I visited the new science museum just over the Golden Gate bridge. I borrowed a remote control Porsche to get there. It's not really the most functional thing in the world to drive your own car with a little control box, I think they should have actual connected controls on the inside of the car and leave the little box controller for when one needs to control it from afar. Anyway, none of that stopped me from driving like I was Starsky & Hutch. I'm really good at getting air, all one really needs to do is sit really low in the seat and then, at once, thrust oneself upward -- it's not much different than doing a bunnyhop on a bicycle, in fact it's a little easier since the shocks can be exploited for their bounciness.
At the museum a woman was demonstrating the inherent memory of egg yolks. She cracked a bunch of eggs on her chest. The eggs ran down under her thin t-shirt, over her slightly visible breasts and onto a plate below. Once she turned on the vibrating plate and the ultraviolet lights, the egg yolks gelled up and created an exact duplication of her chest off of which they had just dribbled. In other words, egg yolks, by nature can remember any form with which they have come in contact and they are able to completely replicate it down to the tiniest of details. I'm sure you can imagine the implications for rapid prototyping and other such technologies. I thought it was smart to use a woman's breasts as an example. Duh.
The live 3d models of the sun were cool. Apparently there is now a camera system that projects things in actual 3d. Go to the science museum and check it out. It's nice to be able to touch and feel an exact scale model of the sun LIVE as it's happening, sans heat of course. You can do it with a person's face in another place as well, but I thought the sun was more interesting. Solar flares feel like furry tails. Still imagine the future of virtual sex with a person on the other side of the globe. They do need to get the temperature thing sorted. All the flesh I felt was cold.
My father brought a few of his buddies along and they wouldn't stop yammering on about being "moderates" and how they and their ilk represent salvation for our current political situation. I mean I was pretty much agreeing with the whole speech but still, it's not really a conversation one wants to have while attempting to cross the busiest VW Bug freeway. One should concentrate on not getting hit by a VW bug. Also, I'm not sold on the idea of having different freeways for different types of cars, sure, it looks cool - but it ain't practical.
Speaking of gigantic fireballs, as I was crossing the freeway, off in the distance, a pillar of fire and hot plasma shot up out of the skyline at least 50 miles into the air. I was certain that it was the end of the world. I could feel the heat on my face and through my clothing. It momentarily scared the crap out of me. Nobody else around me was as nervous, they all apparently knew it was all part of the science museum. Still, a little warning would be nice.
July 23, 2007
July 17, 2007
Craig Ferguson is a Hippie, The Easter Clown Rat & A Poop By Any Other Name...
So Craig Ferguson, the host of The Late Late Show, moonlights as a motivational speaker. You wouldn't think it by looking at him but he is quite a hippie. His main message is that everyone should sleep naked in gigantic beds with everyone else because we don't fight when we're naked or asleep. Genius.
Anyway, somebody dragged me to his seminar up in the mountains. I'm not a group participation type and I actually hate motivational speaking so when everyone else was curling up in the giant bed and Mr. TalkShow was ringleadering like a jackass, I found myself a little place in the hallway on the oily green carpet underneath the stairs. Everyone had to step over me and their shoe crumbs kept landing on my cheek so it wasn't the most comfortable sleep I ever had, plus some people got a little jealous that I had my own place so a few people joined me and somebody's cold foot kept wedging itself into my crack.
At breakfast Craig was quite the star, all the frumpy girls were basking in his glow and trying to get his attention. He played it off like the perfect polygamist, one woman was doing her best sad and neglected face and he walked right up and put his lips one millimeter from hers in some kind of torture type exercise which I found quite disturbing between two people who couldn't be less sexually desirable as far as I was concerned. Her lip quivered like it was the most tempting thing in the world. All I could think was ew.
In the other room a high school crush girl I never made out with was making chocolate chip cookie cake, which is basically just a 8 inch pile of 12 inch chocolate chip cookies with peanut butter in between the layers to keep it together. When she cut the cake into only four pieces I hinted that two pound servings of such a rich and heavy dessert might be a little much but she got all pouty about my suggestions so we fucked instead.
