needless to say, I have defeated this game hundreds of times - on all modes of difficulty. To understand the grid above, consider The X axis: each color represents a different character. Thumper. Axel. Grasshopper. Sweetooth. Mr. Grim. Warthog. Shadow. Mr. Slam. Spectre. Roadkill.

And the Y-Axis? The same fucking thing. The grid represents playing every combination of cars in two player mode on maximum difficulty, as played by myself and the man who was once a Golden Shower. Notice all the boxes are checked off. Damn right. Favorite character? Thumper. Favorite teammate? Axel. Minion, lord of Amazonia? My Bitch. Now and Forever.

My drink? Bud E, on the rocks, splash of Kamchatka Vodka.

And a Michelob backer. Just a small one, though.

Lord of the Flies guy actually landed in my tree, not the cave. Who was speaking to Simon, before he ran back to camp, only to be "terminated" by "friendly fire" from Jack and the boys? We may never know.

Ah, life. It's a jungle out there.

Hark the Herald Angels Sing - Yet Another Blog Post-ing.

2006-05-02T21:40:00.000-07:00

Gardening in San Diego is a difficult task, really. It involves watering your perennials (and/or annuals), and watching them grow.

Another, more effective gardening technique is to sit back, drink a Michelob, and watch another perform the task.

"But Dave," You query, "Outdoorsman though you be, truly and honestly tell us, your humble readership, what was it that kept you away from the blog for so long - almost eight, nine days now?"

Well, aren't we forward, dear Reader? You want my First Born too? Nice try - I pasted a spritzer of Goat's Blood 'ponst the door to prevent such an unscrupulous endeavor. M'woman done got turned into a pillar of salt, but hey, such is a life replete with biblical strife. Actually, I made that last part up - I don't own a goat. Not a traditional one, anyway.

No, attentive audience, I was busy with issues of a.. sporting nature.

You see, on Thursday night, I noticed there was a problem with the Cable Box, and thusly, no cable for the weekend, unless I wanted to Take Action and Resolve the issue, by doing something like calling the cable company, or bringing the box in for exchange. Not my style. My response was simple...

Playstation 2 until I broke the "joystick" controller (note the left circular control, pointing upward, without any intervention, totally fucked up)..

And Guiding the Pohang Steelers through Korea's famed "K-League."

Starting the season Friday night, I didn't know what to expect from my new team. With anticipation I pondered my offer. "The Board expects you to win the league," they flatly stated. Yeah, I know, you fat cat bastards, sitting behind the scenes, pulling strings, setting us all up like ducks in a row, ready to place blame and never accept the burden of responsibility. I've been around the block before; When, in FIFA 2004, I took lowly Manchester City through five seasons of drama from relegation, to promotion, to League championship and then the double of League and UEFA Cup Glory, I knew the end could come at any moment- a manager's lifeline is a taut and tenuous cord, as of a time-ravaged marrionette puppet, one rotting string from capitulation.

As always, those who placed their faith in me were richly rewarded, as the following screenshot indicates.

Pohang Steelers - 2006 League Champions. Now, as you can tell from the final standings page listed above, Pohang was a force to reckon with. Even with my limited knowledge of the Korean game, I dug deep to connect with my players, and through my coaching attempted to reach our inner commonalities; namely that, race, color, and creed aside, we are all spiritual beings, inhabiting bodies on this great spaceship earth, and that soccer is an altogether groovy beast. Gin soaked , yet of profoundly moral fiber, I loudly recited segmented passages of Dianetics, and using the techniques I learned Auditing up the Bridge, silently transmitted these strategies to their willing ears and minds.

It was not an easy task, and I'll admit there were certain games I had to play numerous times to win. One team, Ulsan Horang, required over 12 games to defeat. During these many defeats (and system resets), their striker, Choi, must have scored fifteen goals against me. My vehemence grew such that a visiting friend, on his way back home following his San Diego weekend at my humble home, sent the following text message : Fuck Choi. Drawing inspiration from such passionate supporters, the boys went out and finally "broke their duck," defeating Ulsan on a Set Piece goal, in STOPPAGE TIME, kicked across the line by a man on the ground. It was, as they say, "A moment of pure class." The picture above depicts two Ulsan players, dejected, after losing the game. To them, I can only say, Eat Shit You Ulsan Horang bitches!

Inevitably, they were also our opponent in the league cup final, a knockout tournament featuring the top four teams in the league. And what happened, you ask?

That's right, bitches. League Cup Champs. An incredible point blank strike from the Brazilian Wellington, and the cup was ours. If you read closely, you'll see the name of our esteemed coach, er, myself, one Corky Hassan, espousing the gospel of goodwill.

Team M.V.P., influential attacking midfielder Tavarez trots off the field for the last time, applauding the fans for their wonderful support.

Friday night to Tuesday afternoon - over forty games of FIFA 2006. One league championship. One league cup. Not bad for a manager named Corky, who rejected offers from more "noted" European behemoths of club Football, to follow his heart, and coach in the Korean League. Meeting players such as Moon, the corn-rowed Korean assassin; my goalie and high-scoring striker, who both had the last name "Lee," to my defender and winger both named "Kim," to Oh, Po, Wellington, Tavarez, and finally transfer deadline steal "Papa" Diop- Sweeper, holding midfielder, and scourge of opposing offenses, I thee thank.

Now that I got that out of my system, I'm really gonna get shit done. Tell you what. Since I am 29 and all.

I done went to Vegas And Darth Vader's 25th birthday party, and all I got was this lousy pain in my Prostate.

2006-04-25T21:19:00.000-07:00

Yea, I know, it has been a long while since I last updated, but damnit, I went to Vegas again, and this is what happens.

It being now Tuesday evening, Wednesday for those of you on the East Coast, I am finally starting to feel like myself again - namely, debonair, suave, sophisticated, able to leap small animals with several bounds, and most importantly, handy with the Blog.

So, acclimating such to my triumphant return, I went to upload my pictures to create a substantial, informative, photograph-aided travelogue, an accurate expression of my time in the City of Sin, only to get the following message:

CF CARD ERROR.

Yes, all my pictures had been deleted. Well, maybe they're still there; I have no way of knowing if they do still exist. The irony is, I only took three damn pictures. And I know fully what they are, and can describe them loquaciously and with sufficient veracity. "Lucky Me," You say.

The first picture was of our hotel room at the Motel 6. Where do you stay when you travel to Las Vegas? Motherfucking Motel 6. That picture (not unlike the one seen here) depicted my Hotel Roommate Corey and our drive-accompanying but Imperial Palace-staying-at friend, T to the J. I took the photo to document the bed spreads, a cartoonish seascape, replete with islands and oceanic vista goodness, which set my eyes-a-salivatin'.

This brings us to club Tao, in the Venetian, a Casino where I once won $35 on a slot machine. Yes, that's thirty five BIG 'UNS, mes amis, and I promptly went and bought two Red Bull and Vodkas for $9.50 a piece. Never. Looking. Back. Because, frankly, that's my motto: Never Look Back, and also, One in the hand is better than Two in the Bush. And cleaner, too. More sanitary like.

Oh yeah, the club. Apparently, it was Darth's birthday, although, wouldn't you know it, I never saw him. I did, however, see a line out-the-pissa, about thirty people deep - FOR THE MEN'S ROOM. I tried to pull the whole Dark-Side-I'm-strangling-You-maneuver-with-my-thumb-and-forefinger that I'd seen Darth do in the past, but to no avail: My Jedi voodoo holds no sway in such establishments. Pity.

The dance floor, I must say, was a rockin', and I, it shall be known, did come a knockin'. If you were there, incidentally, I was the one in the light blue-navy blue striped shirt, demonstrating the wholesome complexity of the art of dance, and doing it well. Moths to a flame, I was Bea Arthur to their Shirley Maclaine, luminescent among the minions, who flocked, gratefully, and basked in mine own unexaggerated warmth, and grace.

"Here is something you can't understand.. How I could Just Kill a Man!"

Incidentally, if you were a woman, the theme of the night would have been: U.T.I. IMMINENT. Why, David, could you sense a tangible need for more cranberry in the diet? No, dear reader, it's because unless you were willing do pull a Sienna Miller right there in the corner, you were not going to be able to take a piss unless you lasted out a nearly 100 people deep line. "So Dave," you ask, "Am I to deduce that pulling a Sienna Miller means pissing out in public, among people?" Yes, that is basically the idea. "Why, has Sienna Miller ever pissed in public and been called on it?" No, but it somehow seems appropriate to her idiom. And I 'm down with that.

The best part of the evening involved meeting Adam Vinatieri, famed kicker, Super Bowl Hero, and all around M.V.P. "Wait,"you inquire, "Really?" Well, no, not really. But why not try to get into the V.I.P. room, using the appropriate Jedi mind tricks, convinving the bouncer that you are, in fact, the very famous North Dakotan himself? This technique T.J. did try, only he failed, but not because he was not convincing; the doorman apparently did not know who Adam Vinatieri was. Apparently he's a promise breaking, drug abusing, miscreant, willing to stop at nothing to achieve his quest of maximum-fucked-up-edness, rocking out, and general excellence. For this he is great. He and Sienna should mate, excrete publicly, and make proclamations, exemplifying, and truly, both embodying and exuding grandeur; wonder.

Another one of my compatriots really and truly did have sex in the bushes, somewhere outside the Hard Rock Hotel and Casino, with a woman whom he later referred to as "overweight." His inability to find release in this encounter paralleled his own colonic constipation, providing both myself, the author, and you, the humble reader, with an apt analogy, nay, metaphor for the entire Vegas experience: One Brown Mouse, in a Different Cage.

Unlike that hack Billy Joel, I'm in a Citrus State of mind, with special help from the 5 people you Really meet in heaven

2006-04-18T21:02:00.000-07:00

Ahh, Florida. An esteemed state; an environs, if you will, inducing thoughts and feelings of warmth, serenity, and overall, unspecific goodness.

Florida (unlike Florna, the angel in disguise from the Tenacious D series) hath brought forth several excellent additions to the culture and wonder of the United States of America, it's chief contributions being Burt Reynolds, Oranges, and, of course, the talented Angelina.

Recently, I had the good fortune to voyage to the southwestern portion of said state, to visit my parental units as they transition into a mode of quasi-retirement, retreating to a life of leisure involving golf, fresh fruit, mild evenings on the linai, and for their loving son, heat rash.

"A good cure for heat rash, also known as Tinea Versicolor? Loni Anderson's tongue on your balls. And Florida orange juice - Fresh squeezed, full of vitamin C, for when you need to go The Longest Yard. And Loni likes to dip my balls in it."

"My tongue? Wrapped firmly around Burt's balls. This sassy young missus's gotta do what she's gotta do, you understand? For you, for me, for the people of Cincinnati, for Howard Hesseman, Fisher Stevens, Fernando Valenzuela, and both Ricardo Montalban, his internationally renowned height-challenged friend, and thirdly, ze plane, ze plane. And for the good people of Fort Myers, Florida - Loni loves ya!"

Yea, I had voyaged to that region of the world where reason and logic continue their troubled battle with existence, manifesting in the malaise of ignorance - but i quickly found, Dear Reader, that it was I who was most ignorant.

And it would come back to bite me in the ass. Especially on the golf course, where I found new names for Golf Balls - you know, cute names, like, I don't know, Hitler.. Stalin.. Nurse Ratchett?

One lovely segment of the experience was visiting the Spring Training home of my beloved Red Sox, in the City of Palms.

Me and Pa at the field- they left the gates open, we sauntered in. We were feeling especially happy, and slightly jaundiced. Pa's nose even dissappeared. Luckily, mine had no such inclination. The greenish short/grey shit tandem was, in fact, a conscious decision. Yes, the hair's real.

"You better call on Tyrone. And tell him to come over and come get his shit. But you can't use my phone. You can only use your instincts, charm, and gool old fashioned American elbow grease."

I saw miss Badu at Red Rocks, the greatest outdoor ampitheater in the world, in 2001. Good fucking time. The next night, Tenacious D, Galactic, and headlining, WEEN! Now THAT was a fucking show. Back to Erykah, as she is the emissary of all that is wholesome, I must ask, Just what the fuck does she say in that song, anyway? "I want a Rim Shot?" Frankly, this may be one of those evident truths that I completely miss. I pretty much know absolutely everything, but every now and then I miss something HUGE. And it's humbling - but inspiring, in it's own way; I reaffirm the knowledge that there is more to learn, and that there is an inherent grace in wisdom.

"As the fourth person you will meet in heaven, following the looming luminaries of Burt Reynolds, Loni Anderson, and Erykah Badu, I must say - I'm fucking reverent Charlie! The intensity of my stare is surpassed only by the ever expanding realm of my talent - did you see where I played the young school boy, fighting injustice against a throng of verisimilitude, with only a penchant for alacrity and a gradually diminishing sense of self-awareness with which to arm myself? I'm a Boy Scout! No, I don't got any marshmallows - Dice, you got any marshmallows?"

Alright, I admit - I have no idea what the fuck Eric Roberts would say. I do, however, know what a certain Andrew Dice Clay might say, as for many years I owned a copy of his HBO special from the late 80's / early 90's. And. It. Fucking. Ruled.

"Japanese Guy? Use a fucking Peanut Shell! Oh! What, you think I get high? Let me tell you something, snappa'head - I wanna get high, I bang my head against a brick wall two, tree times - I catch a fucking buzz! Oh! As the fucking Exquisite fifth and final person you meet in Heaven, I'd like to officially say 'Hey! What's in the bowl, bitch!' Un-fucking-believable. Sure, I sleep on airplanes - I sleep in the nude! Oh! Teacher said hey Dice, what's the difference between two threes? I said 'That's what I say, honey - what's the fucking difference? Oh! But I like you, sweetheart - You're the Goods. I like a woman so big you don't know where the poop ends, and the shit begins! Oh!"

As I am still on the mailing list for the esteemed church of Scientology, I receive their shit on a regular basis. I could return a letter saying "Stop sending me these fucking things," but then they would know that I am, in fact, alive. Instead I choose ignorance, as previously hinted above, to avoid acknowledged reciprocity and navigate this sticky river on which I currently swim. Truthfully, I am fascinated by the personage of L. Ronnie, and to conclude this very missal, I offer you, the lucky reader, a morsel of his hard-won wisdom:

"One rud unflown: cramming. The operating norm."

Yeah, yeah, I know - update, update.

2006-04-18T08:15:00.000-07:00

Sorry folks - I done been away on vacation this h'ya last week, and I done no updating. Yes, I have received your emails, and I appreciate the encouragement and support. Particularly the one from "Amalgam H. Maybelline," regarding the "Naked Dating Club." Following the hectic day today, I may in fact have enough cleared off the slate to take old Amalgam up on her offer. At least, I think Amalgam is a she, but no matter; a naked dating club should provide enough to go 'round for all peoples. It is a club, right? And an exclusive one at that, considering I got the email from Amalgam his/herself.

Anyway, maybe even as soon as tonight I can throw up a post regarding my voyage to the East, nay, the South East, replete with the usual witticisms, photographic wonder, and that certain, how do you say, Je ne sais quoi, that keeps you coming back for more. In the mean time, visit the links on the right, peruse the archives, and read up more on yours truly - the more you know, the better. The better what, you say?

Exactly.

The Big 4-0

2006-04-10T22:25:00.000-07:00

An Ode to Forty

Yes, sayest I must,
The time has come in this man's life,
where valour stepst aside,
passing the chalice of fancy to the purloined beggar of fortune,
Misstepping naught as the precipice he doth approacheth..
.. only to call out, shrieking and thusly shirking the call of eternal night;
"Fortuna, Whore! I thee implore!
Take arms, and alms, through my memory, to find..
Those days of Shame... and Burgundy Wine."

No, I am not turning 40 - I still have six months before my third decade begins, I and I shall relish all opportunity as such in the twilight of my roaring twenties. The aforementioned big four dash oh represents my 40th Blog Posting, of which you are all currently witness.

But Dave.. You ask.. You've been blogging for nine months. If we, say, average, oh, 30 days in a month, that's.. 270 days..divided by 40 posts.. One post every 6.75 days?

You're damn right. You don't earn the title of M.V.B. without complete and utter dedication to the craft. The focus needed to maintain such a rigorous posting schedule entails many... duties. For instance, once every 6.75 days, I sit down at the computer, and I ask myself, humbly, these questions three:

David, what have you done to make the world better?
What could you do better? And Finally,
What does the world need to know, to see, to understand, and oh can you put it into blog form, that'd be swell?

And to answer these questions, I respectively state:

1. Blogged
2. Develop, Learn, and Implement Cloning Technique
3. Yes, I can put it into Blog Form.

Sure, you may end up taking a few moral shortcuts, experimenting with H.G.H., engaging in tomfoolery, tompettying, petty theft, breaking and entering, entering without breaking, and of course, breaking, leaving, coming back later to piss upon, and finally, eating a dozen apples and shitting a fruit salad uponst. On a stage with my wife, son, dog, and daughter.

What do you call this act?

We call it the aristo... Err.. No. I call it "The Formula to be elected Most Valuable Blogger." And when is a diet pill worth $158 a bottle? Not when you want to shed five to fifteen "Vanity Pounds." This is only for those who have tried, and Just Can't Seem To Lose The Weight. For People watching the Fox Soccer Channel at 11:30 PST.

But back to my undeniable, prolific intensity which has earned me such a title. I have many to thank. Mainly, the following: Michelob, Gumby, and Chicken Divan. A wise man once revealed the recipe of said Divan as: "Chicken, Broccoli, Cheese.. And some Other Stuff." I can only nod in humble accordance, and reflect on what has come to pass in these 40 postings, wherewithin my soul hath been lain before thee.

On the first post ever, you, the reader, were transported through the magic of mine own photography and verse to a world unlike the one in which you currently find yourself. Fantasy and Reality interwove into a veritable tapestry of both harmony and chaos; dualities in monotony. As an author and creator, I used this event to set the template, nay, the foundation, and establish thematic unity and harmony for this endeavor, which was to become, in time, this very 40 post full blog.

Following my birthday, We were introduced to Gumby.

Other than that, much like the recipe for Chicken Divan, there was "Some Other Stuff."

Through it all, there's been YOU. Thanks for your continued patronage - If you'd like, go right ahead, print out all these postings, staple them together, and found a religion based on the teachings contained therein. Call it a "Holy Book," drink some "Jesus Juice," smoke your "Sacred Herb,"and, defying Sammy Hagar, drive Fifty-Five. Then, obeying him, speed up or slow down. I will wholeheartedly deny having any part in such an organized spiritual community, but I will walk up and down the aisles with a wicker basket, accepting donations for the church, eerily humming "Shambala" by Three Dog Night. And it will be oh-so humid, like the court scene in A Passage to India.

Haikus from Famous People, Both Dead And Alive (Treasure Stolen from the Incas, we shall gather for the Queen)

2006-04-03T22:54:00.000-07:00

Beatnik Gumby listens to Earth, Wind, and Fire. He proclaims to himself, when the light of day dims into the night, "We are People, of the Party, Party People, Of the Sun. In Our Heart Lies, All the Answers.. and the Truth we Can't Run From."