The rat infestation at the villa took a new turn, some of the rats learned that by being cute and doing tricks now and then, they get spared the flame-thrower. One rat was even wearing an easter bonnet and fake eyelashes. I pointed the flame thrower at him just to fuck with him but he totally knew I was bluffing and gave me a fake fear face. Confident cross dressing rats are pretty cool, like that even needs to be said.
Later on there was a poop joke telling competition and my friend from Australia was going head to head with Craig Ferguson. I thought my friend was the hands down winner because Australian accents beat Scottish accents in the funny department as far as scatological terminology is concerned. Say "poop" in both accents if you don't believe me.
The cab driver on the way home kept talking about cool buildings he'd "heard about".
"You mean you have never even seen the Twisty Hotel?" I asked.
"No, but I'm sure it's the greatest thing in the whole world."
"That is architectural hearsay."
I think the dumbest shit is clever when I'm drunk.
Anyway, somebody dragged me to his seminar up in the mountains. I'm not a group participation type and I actually hate motivational speaking so when everyone else was curling up in the giant bed and Mr. TalkShow was ringleadering like a jackass, I found myself a little place in the hallway on the oily green carpet underneath the stairs. Everyone had to step over me and their shoe crumbs kept landing on my cheek so it wasn't the most comfortable sleep I ever had, plus some people got a little jealous that I had my own place so a few people joined me and somebody's cold foot kept wedging itself into my crack.
At breakfast Craig was quite the star, all the frumpy girls were basking in his glow and trying to get his attention. He played it off like the perfect polygamist, one woman was doing her best sad and neglected face and he walked right up and put his lips one millimeter from hers in some kind of torture type exercise which I found quite disturbing between two people who couldn't be less sexually desirable as far as I was concerned. Her lip quivered like it was the most tempting thing in the world. All I could think was ew.
In the other room a high school crush girl I never made out with was making chocolate chip cookie cake, which is basically just a 8 inch pile of 12 inch chocolate chip cookies with peanut butter in between the layers to keep it together. When she cut the cake into only four pieces I hinted that two pound servings of such a rich and heavy dessert might be a little much but she got all pouty about my suggestions so we fucked instead.
The rat infestation at the villa took a new turn, some of the rats learned that by being cute and doing tricks now and then, they get spared the flame-thrower. One rat was even wearing an easter bonnet and fake eyelashes. I pointed the flame thrower at him just to fuck with him but he totally knew I was bluffing and gave me a fake fear face. Confident cross dressing rats are pretty cool, like that even needs to be said.
Later on there was a poop joke telling competition and my friend from Australia was going head to head with Craig Ferguson. I thought my friend was the hands down winner because Australian accents beat Scottish accents in the funny department as far as scatological terminology is concerned. Say "poop" in both accents if you don't believe me.
The cab driver on the way home kept talking about cool buildings he'd "heard about".
"You mean you have never even seen the Twisty Hotel?" I asked.
"No, but I'm sure it's the greatest thing in the whole world."
"That is architectural hearsay."
I think the dumbest shit is clever when I'm drunk.
July 13, 2007
The Back Seat Driver, Rumble Down at The Piss Burger & Apologies for Apologies
I have a friend that is a terrible driver, always yelling, driving aggressively, flipping people off etc.. it's like he thinks the whole world is intentionally in his way. It's not fun, in fact it can be down right miserable, nevertheless, I always let him drive everywhere because as bad as he is as a driver he is ten times worse as a back seat driver.
Well yesterday he took the worst of both and combined them by literally driving his car from the back seat. He rigged some pedal extensions and other junk to make it work, he was part drunk as usual and he thought that by sitting in the back seat, in the event that he got pulled over for drunk driving he could claim that he wasn't driving at all, he was merely sitting in the back seat. Yeah, that'd work.
As usual he was driving like a complete moron, swerving in and out of traffic, hitting parked cars, doing donuts in the road and carrying on like a total asshole, meanwhile I'm pleading with him to knock it the fuck off while scanning for cops. Every time I'd see a cop he'd turn the corner or ditch the cop in a back yard or old tunnel.