He also snaps his fingers in time to the thythm, bobbing his head slightly, and, en hommage to Neil Cassady, sayeth to those who will listen : "I ain't Gonna Bump No More with no Big Fat Woman." Or maybe that's an hommage to Joe Tex, singer of "I Gotcha," and other fine hits.

In honor of Mr. Tex, and frankly, only for Mr. Tex, I will introduce a new stanza of Haiku, reverting from the traditional 5-7-5 to the more transitional, dare I say, southern california haiku, of 3-7-3?

"I Gotcha,
You Tried to Sneak By Me Now,
Didn't You?"

Nonetheless, I did promise you Haikus of famous people, both dead and alive, yes? Indeed, no more amateur stanza structure: From here on out, only the famed 5-7-5 shall apply.

Let's start with Dead.

"To find my killer,
Just ring my fucking doorbell,
And ask for Patsy. "

Back to the living...

"Question my color?
My Green stems not from Envy,
But Other Demons. "

And with respect to the dead...

"I'm Henry Miller,
I wrote Tropic of Cancer,
Best Novel Ever."

"And in this corner:
Representing the Living..
GUMBY, You Bitches!

"Thanks Mr. Buffer,
Gumby feel like rocking out,
KISS : ALIVE is on."

Take your Green Friends Bowling.. Take them Bowling.

2006-03-26T13:41:00.000-08:00

Strange tidings have fallen over the blogosphere as of late.

I will not expand on this immediate situation, only pausing to say:

I live with this man, and he took Gumby for a good time. Being not present, I was unable to piece together an exact travelogue, but judging from the photographs, I have pieced together a brief synopsis, or, if it suit you so, a precis. For I believe, dear reader, 'twas a calculated effort on Gumby's part to break the bonds of house arrest and head outward toward his destiny. Although the aforementioned housemate thought he was taking Gumby for an evening on the town, it was perhaps He who got Taken for a Ride.

"My Green friend's commitment to Passive Resistance is but one facet of his overall spiritual excellence - I wholeheartedly approve the following."

16:15 : Frolick with the minions at local watering hole. Situate self at least two feet above the seated denizens AT ALL TIMES. Wear Orange before AND after labor day. Labor on the Sabbath. Most importantly, keep on smilin'.

17:38: Be sure to be double fistin'... and not just in your de rigeur bedroom activities with "talked about" women of the night. Raise right arm slightly higher, as if intent on busting move, at moment's notice.

"As one embodying characteristics of the above-mentioned 'talked about women of the night', and relisher of all things unsavoury, I too endorse this message."

18:01 : Act cool, yet not coy; your individual perspacacity, nay, your Propensity for relaxed yet intense moments of quietude masks your greatest asset: humility. Exude this humility; thine nature is both Green and Divine - Deny Neither, Accept Both.

19:24: Use formidable intelligence to formulate plan: Bowling.

"As one who has, on occasion, both bowled, and, of course, Loved, I too embrace the rich potentiality contained herein to propel one's inner daemon to manifest and through Project Auditing of the Highest Commitment, face the spectrum of Destiny without the Hindrance of the Reactive Mind. Read On, young pilgrim of consciousness!"

19:57 : Strap self in. You do not drive; others drive You. Relish the equanimity with which others appraise and accept this facet of thine own existence. Be chauffered and chauffeur none; to be driven by thine own angels is driving enough. Recline.

14:00 : Demand. If there is nothing in front of you, demand the minions present you with a gift, in lieu of sacrificial offerings of a personal and refined nature. Though there be not present these offerings, the power of your Demand be not powerless; Quite the Contrary. For, with the subtlest suggestion of disdain, the universe shall bring forth..

One Ball-a-Bowling!
(Ten lords a leaping, nine ladies dancing, eight maids a milking, seven swans a swimming, six geese a laying..)

FIVE GOLDEN RINGS!!!

"As a harmonius union of five, we, the colorful harbringer of athletic competition and intestinal fortitude, do take thee, to have and to hold, as our lawfully wedded wife."

Four calling birds, three french hens, two turtle doves..

And mo...ther..fucking..Gum...beeeeeee.

St. Dominic's Review; A Treatise, in which truths are told, homies are shouted out to, and all that is to come is doubly born and ceases to be.

2006-03-18T17:06:00.000-08:00

Famine. Pestilence. Sloth. These are the hallmark charateristics of unhappy moments in one's life, be they a collective of persons or merely the trials and tribulations of but one human being. For the people of Irish descent, those who have shared in having former Manchester United and current Celtic midfield enforcer Roy Keane as the captain of one's national footballing team, these moments manifested (minus the sloth, of course; the Irish are not a lazy people) in a terrible epoch of disdain: The Irish Potato Famine.

Yes, this painting illustrates the grim veracity of a life duly endured, calorically deprived, hygenically unfulfilling.

Saturday night, being unable to drink due to the St. Patrick's Revenge coarsing through my internal organs, I reclined and watched "Freddy vs Jason," finding a deeper meaning beneath the cheap veneer of slasher filmed mayhem (and mayhest, for although the word may not exist in the particular canon of this age, I hath decided it needs to re-[or perhaps for the first time]emerge, making manifest the very mayhest we have all been neglecting since the dawn of our adult lives.) In this gem of a film, Freddy, having been forgotten by the people of Elm street, is no longer able to terrorize the very denizens of said address. It seems that Freddy's power stemmed from fear, and the parents of Elm Streets disturbed children hatched a plan to never again mention Mr Krueger, rendering him unable to instill fear since, as no one talks about him anymore, his memory is wiped from the subconscious mind. Pissed, he thusly enlists the help of the immortal Jason Voorhess do go to his old stomping ground of Elm Street, kill a bunch of people, to make them REMEMBER that they were once terrorized by one Fred D. Krueger, thus allowing Freddy significant RECOGNITION to enter the dreams of people, drum up a little fear, and VOILA: Freddy's full power of killing in dreams returns. And this, I must confess, is my plan as well: I will instill fear into the hearts (dark hearts, of course) of the frolicing minions, rendering them succeptible to my subtle (and humble) overtones of domination, and in time my bidding (and through me, thine) shall be served, and frankly, deserved. Because, as KISS once stated, "You got nothing to lose."

So, with such a train, nay a strain, of thought, we come upon the holiday bequeathed to us all last Friday, St. Patrick's Day. Now I, it must be stated, called upon the traditional tidings of Guiness, Irish Whiskey, Bailey's, and of course, Car Bombs to celebrate my non-existant Irish heritage. If, were it the case, my refined sensibilities neccesitated an artistic manifestation of the Irish tradition of perseverance, they would call upon some form of the painting shown above; a resiliant, defiant mother sheltering and providing for her children, sans potatoes. It was, after all, a potato famine.

Some have taken the onus of humor to reference (and thusly, keep alive) said era with humor, and although I had no hand in the creation of such an atrocity, I thee present the horrible, distinctly reprehensible cousin of Mr. Potato Head,

Mr Potato Famine.

So The following is my own private bridge to Terabithia, nay perhaps a journey, if you will, to Old Ireland. Hop on Air Lingus (the most cunning airline I know) and I'll take you, dear reader, on a journey of both brim AND blarneystone, replete with all the haggis and absence of potatoes you could ever want. Haggis is a Scottish item, you say? Go fuck yourself, you critical leprechaun.

So now, as the Title of this post indicates, I have a little something for you, my faithful reader, with a few specific shout outs (for those of you who have been on good behavior).

For Brandy, I have two things. The first, naturally, is the link to the famed, truthful, and utterly heart breaking ballad, "Brandy, You're a Fine Girl." The Second, and perhaps most impressive dedication, is a picture of our house dog, Buster, wearing a little Irish hat, as he is a fine beastie.

He has that "fuck, the cat is about to kick my ass" look about him. Luckily (one could say, by the luck o' the Irish!) the master's hand lay atop the green hat, ensuring Lucky Charms-n-blarney stones for all the unscarred domesticated animals of man.

Aww. Animal pictures..

"No, I'm not gonna wear this fucking hat."

"Damnit! Take this fucking hat off of me!"

"Aw.. fuck it."

For Virgil, I have a brief tale of woe: I was cockblocked by my own friend, inadvertently, inebriatedly, uncoordinatedly, and unrepentantly. Like 50 cent, I was in da club, but I was neither having sex nor was I in there making love. To make matters plain, a fine young woman was digging on my obviously advanced (and frankly, revolutionary) moves upon the dance floor, when, what to my surprise should occur? Drunken friend backs into said girl, knocking her backwards. Then, he drunkenly smashes into her again, (literally) butting her away, and all I can do is grin and bemoan my abysmal fate as she walks away, confused, hurt, and disheartened. It wasn't just light bumps, but ice hockey like body checks from a drunken and stoned flower delivery man, howling at the moon, under the influence of Irish alcohol (Tullamore Dew) and presumptiously high priced sake-based drinks. (My drink order? "Red Bull Jager." Barman's response, "Sorry, we don't have hard alcohol here. Sake, Beer, Wine." For fucks sake..) I could have gone up and explained the situation to the obviously dissappointed young maiden, but frankly, my dedication to the craft of dance does not allow for rest.

For Melina, I have a picture of a patriotic, slightly Bearded man, for I know that she is a lover of facial hair.

And finally, for She who dances at the point of a gun, (and supports giving underwear to the orphaned), I give thee a small, yet poignant, morsel of verbal decadence: The St. Valentine's Day Haiku.

Corned beef and Car Bombs,

Gastrointestinal Fun;

Black Poop on Sunday.