I'm not gonna drive with him anymore.
He convinced me to stop with him at a new fast food drive in place that everyone has been talking about. I don't see what the big deal is, it's the same fifties style diner we've all seen a million times the only difference I could see was that they installed urinals right out in the main eating area. Apparently this is very european and cool. I think the idea is total shit, especially if you happen to be sitting right next to one and you can feel the pee spray on your arm like I did. Not appetizing.
The place was filled with cops when we got there but halfway thru my burger they left and within minutes the place was crawling with criminals, real dirt bags, meth head hippie types of all sort swarmed in. My friend left his shit unattended with me as he went to pee in one of the special musical urinals with a long line way on the other side of the joint. The criminals could see this and seized upon the loot.
"Leave that shit alone, that belongs to a friend of mine asshole."
They ignored me and scattered with his stuff. I chased one out into the parking lot where I was able to dive and grab him by his baggy raver bell bottoms. He punched me in the face and threw me into a rage which landed him smack dab in the mayors office of beat down city. I punched his face to a pulp, I could feel his nose cartilage crumbling with each blow. Sure I probably over did it but he was also receiving the rage that should have been directed at my friend for making me go to that stupid hole in the first place and leaving me with his shit when I specifically told him not to. My victim's girlfriend jumped in and started pulling my hair so I pounded the shit out of her too and then I dumped the contents of her brand new Fendi bag, which was designed to look like a brain, out into the gutter.
"My Fendi, my Fendi, my Fendi.." She kept screaming over and over.
"That's the part of the brain that controls shopping." her friend joked from the sidelines as she pointed at the Fendi brain bag in the gutter. I thought it was a pretty clever thing to say in the middle of a parking lot brawl. I was attracted to her.
The cops finally came and one of the criminals who didn't really steal much of anything apologized profusely and reimbursed my friend for all the goods stolen by others, then he offered to pay me even though I beat the ever livin shit out of his pal and his girlfriend. He overdid the apologizing. He quickly became annoying.
He followed us to the party.
At the party I made steaks and rainbow trout, the overly apologetic gay dude asked me for cigarettes but I didn't have any, then he tried to reach into my pockets to see if I was lying and another fight broke out. Luckily the gay asian cop followed us to the party too and he shot the overly apologetic gay dude in the head.
Everyone was gay. What else is new.
I never trust people who are too good at apologies, it just means the have had a lot of practice from fucking up non-stop.
I kept looking for the joke teller chick but I couldn't find her so I masturbated instead. Even better.
Well yesterday he took the worst of both and combined them by literally driving his car from the back seat. He rigged some pedal extensions and other junk to make it work, he was part drunk as usual and he thought that by sitting in the back seat, in the event that he got pulled over for drunk driving he could claim that he wasn't driving at all, he was merely sitting in the back seat. Yeah, that'd work.
As usual he was driving like a complete moron, swerving in and out of traffic, hitting parked cars, doing donuts in the road and carrying on like a total asshole, meanwhile I'm pleading with him to knock it the fuck off while scanning for cops. Every time I'd see a cop he'd turn the corner or ditch the cop in a back yard or old tunnel.
I'm not gonna drive with him anymore.
He convinced me to stop with him at a new fast food drive in place that everyone has been talking about. I don't see what the big deal is, it's the same fifties style diner we've all seen a million times the only difference I could see was that they installed urinals right out in the main eating area. Apparently this is very european and cool. I think the idea is total shit, especially if you happen to be sitting right next to one and you can feel the pee spray on your arm like I did. Not appetizing.
The place was filled with cops when we got there but halfway thru my burger they left and within minutes the place was crawling with criminals, real dirt bags, meth head hippie types of all sort swarmed in. My friend left his shit unattended with me as he went to pee in one of the special musical urinals with a long line way on the other side of the joint. The criminals could see this and seized upon the loot.
"Leave that shit alone, that belongs to a friend of mine asshole."
They ignored me and scattered with his stuff. I chased one out into the parking lot where I was able to dive and grab him by his baggy raver bell bottoms. He punched me in the face and threw me into a rage which landed him smack dab in the mayors office of beat down city. I punched his face to a pulp, I could feel his nose cartilage crumbling with each blow. Sure I probably over did it but he was also receiving the rage that should have been directed at my friend for making me go to that stupid hole in the first place and leaving me with his shit when I specifically told him not to. My victim's girlfriend jumped in and started pulling my hair so I pounded the shit out of her too and then I dumped the contents of her brand new Fendi bag, which was designed to look like a brain, out into the gutter.
"My Fendi, my Fendi, my Fendi.." She kept screaming over and over.
"That's the part of the brain that controls shopping." her friend joked from the sidelines as she pointed at the Fendi brain bag in the gutter. I thought it was a pretty clever thing to say in the middle of a parking lot brawl. I was attracted to her.
The cops finally came and one of the criminals who didn't really steal much of anything apologized profusely and reimbursed my friend for all the goods stolen by others, then he offered to pay me even though I beat the ever livin shit out of his pal and his girlfriend. He overdid the apologizing. He quickly became annoying.
He followed us to the party.
At the party I made steaks and rainbow trout, the overly apologetic gay dude asked me for cigarettes but I didn't have any, then he tried to reach into my pockets to see if I was lying and another fight broke out. Luckily the gay asian cop followed us to the party too and he shot the overly apologetic gay dude in the head.
Everyone was gay. What else is new.
I never trust people who are too good at apologies, it just means the have had a lot of practice from fucking up non-stop.
I kept looking for the joke teller chick but I couldn't find her so I masturbated instead. Even better.
July 09, 2007
Them Aintch Peaches, Pudding Pops For Whitey & Why Stand Up When Your Nose is Perfectly Ass Cracked - Right?
About picnic tables in the hot sun: Cram them up your butt. Ever heard of shade? You already know that I'll twist my balls off and put them on the table and do you really want to have your friends mistake them for a peaches again? I didn't think so. Last time just to be clear, If you make me sit at a hot table in the sun, the balls are coming off and they WILL be placed upon it. I know, but you apparently don't listen unless I tell you a billion times -- even then. Right? -- I said RIGHT!?
About digging ditches: Not as bad as it sounds, sure the work is back breaking, but the soil is cool on your skin, mud is fun and chances are that if you do happen to find yourself digging a ditch it is more than likely that you are an extra in a court/wedding drama/comedy movie of the week so Craft services is just over yonder which of course means PUDDING POPS! I suppose if you're an actual prisoner/best man for reals they probably keep the chain just short enough to keep the pudding pops just out of reach. Not my fault you were born mexican/douchey. Any mexicans/douchebags in the house? Rattle your handcuffs/rolex if you have a taco/dick in your mouth.
Oh yeah, good advice for being an extra in court/wedding movies; wear a fake beard and get paid twice. That's what I did.
About wacky cab drivers: I'm not going to tip you extra for wearing blue makeup, a wacky hat, funny gloves or a wig and I don't need you to sing. Being pleasant is all that is required, my name ain't P.T. Barnum so can the audition. I understand it's a tough business and it's really hard to get those extra tips and what not, but really, talk radio is fine. I'll ask the questions. I'm a good tipper anyway. Lemme hear my cabbies say HO.
About glass ceilings: how else are the people downstairs supposed to see up your skirt? Think before you speak. You sound like an idiot. Anybody?
About calling your sister fat: If that is what you have to do to draw attention away from your pork chop face, well I'm not gonna sit here and judge. Plus people love family fights. Also we like little tiny rooms filled with lots of people while we sit on chairs that place our face at exact ass level. Don't we people? Huh? --
About eliciting interaction from readers: STOP IT. Right? We hate interaction right? Stand up and be counted people. Get them noses out them cracks.
Now Gillian;
That's all for now.
Don't get caught forgetting to put the silverware in it's right place.