And for the Irish Whiskey lovers among us, as well as those who love them sum Irish Rock-N-Roll (and Haiku!), tell you what:

U2 Once did Sing:

It's Sunday, Black Poop Sunday;

Tullamore-Ning Dew.

Profligacy Now!

2006-03-13T23:13:00.000-08:00

Today, dear reader, was a day of DEFINITION. You see, with a nod to thine own singular appreciation of my etymological situation, I have defined a word, on mine own terms. And that word, my friends, is PROFLIGACY.

According to the alcohol-induced scribbling before me, I define said word as:

A Highly Specialized (And Personalized) Degree of Abundance.

A certain web site defines it differently, yet in eerily similar terms.

It Goes "Squeeze Me.. C'mon and Squeeze Me.. Come on and Tease me Like You Do.. I'm So in Love with You..

Mama's got a Squeeze Box ..

.. Daddy's a Profligate!"

** I was a hand model... once.

Reno, You tasteless Bitch, I've got your money; It's my money now, And I ain't never Gonna Give it back. Sucka.

2006-03-06T20:28:00.000-08:00

I was going to begin this post by saying the following:

To all the fucking cities that owe me money - Las Vegas, Nevada, Blackhawk and Central City, in Colorado, Atlantic City, New Jersey, and some in various, undisclosed, European and, frankly, globe-trotting destinations: You can add the distinguished city of Reno, Nevada, to your prestigious ranks.

But nay, dear Readers, that is not how we will begin such a narrative, as 'twould be a false road on which to thee take, an error once done never more to unmake.You see, as the title of this particular word-filled endeavor vaguely infers, I done took me some Reno money. And I ain't never gonna give it back.

But Soft! What light through mine own charcoal-encrusted soul doth break, a dove like beacon of hope and understanding, beckoning and demanding universal peace and love? Yes, t'is true. I will give something back, Dear Reader. I'll give back the one picture I took while I was in Reno, truly, the ONLY picture.

Actually, it only snowed one morning, and I quite liked it: Hence the picture. I just had no other time where I managed to take a picture, out of sheer laziness, unwillingness, and commitment to the cause: Roulette.

You see, I have a love affair with the game of Roulette. I have a roulette table in my kitchen. T'is true; I also have Franken Shredder, the world's singularly most awesome Paper Shredder that man hath seen, and that the human hand (and mine) hath wrought.

And speaking of gambling, notice I didn't say Foxwoods, nor Mohegan Sun, in Connecticut. Let me tell you one thing: The only time you will catch me in those bastions of bile is when I go to evacuate mine own bladder upon the still burning embers which once comprised the shoddy, exploitative framework embracing the aforementioned dens of iniquity.

But getting back to the gamesmanship - First night, play blackjack, lose sixty bucks. Pretty much my standard gambling special - Down sixty off the bat. Sometimes, it's sixty in the first moments of the night, breaking the once taut hymen of victory with the casual disregard of one reckless with hope. Sometimes (fortunately) it ends as just Down Sixty. This night was no exception, so I cut my losses and listlessly slept off the gluttony of a company paid meal.

Second day, no dismay, I always say. Following the dubious day of loss, I approached the Craps table, and through the rolling perspicacity expressed by a particularly unsavory appearing moustached man, (not pictured) I got back onto the right side of the night, and emerged, twelve dollars richer, in both wallet and spirit, bringing me back to a net total of MINUS FORTY EIGHT.

The final night, bleary eyed, but full of youthful vim and vigor, I approached the Roulette Table, 22 oz Coors Light Can in hand, and knew my destiny: $1.00 Minimum Roulette, bitches.

Suffice to say, The number 11 did me right. As did the first 12, and the middle third. And I walked away from that table with $66 more than I started with, bringing me to a net total of PLUS EIGHTEEN ($18)!!!! With that, not desiring to inflict too large a deficit into the impoverished Reno economy, I fled the premises...

.. Straight to the Grizzly Maze! With Timmy the Fox! And Chocolate, the Bear!

You know, ever since I saw Grizzly Man, there's one constant thought in my mind: Timothy Treadwell Fucking Rules. I don't care what the fuck you could possible say bad about him: He got in a fucking tent and lived on a veritable island, doing whatever the fuck he wanted, believing his own fantasy, and ultimately doing good in his own way, communing with Bears. He probably knew more and related better to that animal than any man before or after possibly could. Sure, he's got that "I just might have taken too much acid back in the day and although I have it 81% together, there's this lingering 19% part of me that is UTTER BATSHIT, watch me eat this pile of Bear Shit!" thing going on, but all in all, I feel the power of good flowing through him.

And that, dear Reader, is Reno, Nevada. Nice mountains, Lake Tahoe nearby, beautiful scenery, Emus, ducks, that whole lump of shit. 19% Vegas, 41% Central City/Blackhawk, 24% Atlantic City, and 16% Cow Chip. But with a river of good feeling and love flowing right on through.

Black Gold.. Texas Tea.

2006-03-05T22:52:00.000-08:00

Yes, a post of Reno to come soon. Too tired; needs to further gestate for mine (and thine) own appreciation.

In the interim, however, I realized that while away I have been "tagged," as they say, and since I am a good sport, I will let you all in on a few secrets:

Four movies I could watch over and over:
1. Clash of the Titans
2. The Shawshank Redemption
3. Indecent Wives (whoever has it - give it back!)*
4. The Dinner Party (for the Three Nurses Scene)*

Four jobs I've had:
1. Full-time
2. Blow
3. Part-time
4. Hand

(sorry, yes, well..)

Four places I've lived:
1. Vermont
2. California
3. Deep within mine own Psychosis
4. France

Four TV Shows I love:
1. The Biggest Loser
2. SportsCenter
3. Nancy Grace (for the Natalie Holloway coverage)
4. Fox Football Friday (on the Fox Soccer Channel, natch)

Four places I've vacationed:
1. Mazatlan, Mexico
2. The Hall of the Mountain King (on drugs)
3. Key West, FL
4. Pompeii, Italy

Four of my favorite dishes:
1. The Blue one
2. Guacamole
3. Boston Creme Donuts
4. Brie Cheese

Four sites I visit daily:
1. A shallow, unmarked roadside Grave (just to make sure... please, move along... nothing to see here, folks..)
2. BBC.CO.UK
3. CNN.COM
4. Definitely No Adult Themed Sites

Four places I would rather be right now:
1. Paris, France
2. Amsterdam, The Netherlands
3. Seas of Chum
4. A Turkish Prison (for the Turkish cigarettes)

** Denotes Porn

Original Gangster *

2006-02-27T23:31:00.000-08:00

My friends, I'm not your everyday type prankster. Sure, ten years ago, I used to listen to rappers flow, but since then I sat back, thought up a new track, and set the dial on the guide to whack. And upon being set to the aforementioned setting of "Wack," the Crazy machine hath wrought the following social foible:

The people who employ me have decided to send me to Reno, Nevada, for a 3 day session of learning.

Yes, dear Reader, this is a shocking development, as onto two statements it layeth the burden of proof:

a) There are people who employ me

and

b) These people think sending me to Northern Nevada is a beneficial experiment, towing the capitalistic idiom.

So there shall be a brief respite from this here narrative until such time I return from my journeys, replete with wisdom and pregnant with the promise of tommorrow.

Cause they got my back and I got theirs too.. Fight for the streets when I'm on Oprah or Donahue.

Until then, if you have any lucky numbers, leave them: Gambling does occur in said parts.

* All photos not taken by yours truly. In fact, yours truly longs for the day when he , like Bea Arthur, could ever be considered a "handsome woman."

Some Folk'll never lose a toe.. But then again, some folk'll.

2006-02-23T21:11:00.000-08:00

Yes, the fecundity that somehow applies itself to thine own narrator has become.. incarnate. Much like some aspiring young North Eastern United States blog folk (and then again, some foke'll) doth aspire to be Gawkered, gazed and grazed upon by the digital tentacle of Le Grand Pomme, your humble servant hath been, in a word, CONSUMED.

Ironically, mine own comments, uttered onto the site of of one who creatively dissects, digests, and discards such detritus, hath been used in the very format of a Testimonial, fellating the capitalist mothership Gillette, whose stadium I doth adore, and whose products I utilize and vehemently prostelytize. Patriot, I.

On an unrelated note, I've been waking up everyday coughing like a young collegian. Februaryitis hath spread to my soul; Beer and a Bong Hit, Two Bits.

A Portrait of the Artist as Yours Truly

2006-02-19T18:31:00.000-08:00

Spurned on by the silent retreat of a setting sun sparingly silhouetting a silver Mercury Sable, I recount, and thusly, relive the weekend past.

This not a tale, I daresay, of failure or regret. Following this weekend, dear reader, only feelings of redemption and salvation pollute my otherwise morally bankrupt thought stream.

Gumby had risen from his chair, ending a dissolute period in which he stared lifelessly at his plate, ignoring la nourriture before him, subsisting solely on beer and cigarettes. Alas, t'was near hour 144 when his inner motivator rose, like Sally Field in Norma Rae, begging, nay, demanding release from the shackles of sloth and indignant, wasteful relaxation therapy.

Recently, my sporadic Video Game Addiction once again reared it's ugly (yet personable) visage, tempting me with the opportunity to free a long dead (but personally betraying) King and lift the burden of his Seven Sorrows. As I am never one to turn away such charitable callings, I responded in the affirmative to his beckoning, and through Gauntlet: For PlayStation II, myself and three other warriors heard (and heeded) the call of, responded to, and ultimately made humble the aforementioned Sorrows, and all was free and clear upon the land. Mine own sorrow, however, is one to which I remain an unerring, enduring servant.