Your Personal Scape Goat's Butt,
George W. Tush
About digging ditches: Not as bad as it sounds, sure the work is back breaking, but the soil is cool on your skin, mud is fun and chances are that if you do happen to find yourself digging a ditch it is more than likely that you are an extra in a court/wedding drama/comedy movie of the week so Craft services is just over yonder which of course means PUDDING POPS! I suppose if you're an actual prisoner/best man for reals they probably keep the chain just short enough to keep the pudding pops just out of reach. Not my fault you were born mexican/douchey. Any mexicans/douchebags in the house? Rattle your handcuffs/rolex if you have a taco/dick in your mouth.
Oh yeah, good advice for being an extra in court/wedding movies; wear a fake beard and get paid twice. That's what I did.
About wacky cab drivers: I'm not going to tip you extra for wearing blue makeup, a wacky hat, funny gloves or a wig and I don't need you to sing. Being pleasant is all that is required, my name ain't P.T. Barnum so can the audition. I understand it's a tough business and it's really hard to get those extra tips and what not, but really, talk radio is fine. I'll ask the questions. I'm a good tipper anyway. Lemme hear my cabbies say HO.
About glass ceilings: how else are the people downstairs supposed to see up your skirt? Think before you speak. You sound like an idiot. Anybody?
About calling your sister fat: If that is what you have to do to draw attention away from your pork chop face, well I'm not gonna sit here and judge. Plus people love family fights. Also we like little tiny rooms filled with lots of people while we sit on chairs that place our face at exact ass level. Don't we people? Huh? --
About eliciting interaction from readers: STOP IT. Right? We hate interaction right? Stand up and be counted people. Get them noses out them cracks.
Now Gillian;
That's all for now.
Don't get caught forgetting to put the silverware in it's right place.
Your Personal Scape Goat's Butt,
George W. Tush
July 06, 2007
Just One Donkey, Sharing The Suds & Erik Estrada's Boobs
None of this was in my day planner. I'm much better friends with her best friend with whom I have had various late night drunken slops in the mud and I'm not the type to try to pin the tail on every donkey in the barn, really I'm not, I'm honestly a one donkey per barn tail pinner. Weh, but we were in a hurry, we both needed to shower, so every finger on the green hand of pragmatism was pointing towards sharesville. Pragmatism is a good excuse for a lot of bad ideas.
I'd photographed her nude a number of times, but only when I was wearing pants, something about dropping your pants makes you see people in a whole new light. It's that extra eye I suppose. She wasn't as tan as I remembered and her body was quite a bit more curvy, both good things. Such a lovely wobble she had as she undressed and stepped into the shower.
But It was all business. We kept our distance, trading spots under the water in friendly intervals so that neither got a cold butt, but I don't think I need to explain what happens when a little bit of warm soapy skin accidentally brushes past a little bit of somebody else's warm soapy skin, so yeah, the business got a little earnest, we both took washing, rubbing, scrubbing, sponging, soaping and generally just getting our parts CLEAN quite seriously. I washed every speck of grime off of her whatchamacallits and she really did a number on my thingamabab with her howzitgo and the only reason my thingamabob was inflated was, duh, to make it easier to clean. There was nothing we couldn't tell our friend about. BUSINESS I tell ya. Just taking a shower. It won't be weird AT ALL next time we're all hanging out together.
BTW, did you see that Erik Estrada got a boob job? Yeah, they look pretty good, his face is too square though, he still looks too masculine, he almost looks like Brooke Shields. It was definitely a good move for him, his face is on the cover of every magazine stand on earth. Even my dad and all his friends were loitering checking out the pics.
My dad's friends all looked like stoners, they were all totally ignoring me too like they were too cool when really they look like a bunch of douchebags trying to act 20. They shouldn't be hanging out at the magazine rack at the mall talking about Erik Estradas "Cancer Bags". Not dignified. Not cool.
Come on Dad.
I'd photographed her nude a number of times, but only when I was wearing pants, something about dropping your pants makes you see people in a whole new light. It's that extra eye I suppose. She wasn't as tan as I remembered and her body was quite a bit more curvy, both good things. Such a lovely wobble she had as she undressed and stepped into the shower.
But It was all business. We kept our distance, trading spots under the water in friendly intervals so that neither got a cold butt, but I don't think I need to explain what happens when a little bit of warm soapy skin accidentally brushes past a little bit of somebody else's warm soapy skin, so yeah, the business got a little earnest, we both took washing, rubbing, scrubbing, sponging, soaping and generally just getting our parts CLEAN quite seriously. I washed every speck of grime off of her whatchamacallits and she really did a number on my thingamabab with her howzitgo and the only reason my thingamabob was inflated was, duh, to make it easier to clean. There was nothing we couldn't tell our friend about. BUSINESS I tell ya. Just taking a shower. It won't be weird AT ALL next time we're all hanging out together.
BTW, did you see that Erik Estrada got a boob job? Yeah, they look pretty good, his face is too square though, he still looks too masculine, he almost looks like Brooke Shields. It was definitely a good move for him, his face is on the cover of every magazine stand on earth. Even my dad and all his friends were loitering checking out the pics.
My dad's friends all looked like stoners, they were all totally ignoring me too like they were too cool when really they look like a bunch of douchebags trying to act 20. They shouldn't be hanging out at the magazine rack at the mall talking about Erik Estradas "Cancer Bags". Not dignified. Not cool.
Come on Dad.
July 03, 2007
Not That Kind of Sticky Pants, Not The Dump I Knew & Not Impressive Gigantic Books
Sometimes I don't give a fuck a little too much. For instance, last night night my suit was so dirty it was sticky. Sticky. Sticky is not an acceptable type of dirty, well, lemme back up, sticky on the outside, maybe down on the back of the leg or on the back of the arm maybe could work cuz it'd eventually pick up enough lint to de-stickify itself, like when you rip the duct tape off the cat, but sticky on the inside, in the thigh, armpit and ball sack areas ain't rad. When one's baggyish pants are clinging to one's balls like fly paper, the only statement being made is "watch out for pus!"
It wasn't completely my fault, although it was my idea to take the motorhome off road and race through the mud and trees, it was most certainly NOT my idea to drive through the garbage dump, that part was an accident. It came out of nowhere. Since when are garbage dumps filled with ninety percent moldy fruit anyway? When I was a kid you could find a bikes and radios at the dump, now it's all just fucking broccoli and bad meat.
Fucking recycling wrecked the dump.
Also, whose bright idea was it to have the outdoor summer concert series next to the dump anyway?
So yeah, my balls were sticking to my suit and I was very very dirty and not feeling at all fantastic about it but the only place I had to look for a new suit was the dump house at the edge of the dump where they kept all the keepable shit the dump lady who works there finds on her daily dump dives so all of that stuff in there was dirty as fuck too and nothing matched. Plus she was rushing me because she was closing the dump to go to the show. I hate being rushed. I like to say dump. Dump. Say it. Dump.
Anyway, what I really wanted to say is that I could tell all you people who call yourselves my "friends" were acting aloof and distant because my sticky pants situation and I forgive you for that. I can't really blame you, I didn't want to sit next to me either, but you didn't have to make it so obvious by clapping and over doing it when I returned with the non-stick gold pajamas.
Have some class people.
Oh yeah, and to my former roommate with the large collection of gigantic books. Stop it. Nobody is impressed. Gigantic books are dumb, you can't even turn the page without crinklesville city.
It wasn't completely my fault, although it was my idea to take the motorhome off road and race through the mud and trees, it was most certainly NOT my idea to drive through the garbage dump, that part was an accident. It came out of nowhere. Since when are garbage dumps filled with ninety percent moldy fruit anyway? When I was a kid you could find a bikes and radios at the dump, now it's all just fucking broccoli and bad meat.
Fucking recycling wrecked the dump.
Also, whose bright idea was it to have the outdoor summer concert series next to the dump anyway?