When battling life's real sorrows, one needs to summon ones' own inner warrior. Why stop at just one, when three other such fine specimens of warriordom are available?

In calling upon the three warriors, I invented a beverage entitled either the eponymous "Three Warriors," or the "Cherry Bomb," which may or may not already exist with such a name, but certainly not the combination of Southern Comfort, Rumpleminze, and Jagermeister, all straight from the freezer. And wearing capes, wielding straws and plastic flamingo stirrers with reckless abandon.

Summoning our own inner beasties made manifest outward expressions of this variable (but vibrant) warriordom.

Ellsworth, the driver, decides to saw the top off a keg.

Achieving spectacular results.

I retreat to my inner artistic warrior's secret hiding place, Kadath, to create part two of the atrocity: Custom glass top piece..

... To create a horrifyingly childish but wholly original gravity water pipe.

Unfortunately, we are prone to Dolphin Abuse; and this poor fishy is on the receiving end. There's something about making a dolphin smoke out of a Gravity Bong that, well, contains elements of an unattainable, yet painfully sought for, earthly salvation, and for that reason, I endeavor to create and photograph such atrocities.

Because it's been that kind of week (or three), another creation fell through the tubes into the oft erratic womb of universal birth, and from fire and earth was made:

Aforementioned Ellsworth the Driver waxes philosophically (and, of course, lyrically) about his newest culinary creation...

Hot slop, which fortunately for us, brings forth the conditions of redemption, gastrointestinal cleanliness, and not just internal but overall unspecific excellence.

Pasta.. Beans.. Vegetarian Chili.. Bread.. Pizza Crust.. Cauliflower.. Carrots.. Blue Cheese Olives.. Two Year Old Frozen Homemade Turkey Soup..

Harbringer of Hope, Solemn signifier of a day gone by but pregnant with the promise of a dawn yet to come and dreams made possible to fulfill, the waxing colors of dusk fade fast, a streetlight it's sole witness, discreetly mimicking a New Gibbous moon, itself a lunar charlatan.

96 Hours Later

2006-02-17T00:11:00.000-08:00

The Rhyme of the Ancient Mariner

2006-02-12T21:59:00.000-08:00

Gumby in the morning,
Sailors Take Warning..

Gumby At Night,
Sailors
Delight.

The Constant Gardener

2006-02-12T21:52:00.000-08:00

.. is not me.

The Constant Gardener.. IS HE.

Accepting said statements as truth, Our gardening protagonist knows one or two of life's basic tenets:

Digging holes..

.. And using tools..

doth a harvest yield. *

He also ascertained through sheer Darwinistic and Karmic Social Evolution that dealings with Well Dressed Men, such as those demonstrated in the following photograph, lead to one inevitable, and unenviable veracity:

Dead men tell no tales..

.. but can still remain au courant vis-a-vis their accoutrements with only a tasteful black tie and accompanying captain's hat.

* Actual Tangelo harvest from back yard.

Steppin' Right Along Like It Ain't Nothin' Baby

2006-02-09T23:05:00.000-08:00

Will the wealthy, sleeping denizens of the "Hotel Del," as they call it, arise from their vaguely satisfying slumbers to find the bloated, salt water filled corpse of Conor Oberst lain before them, slain by an erratic, unintentional byproduct of malaise: thine own true author?

This is but one possibility suggested to me by one impressive young commenter, straight out of Dixie. Or at least North of Dixie. But as a certain Robert "Robbie" Robertson once suggested, nay, sang, Dixie was driven down.

Ain't no "Sherman High School" in Virginia.

But if there is, I'd like to shake the hand of any man who attends, stare him deep in the eye, and, with bucolic airs of theatrical disdain, grimace, uttering only these words: "Thou art not a man; you forsake your very heritage. Your ancestral pageant shamefully turn their backs, staring silently downward, bemoaning the fate of their own progeny's progeny. "

I once spent time in Richmond, VA, at that time the murder capitol of the United States. Of America. My old friend, an alumnus of the University of Richmond, lived in a three bedroom with four others, one of whom lived in the unfinished basement, on a cot. He ate chicken backs, because they were the cheapest food product going, purchased from the local Grocery chain, Ghetto (community) Pride.

The most common point of suicide in San Diego, CA, is the Coronado bridge. You can see why. To me, I don't know, it doesn't make me want to end it all. But like they say, San Diego may be pretty, but (alledged suicide hotspot) Ithaca is GORGES!

You Cornell / Ithaca peeps are loving that one. Lighten up already. Step away from the gorge. It'll be alright. Might be cold, though. Bundle up.

The Loss of Greatness, the Realization of Dependency, the Fight to Keep it all Together; The Awareness of and Hope For Love, Acceptance, and Victory.

2006-02-05T21:02:00.000-08:00

20 cans of beans, corn, or vegetarian chili. One loaf of high fiber, whole grain bread. Box O' Triscuits. A cumulative total of over 200 grams of fiber, veritable cornucopia of cleansing power.

This is what it's going to take to cleanse myself of this wasteful weekend, to purify the putrid essence of failure currently tainting my tasteful sensibilities.

As a lover of colonic functionality and regularity, such efforts are los very lynchpins to mine own existence. And speaking of exodus, movement of Ja colon, how about the fucking ShitberBowl XL? And Extra-Large bowl of Excrement, for thine own bemusement? Perhaps a side helping of Balls Across the Nose?

Even Gumby decided to expand his potential range of defilement.

Radio London reminds you. Go to the church of your choice.

Witness the mounting of sea beasties by Claymation Royalty. Discreetly approve such activity.

The time has come.. my friends.. to talk of many things. The demise of favorite sites.. The love of others not reciprocated. The tangentinal referencing of those who will not reciprocate. The Utilization of a word twice in sequence, or at least the root of such a word? T’is unremarkable.. yet meaningful, at least for those who desire to comprehend, nay, understand, the missals which I emit. And do I emit missals? One could say. And one would be correct.

You see.. there came an interesting moment this evening wherein I heard a song.. that fucking song.. which I have heard too many times in recent days to dismiss as mere coincidence. That song was “We be going down, bitch” by Fall Out Boy, or at least that’s what I title said song, because in my universe, in which you all live, I control naming. And naming, what a subjective right! You are all named TED, NOW! Ted McfuckingGinley, of Married With Children fame! And I am getting wit’ Kelly Bundy, bitches! Can you stop me? Not in my universe! NEVER!

But I digress. And when there is a digression, there is a GLITCH in the matrix, NEO! Oh wait, no, t’is not the case. But that song.. I have heretofore ignored it, as if it were anti-thetical to my goals, life force, and general interests. But I found, dear reader, that there was a verse with which I found kinship. And that verse, I must say, contained the following words, “Sugar, we’re going down swinging.”

Admittedly, such an amalgam of letters is not usually quick to trigger my sympathetic sensibilities. But I thought it original, as if the writer, in a Neil Diamond-esque Brill building moment of clarity, stated, “You know, if we is going down, me brothers, us droogs is going down swinging. And in a blaze of glory, Bon Jovian, Samborian, and then thou shalt be laid down in a bed of nails.” And such spaketh the Bon of Jovi, Don of things.. futurisque.

Avocado and Hot Sauce Sandwich (on high-fiber bread) : Official Gastrointestinal PeaceKeeper of the New Centennial.

And so I made my peace with modern music. (DOLL STEAK!) For this evening. (TEST MEAT!) And in this evening, mis hermanos, so much has been.. subjective. I went to a local bar, which does happen to offer my favorite beer on this here planet, Pliny the Elder. And being a “Liberal Arts” kind of person, I was analytically attached to the progression of time. And I drank. And drank. And left, to return to my domicile.. only to find.. But one hour had passed.

Being so.. inspired after only one hour of consumption, I cracked a Becks and sat down at l’ordinateur, to determine the course of events passed, current, and forthcoming. And wouldn’t it be fitting that one Gordon Sumner, alias of Sting, spaketh such..

Tu ments.. Ma soeur.. Tu grise ma coeur.
Je pense.. tu sais.. erreur? Jamais!
Ecoute! Je parles.. Je ne comprends pas bien.
La belle dame sans regret.

And then there was a wall, Dear Reader, into which I ran. Considering my available options, I shook my head, smiled, and came to one conclusion. There was but one option to which I should myself avail: The Gravity Bong.

This has got to be the saddest day of my life. I called you here today for a bit of bad news. I won’t be able to see you anymore because of my obligations..and the ties that you have.. We've been meeting here everyday. And since this is our last day together, .i want to hold you just one more time... when you turn and walk away don’t look back.. i want to remember you just like this.. lets just kiss.. and say goodbye

This development inspired memories of a time not frequently acknowledged but nonetheless experienced: High School statements. And one which you will completely envision, and declare wholly true and thusly original, “Dad,” spaketh one young friend of mine, “You could have done better than Mom.”
“I know Son,” respondeth said paternicus, “I know.”

These utterances have I heard.

And so with the current champion of Green, inspiring visions unseen (and those… unclean) dominating the annals of perception

“(Marie’s the Name of) His Latest Flame” Elvis Presley, Some Fucking Greatest Hits Collection

suddenly entered into the realm of the Pod of I and thusly I was transported, nay, propelled into a moment of diffused ridiculum.

This girl was in my arms and swore to me.. she’d be mine eternally..
And Marie’s the name.. of his latest flame.

And suddenly all similar progressions and veritable transgressions were underdone, yea, baby love me.. yes yes she does, spaketh The Neil..

And with a wink and a knowing nod, Gumby sayeth to all: Peace out. Thanks for the memories.

Fear and Loathing at the Buick Invitational

2006-01-29T21:15:00.000-08:00

Look closely. At first glance, you may say, okay, that's a small bathroom. Then you blink, think of more pleasant thoughts, and resume your daily meanderings. Today, however, is not a day where I can allow you to look away. It pains me, in fact, to suggest that this would be your response to such a vision; yea, I shalt admit that if presented with such stark toiletation, I would perhaps affect a similar response. Affect, I say, for it would be but an affectation. To think, I, in face of such toiletalitarianism, would be swayed to negate the very CORE of my being, all for which I stand? You forget your author, and I assume too much from my readers. But I shan't assume again, for when I do such, Dear Reader, it merely makes an ass of both myself and thine.

So look closer.

"Say," you might perhaps.. say.. , "Isn't that a shower curtain?"
"Exactly," my Holmes would say to your Watson. "Carry on, young investigator!"
"So that's really a .... shower?"
"PRECISELY! And that would mean that..."
"By Jove, sir! There's a Toilet in the Shower!"
"You've done it, young adept of life's mystery."
"But sir.." spaketh the adept, "Why?"

I could not answer my apprentice, for the evil, if spoken, could then be considered bespoken, and we all would be doomed, or perhaps even damned, to a greater extent than usual. And by that I mean... more than usual.

This photo is perhaps the summation to a week and weekend which could only be considered .. unclassifiable. Lovecraftian, in its very .... inability to be classified. For meditative purposes, I decided to smoke a cigarette, for the clearing of the mind be always mine own greatest mission. This clarity led me to the discovery that my cigarettes lay in the middle of the driveway, having been run over by mine own vehicle. Perhaps by me. On Friday, I was the willing passenger in my own vehicle, having relinquished the onus (and the ability) of driving to another. Upon exit, cigarettes off my lap, onto the ground. Next day, wake up, drive over them on return from the morning coffee run. Lucily, the car merely rode over the pack, so it lay, bruised but salvageable, underneath the carriage of the car, not, like many (and one specifically) characters of Hesse's oeuvre, crushed, Beneath the Wheel.

The weekend climaxed (and really, like a typical weekend, just rolls over and goes to sleep afterwards) with a trip to the Buick Invitational, since I got the free ticket kickdown by a loving friend. I got to see all the heavy hitters; Mickelson, Woods, Garcia, et al. Jim Nantz even drove by me in a golf cart. Looked just like I thought he would, too. Big dude. Standing against the rope boundary, I turned to see Davis Love III walking two feet away, up towards the tenth tee box. It still felt like T.V. There were still rope fences, policemen, security, people with customized golf standing chairs. Once the last group (Tiger, Sergio Garcia, some other guy) had played the 15th, I went and used the Players Only Porta-Potty. Some golfers had definitely taken some shits in there, but by jove it was certainly one of the cleanest porta-potties I have ever experienced. As I contemplated the Professional Origins of the most recent shit pile below (Too small for John Daly or Craig Statler, probably more like a David Toms or a Justin Leonard effort), I felt the presence of greatness. I was in the company of champions.

As it turned out, this discussion of toiletry worked perfectly as an analogous comparison to the penultimate conclusion of the match. At the 18th green I sat (in the stands, special pass, bitches), awaiting the arrival of the three players involved in the sudden-death extra hole playoff; Tiger Woods, Jose Maria Olazabul, and Something Green from Australia. I forget his first name, and frankly, I should. He had the perfect drive, outdistancing Tiger and J.M.O. His second shot, however, flew off to the left of the green and into the stands. Lucklily for him, free drop, since it's a manmade hazard. And then, dear Reader, not since Najeh Davenport left the messy Kryzewski in that poor co-ed's laundry basket has a sports figure done something so inexcusable. Homeboy green mishits his chip, then COMPLETELY FLUBS his second chip as well. Goes Two Inches. Game over that guy. (Which is too bad; he had a great tournament and a sweet eagle that I got to see firsthand).

So then we go Tiger and Olazabul. Next hole. Tiger drives green, two putts, par. Jose Maria Olazabal drives into the sand trap, but hits an absolutely perfect recovery chip. Two feet to the hole. Lines it up. Hits it. COMPLETE, UTTER FAILURE: MISS. Tiger wins, and even he's embarassed for J.M.O.

I didn't even get to see it live, since the hordes leaving the 18th green bottlenecked all traffic, and the match was over soon after (a quick par 3, thank you very much, there's cab fare on the dresser). I got to see it on a big screen TV from the sidelines of the 17th fairway.

As I walked away from the fabled South Course of Torrey Pines Municipal (where I once shot a 104, bitches), I felt comfortable, safe in the knowledge that the world is slowly warping to adjust to mine own level of disreputableness and disappointment, as indicated by the lackluster display of professionalism and skill exhitited before me.

I do thank the day, however, for providing me with one certainty : Like the unknown professional did before me, it's always better to shit in the cozy confines of the Players Only porta-potty than to emulate Jose Maria Olazabul and that Green guy, who in their losing efforts, shat directly on the Green, the PGA Tour, and thusly, on their very Selves.

Every night Jon-Benet talks dirty to me from Beyond the Grave (and we discuss New Year's Resolutions, the Broncos, etc..)

2006-01-24T22:05:00.000-08:00

Such are the song lyrics that run through my mind. "Police!" you shout, "This man! Now!"To this chorus of dissent, I can only say: Hear me out. You see, Jon-Benet and I go way back. Before living in this corner of the Lower California, I did, for a five year period of my life, live in Boulder, Colorado.

After she was murdered, if you must know. But for anyone who has spent any time in Boulder, and become familiar with the sensationalistic ubergasm that was THE JON BENET RAMSEY CASE, I thee acknowledge and can only respond, in kind, "I know you've heard the voices, too."

You see, Patsy did it. I've read the books. I lived in the town. Not to rehash it, since you all are doubtlessly familiar with the main points, but you make your child a beauty queen, Beware of Darkness. And it's ridiculously obvious to all involved who the guilty parties are: Everyone in that entire fucking family. Don't fucking breed if you're that fucked up. Granted, Jon Benet had to die: The karmic forces created by forcing a child into beauty pageantry are peerless amongst even the icy winds of ultimate transgression; nature has little precedent for comparison. I fear for a parallel dimension wherein young Miss Ramsey lives on - what could teenage and young adulthood hold, save a delirious, darkened destiny?

Moving on. The frequency of my posting has slowed recently, yes, due to a terrible clarity which hath pervaded mine own consciousness : Sobriety! Three weeks without Weed or Dairy Products, the end result of New Year's latest resolution. This all ended horribly, however, when my beloved Denver Broncos shat not only their bed, but the beds of millions of Bronco fans across Colorado and the surrounding areas. About the game, I can only say I do not blame Jake. If the fucking Bronco defense could have made ONE FUCKING STOP the entire 1st half, we could have pulled some shit out. But NO. Every third and ten, fucking Big Ben gets a twenty five yard completion. Wide fucking open. FUCK. Regardless, Papa needed his medicine after that one, and medicine he did get. In spades. And tonight's dinner of Pizza with Klondike Bar dessert ensures that the dairy portion of said resolution hath also went the way of the dodo. But so be it; I knew that you, Dear Reader, were in need of some of mine own oratory homeopathy, and who am I to deny a friend in need?

Since we're talking about Colorado, and specifically Boulder, I will tell you that the greatest live music venue in the nation, Bar FUCKING none, is the Fox Theater. Now, I'm no musical slouch; I been to dive bars, I been to M.S.G. on New Years Eve, I've been to inbetweeners, I done seen big and small, loud and quiet, and I done been round that block. Bottom Line: Holds about 700 people, Loudest yet CLEAREST music sound system, from everywhere you feel a part of the music. Now I admit; I was a bit of a hippie back in the day, and I done liked to do experimentin' with them hallucinogens. But I also done been there sober on many occasions, and it's all good.

And since we're talking about music, I shalt confess: I do enjoy reading the "Celebrity Playlists" over at the ITunes website. Having recently acquired the Pod of I, I hath learned that digital music be the bomb. In fact, as I composed this entire letter of love to YOU, Dear Reader, I was listening to it THE. ENTIRE. TIME. And now, since I am your own Private Celebrity (a Celebrity for money, do what you want me to do), I thee present my Private Celebrity PlayList, composed of the songs I was listening to (or currently am still listening to) whilst composing this very amalgamation of letters.

Song One: "My Sweet Lord," George Harrison Concert for Bangladesh.

I was watching Access Hollywood tonight on the TV at the gym, and lo and behold, they show clips of George Harrison and start talking about "Celebrity Wills" and how his last will and testament has no provision for the trust should both his wife and son die as well. Fuck you, Pat O'Brien. I will always have a special place in my heart for George Harrison, so I listen to the six songs after this one, but get especially "happy" when I hear the next song on my list..

Song Two: "Beware of Darkness," George Harrison Concert for Bangladesh

.. specifically the part on the third verse when Leon Russell comes in and moans, "Watch out now, take care beware.."

Song Three: "Dean's Dream," The Dead Milkmen, Big Lizard in my Backyard

Perennial favorite on the "Get Psyched for High School Athletic Events" mix, along with "Missippi Queen," "Battle of Evermore,""The Song Remains the Same," and many others.

Song Four: "Peace, Love, and Understanding," Elvis Costello

After the Milkmen, I had to get serious, because I knew Jon Benet awaited, awaiting to be written, nay, blogged about the place. And when she beckons, I become indignant, and become compelled to right wrongs, much like Elvis in this song, calling out the so-called "strong" and "trusted," and asking, plaintitively, "Where is the harmony? Sweet harmony?"

Song Five:"Pass the Gat," Brand Nubian In God We Trust

I think Jon Benet requested this one. I was powerless to stop her. "Pass me the Gat," she begged, lifting her small hand to mine, "And just like that, I squeeze like a man possessed from the old West."

Song Six:"One Brown Mouse," Jethro Tull Bursting Out Live

Because I like middle aged Englishmen dressed like minstrels from the dark ages leaping aroud the stage in tights, and playing highly organized, acoustic electric hybrids of morbid, nonsensical delight.

Song Seven: "Say It Ain't So," Weezer Weezer

(... feedback ...) wooooooooaaaahhh.. "SAY IT AIN'T SO!! MY LOVE IS A LIFE TAKER!"

Song Eight: "I Bleed," Pixies Doolittle

Since listening to most Weezer tunes (and Radiohead's "Creep" alike) bring me back to the Masters of the slow- verse-slowly-building-to-the-guitar frenzied-chorus, The Pixies.

Song Nine: "Mockingbirds," Grant Lee Buffalo Mighty Joe Moon

Because I'm sensitive, damnit, and the rocking out is burning out my adrenal glands, and it's time to bring this post to a close. But no IPod/Blogging binge would be complete without the resolution provided by...

Song Ten: "Bridge over Troubled Waters," Elvis Presley (The Kang)

Since grade school, I have been forever troubled by any literary bridges spanning any bodies of water due to one horrifying childhood incident, in which I watched the movie Bridge to Terabithia. I believe that any child of the Massachusetts public school system shares this archetypal memory of darkness, a film wherein a poor girl drowns in a rain storm raging river, crossing a bridge she built out of a log which led to a secret hiding spot, dubbed "Terabithia." There she escaped her abusive family, and she frequented this locale with her friend, a neighboring boy. Whenever I hear The King belt out his (far superior than the original) version, I think of the little boy, walking down to the waters edge, thinking of his lost friend.

Sail on, Silver Girl. He thinks.
Sail On By.
Your time has come to shine. All your dreams are on their way.

And he finds comfort in those words, that vision, Serenity sailing on into the setting sun, solace and hope anew.

It's what I think of when I think about an innocent young child, murdered in her own basement, and no one arrested or imprisoned. In the eyes of Socrates, the unimprisioned suffer greater by their own self torture, and hopefully that is the case for whomever did in young J.B.R.

Sailing Right Behind.
Like a Bridge to Terabithia.

Oh where are you now, Pussy Willow that smiled on this Leaf?

2006-01-17T21:48:00.000-08:00

"The time has come," spaketh mine own inner conscience, "To talk of many things." For too long this blog has been filled with generalities, pregnant with the inconsequential. But you, dear reader, you demand more. You Demand Better. And frankly, you DESERVE better. Who am I to withhold the truth, the veracity of my own soul, when you put forth the effort to arrive at this site, every day, seeking, nay, expecting, satisfaction? My new Goal? To Thee Quench. So Quaff away, ye of inner thirst, and fill the empty bowels of thine own depravity with mine. For, as you may have heard , my cup runneth over.

I will disclose a bit of mine own truth. I recently reached the modern age of music, 'ere around the time of the celebration of the mass of Christ, with the attainment of the Pod of I. Specifically, the video pod of I. The black one. And it's fuckin' dope. Word to thine own respective mothers; let them know I'll be by soon to pick up my bestained vetements; and drop off a bounty of me own excess kibbles, maybe some bits. And bits. And bits.

Due to the acquisition of the aforementioned object, my blogupdating (yea, t'is one word) has fallen by the side of way, some would say wayside, and some would be correct, some would not be, but judgement, befalling us all, would simply be. Sitting in front of a computer at work all day, and then at home burning my entire collection of music, has not only diminished my eyesight, but hindered me own desire to type or stare at a monitor. BUT TIME HAS COME TODAY, old hearts will go their way; the burning is done. 2500+ songs later, three books of CDs, many, many days passed to reach the realms of my current disposition. So there is time, yea, to return to the origin, nay, the genesis of this whole blogsterectomy. Telling Tales.

The very first post on this very Weblog involved a party, wherein my lovely roommate won a Camel (the cigarette) party pack valued at $1000 +, where they sent smoking jackets (one which I wear to this very day), a new stereo, cigarette holders, fedora hats, feather boas, etc. It brought to mind the day in college when as Freshmen we held a "40's Party," and our friend Katie said she was so excited to "wear a flapper dress." "Katie," we told her, "We mean 40 ounces. Like St. Ides."

And let me tell you about St Ides, my friends and never neighbors. That shit is the single strongest 40 ounce available, at least if you are subject to the idiom in which my disposition exists manifest. Not only have I unsuccessfully hit on innocent young women every time I consumed its plentiful poison, but I also did other things. Which I can't remember. Just the rejection.

But getting back to my first posting. 23 posts later, I am willing to share one story which occurred during that time; the story of Plumber Paul.

The tale of our consonantly ascribed friend begins one day, when an inordinate amount of shit clogged one of the toilets in our house. Having been built in the 1940's, the plumbing in said domicile isn't exactly up to the "snuff" in which the new millenium s'est situee. But it's ok. So the cup of shite done run over, and we had to call some outsourced plumbing goodness. And like a criminal to Florida, so done cometh the Plumber man.

At first glance, he seemed like a great guy. Sober (REMEMBER THIS DESCRIPTION), knowledgeable about plumbing, calloused; in short, that which you look for in a laborer. Turns out, he lived in our 'hood. "Here's my number," he thusly spoke. "I'll come by when I'm not on call with the company, and hook it up for you, under the table, cheap, etc." And though "etc." he did not verily speak, I summarize to open thine own eyes to see the point of the ice pick. Some suckers say we're free I gotta disagree. But tequila grabst (like Jeff doth Probst) mine own capacity of mental focus and attempt to turn me toward Ice T, O.G., which really doth contain one of my favorite tunes (and currently playing on the 'pod as I type) of all time, "Pulse of the Rhyme." But enough about my street cred - You know I got it. Bow down and frown 'cause I'm down with the brown. Yes, heroin.

So we're like "Plumber Paul, you down with our crew now. Come by on Saturday, we're having a bash, fix our plumbing, then hang out, get absolutely shitty, and do some of the worst shit.." OH Wait! I almost spoiled the surprise. But basically, you get the idea - come on by, Sir Paul, fix it up, we'll hook it up.

So he comes by. We pour him a nice Vodka drink. He goes under the house. And in California, ain't nobody got no basements - earthquake shake of death and all. So he gives our home's undercarriage a little how's your father, and bada bing, bada bang, plumbing's working. "Paul, you the man," etc. Have a drink. And another. And another.

So I roll home after a tough day doing something. See laughing Plumber Paul. Having a good ole time. I'm like, "Sweet. I'm a motherfucking (co) home owner. Under the table labor solves problems. Life is good. I'm gonna make it, this fucking life of mine, I'm gonna let it shine, Pour a beer, put on a smoking jacket, let's rock."

And then I notice Plumber Paul. Talking to our favorite housemate's mother. With said mother's husband right next to her. Talking loudly. Talking shit. And then he starts telling her that she looks good. Telling me that "Your roommate's mother is hot." Spilling drinks. Falling over himself. And it's still daylight outside. But hey, it's a party, let's rock.

So nightfall comes. Plumber Paul is out of his mind. Fellow co-homeowner/housemate is behind the bar, serving up cocktails. I am on the back porch, enjoying a smoke, talking to some friends, being atypically social, etc. Fellow co-homeowner/housemate has a sister. At the time, unmarried, yet engaged. Fiance is at the party as well. I am on the porch with Plumber Paul. Having a (I think at the time) harmless discussion.

Plumber Paul: "I'm so fucking wasted. See that girl? I wanna fuck that girl."
Me: "Nice. Yeah, she's good looking. (kind of blase, kind of egging him on)"
P.P. : "Shit, I'm so fucking wasted. (he stumbles, I help him up)"
Me: "Why don't you tell her she's cute?"
P.P.: "(garbled something or other) Nah.. (actually showing restraint.)"
Me: "Hey, (girl's name withheld to protect the innocent) Have you met Plumber Paul?"
Girl: (smiling, walking away nervously)
Girl's Fiance: "Hey Paul, I'm (name withheld)"
P.P.: (drunkenly falls over. gets up.) "Name withheld, I want to fuck your wife." And then, most importantly, HIDEOUS LAUGHTER. From P.P. Cackling. Yet wholly serious.
Me: (laughing like I've never laughed before)

Ok, so really, that's the whole story. Shakespeare be it not, but Shakespeare be not I. I grabst the poor young fiancee's brother, and he walked P.P. to his Plumbing truck, and threw him in the passenger seat. And, in a twist of fate not cruel but cool, Me housemate, the Golden Shower himself, got to drive the plumbing truck. He dropped of P.P. in front of a house after P.P. indicated "here, this is my house," but when he got out, he walked in another direction, and lord knows where he ended up. My roommate walked back to the party and resumed the festivities.

Fatigue and alcohol hath dulled my senses; perhaps this post is valid only to those who were there. Or insulted. But as Melina says, no second guessing posts in Aught Six. T'is what T'is.

And as an addendum to such ridiculum, most importantly, I must say goodbye to Lou Rawls.

Thank you for everything.

Love is a Hurtin' thing.

The Ghost of Drinks Yet to Come...

2006-01-09T21:42:00.000-08:00

Throughout history, man has vaingloriously searched for glimpses of an unknown, some would say ethereal presence, manifesting through the ordinary and mundane details of life. Fervently driven by the fiery passion of diligent dreamers, our kin have witnessed weeping statues, stigmatic still lifes, images of iconography religious and otherwise, etched in living oak, stained into lascivious linen, found in foodstuffs. Several months past, there was a certain party celebrated for a certain housemate, and unbeknowst to us at the time, there were... OTHERS in attendance... Others of a divine, perhaps demonic, but certainly.. otherworldly origin. Specifically (and reverently) I thee present, Dear Reader, Sir Floating Skull Face, unseen until downloaded, staring down at us through the oversized martini glass..

.. Only to receive a Seductively sullen stare in return.

And a fuzzy one for good measure.

Now, I'm no luddite, but I now know how to break an old washing machine: Put a large load on a small cycle, sit back and smell the sweet, salient scent of Triumph.

(ahem)

Cleaning a kegerator, however, falls under someone else's jurisdiction of responsibility. But seriously, everyone, get your hand off that fucking mouse. Look. Look closely. This is a rare, one of a kind, IN ACTION photograph of a kegerator cleaning. I've seen your New Year's resolutions lists. I know your inner dreams and goals; your very fantasies circle the fringes of mine own psychic consciousness, waiting to be realized, hoping for acknowledgement. So look; nay, look well. Regard this incarnation of thine hope, manifest.

Water goes in, AND WATER COMES OUT!*

Apparently, however, I cannot seem to remove the time date stamp from a picture, although many have tried to explain the process, I simply smile, nod my head, and plod on, unsuccessfully.

One thing I do know, however, is that a good manservant is a priceless commodity, specifically one cartoonish and green. Like Gumby.

And when preparing for festive occasions, those half-barrels can be quite the load. So why not have others bear the burden of our own spoils? And spills?

Easy there, big fella. Lift with your legs, not with your back.

Uh oh.. looking a little shaky...

Alright, Gumby, step aside.

Mount that golden shower like only you can..

And calmly witness the throng of gin-soaked pilgrims flocking to pay homage to skull-face-in-the-glass: apparition, lover, deceiver, thwarter of bad tidings, beatific harbringer of a gloriously strange and enigmatic Aught Six for one and all.

*Um.. what the fuck?

The Captain and da Neil

2006-01-01T20:37:00.000-08:00

When thinking of traditional holiday tidings, yule logs, Christmas, and, eventually, New Years, one's mind inevitably turns to the "out with the old and in with the new" procession walked by our favorite characters, the emaciated, grey haired, toga wearing fellow who represents the "old year" and the little sash wearing baby who's all "Waaaaa I'm the New Year waaa I just shit myself" etc.

This year, however, there were only two characters. Representing, well, any and every aspect of the annual transition from December to January, the one, the only, Captain New Year.

Yes, the Good Captain himself. He looks a tad familiar, no? Yes, after investing in a custom gold body suit for his halloween costume, he couldn't just let it get one use, could he?

I think not.

Which brings us to (in a stupefyingly unabrupt transition) to the Neil Diamond concert, where the other character of the New Year bequeathed himself to our world: Hell, I had someone else in mind, but let's just make it Neil himself, timeless representative of years past and yet to come.

I accompanied Captain New Year to the concert (about a week before New Years Eve), and although he did not have the gold suit, he's still a dreadlocked dude who happened to be wearing a leisure suit. Neil's crowd, while containing all types, tended toward the elderly - It's one of the first times I was asked to sit down at a concert. Actually aggressively grabbed by the fucker behind me, who tried to play it off like someone behind him asked him to do it for him, but I knew better. But that's beside the point.

So about three quarters through the show (which was utterly and epicly amazing), the band slows it down, and Neil starts talking. He talks about love, life, and hints briefly at the meaning of it all. And then he says the following; "I want each of you to turn to the person to your right, put your arm around them, and tell them 'I love you.'"

I hear this, and I think it's just fucking lovely - the captain is to my right, and he already knows I love him (but not in that way, geesh, you guys) - but even if he weren't, I'd be down all the same - spreading love and harmony between people is always fucking great, especially in the loving environment provided by The Neil. But to The Captain's right.... is crotchety old ex-marine looking guy, who has sat the entire concert with his arms crossed, and looked generally pissed, with an expression of "I'm only here to get the wife off my back and I would sooner kill everyone here than admit any of this shit (i.e. emotions, appreciation of art/music) has any value at all."

So The Captain, in his white leisure suit, throws his arm around the crotchety dude, looks him in the eye, and tells him.. "I love you, man."

And the fucker's response?

"Do you want to fucking live?"

I think, though, that he had something else on his mind. What he really wanted to say was..

"Lower the groin shield, Captain!"

The Island of Misfit Pictures

2005-12-19T23:21:00.000-08:00

The rise of digital photography has resulted in a veritable glut of photos which may never see the light of day, eternally condemned to the confines of ones' own hard drive. Oftentimes, these pictures may seek release, through blogs, photo web sites, or other methods. The rejected, nay, the unchosen few may seek comfort in numbers, banding together, uniting in darkness, seeking only expression through some viable means.. Like this posting, analgous to the Island of Misfit Toys (tm), I thee present, the aforementioned Island of Misfit Pictures. *

September brought about mine own birthday, and the arrival of Shitler, aka Pilar, the new kitten..

.. Who amused us all with her first shit (in our litterbox)!! Note the Miller Lite cap to scale (and first piss, if you look closely to the right. Go ahead. I know you want to.)

I also wanted to point out my prowess in photographing signs out of the passenger seat of a moving vehicle as I drove through the Mojave from Las Vegas back to San Diego..

Pretty! Deserty! Mountainous!

.. And this one.. Gallery worthy.

Analgous to the choices we must make, such as Baker, Barstow, or Los Angeles...

..We must also decide between Pleasure, Poetry (ahem Conde Nast), and Philosophy..

..Putting on airs debonair..

.. Debauched..

... Debased..

.. Or sewing one's own cartoonish musical oats..

.. Pining for the glories of yesteryear**...

.. And letting everybody know what's going on down below.

* Also known as mailing in a post with old, rejected pictures.
** (My official entry for the New Sincerity contest - Point Guard of the New Sincerity, James "Mookie" Wright, former University of Colorado star, straight outta Compton, CA . Sadly, he was not among the winners.)

Strong Ale Festival

2005-12-13T21:08:00.000-08:00

Greetings Ladies of America!

I know, I've heard it before. Never has your soul been pierced by such furiously passionate eyes. My friend here? He's actually gazing into your third eye; he seeketh thine inner truth. You see, we aim to please on a spiritual level as well. I know I don't have to tell you this, because I can tell by your impatient fidgeting and constant looking around for help that you're feeling our throbbing love vibe. The line starts to the left.

Oh, Silly me! Je m'excuse! That's actually the line for the Strong Ale Festival.

Where none of the over 60 beers (and cask conditioned ales) on tap are less than 8 percent alcohol.

.. Leading to scenes like this.

After being designated driver from Solana Beach, Corey became designated drinker extroardinaire, leading to his (upon arrival home) passing out first.

And we all know what happens to bitches who pass out first.

You stack a bunch of shit on 'em.

Left hand bravely flailing, Corey battles to regain control of the coverage of his corpus, but the furious stacking continues; strong ale, amply fueling his assailants, burning coarsely within.

No, not the kitten too! STOP! You'll KILL the man!

Abu Ghraib, you have found a peer in terror.

GREETINGS FROM HELL!

"I come, Graymalkin!"

Fair is foul and foul is fair..

Hover through the fog and filthy air.

When The Cat's Away.. Fuck.

2005-12-12T22:48:00.000-08:00

Great News!

Just found out today!

My house mate watches porn on my laptop!

.. And I swear the letter "k" is not working properly..

. And I know it's not a fucking coincidence.

.. 'Tis a fate I endure. Hiterto, unbeknownst to myself, said camarade de chambre (actually a house mate, but similar level of trust implicit in either description) watched special films whilst I toiled throughout the day .

Quand le chat est parti les souris dansent.

His explanation a very missal on the claimless ways of modernity.

"It's the only DVD player that works in the house."

I will now make sure to shut down and always password protect shit, for I have learned what things may pass, confronted with the debased nature of my fellow man. With mine own ears, I have heard the shrieking howl for mercy from the harpys of dusk; their bemoaned fates no longer painful in the face of destiny mine. I know and am forsaken for the path that I now walk, whether chosen, pre-ordained the question moot..

These truths I verily know.

And the letter "K" knows only darkness.

Greatest. Halloween. Costume. EVER.

2005-12-03T15:23:00.000-08:00

My roommate, Mr. C. Ellsworth A., the fully functional GOLDEN SHOWER.

It's got valves. It's gold. There's a shower curtain. AND IT IS FULLY FUNCTIONAL.

In order to achieve such functionality, there's step 1: Fill the shower.

Step 2: Put on the golden suit of darkness. Pose with other roommate (the good lady Abigail).

Step 3: Flip the switch, fill the pitcher with thine own fluids.

.. All the way.

Lather. Rinse. Repeat.

The night passed comfortably until, in a cataclysmic halloween moment, women as far away as Latvia, and, daresay Estonia began to feel a slight, indefinable sense of.. sad unrest.. as..

..THE GOLDEN SHOWER MEETS THE FRESHLY WAXED BOX.

Wait, what's that? Sorry? Oh, MY costume. Surely I would not withhold such important information, especially from YOU, Dear Reader.

I waivered between the now deceased Yassir Arafat,

.. oftentime indulging my L. Ron Hubbard side..

.. All the while partying with rock stars..

.. Being an illicit defiler of pumpkins..

.. Oftentimes merely witnessing their debased defilement..

.. Practitioner of ancient "Drunken cheek-to- chest" kung fu stylings..

.. And Private Dancer... A Dancer for money..

Do what you want me to do.