So yeah, my balls were sticking to my suit and I was very very dirty and not feeling at all fantastic about it but the only place I had to look for a new suit was the dump house at the edge of the dump where they kept all the keepable shit the dump lady who works there finds on her daily dump dives so all of that stuff in there was dirty as fuck too and nothing matched. Plus she was rushing me because she was closing the dump to go to the show. I hate being rushed. I like to say dump. Dump. Say it. Dump.
Anyway, what I really wanted to say is that I could tell all you people who call yourselves my "friends" were acting aloof and distant because my sticky pants situation and I forgive you for that. I can't really blame you, I didn't want to sit next to me either, but you didn't have to make it so obvious by clapping and over doing it when I returned with the non-stick gold pajamas.
Have some class people.
Oh yeah, and to my former roommate with the large collection of gigantic books. Stop it. Nobody is impressed. Gigantic books are dumb, you can't even turn the page without crinklesville city.
July 02, 2007
Grampa Forgot To Put His Eye In, No Wonder I Love Chicken Makhani & Time is Not a Metaphor
I haven't seen any of my grandparents since they all died in The Great Die Off of 94-95 when, if you're not quick enough to compute, all my grandparents, being totally alive and meaty at the beginning of 94 turned all dead and ghosty by the end of 95.
Hence the need for time travel.
I think it was 1965ish, two years before I was born. It wasn't confusing for anyone in the past having me there because, since time travel has been around for so long, the past is now fully aware of the future.
Don't make me get out the charts and graphs.
Point is, I never knew my grandfather was half indian, not that it's hard to believe, he was olive complected, had sharp features, when he was younger he had jet black hair and his name was Floyd, which is way WAY PoonJob. I always suspected he was polynesian with all those winter trips in Hawaii and all, but nope, Gramplestiltskin was one half Boojie. One would think this would be something someone might've told me much earlier in life. Should it really be necessary for me to travel back in time and hang out with dear old Grampa to get very basic details about my own fucking heritage?
Although I'm not complaining, I think time travel is tits.
Anyway, I'm not a kid anymore, I just turned 40, Grampa was looking an old fashioned 50ish and dare I say, not looking his very best, he definitely improved with age. He wasn't wearing his glass eye, which was shocking because I didn't even know he had one in the first place. I knew he had false teeth, but the fake eye was a new one. I didn't interrogate him about why he never told me he was half blind or indian or how he managed to hide both those things from me for all those years, I wanted to ask, but his vulnerable posture, standing off in the corner, avoiding direct interaction, smiling nervously, shifting from one foot to the other with a little hand wringing, totally melted my guts and all I wanted to do was tell jokes with him, hear him laugh, hold his hand and inhale his woody, musty, essence of Grampa fragrance that made Christmas complete.
My mom was obviously time traveling too cuz she had a digital camera she had no idea how to use. She was bugging atomic bomb style.
Although smiling as always, I could feel Grampa's hesitance about holding my elbow as I lead him around. I did my best to make him feel comfortable til we could get back to the house so he could put his eye back in.
"Mom, you're holding it upside down and backwards, you're looking through the lens, It's like a regular camera for cripes sake. The button is where it always is."
I sat in the front seat with Grampa and he told me stories about his days as a butcher while my step brother and half brother were ball busting each other in the back seat. They never got along like chums, so it was fresh to see them bantering like good pals. Grampa's tone was different, something had either changed or not yet occurred, he wasn't trying to fuck with my brain like he used to, trying to trick me with word play or convince me he was a professional wrestler, he didn't once tell me not to hurt his wooden leg or convince me I could take out my teeth too if I would just be a little more patient with my method. Grampa wasn't testing my smarts anymore, in fact, there might be an asshole or two who might even say he was acting as though he thought I was smarter than him, like he was trying to keep up, almost like he was ashamed, but like I said, only an asshole would say that, Grampa will always be the funniest and smartest so shut up or I'll body slam every last one of you glass half empties.
So there you go, I guess I'm a quarter indian now, which finally explains the latent curry odor when I don't shower for months.
I think the reason why experts say we should limit retro time travel is because time has a way of turning our good times into great times, our bad times into jokes, our heros into super heros, and our anecdotes into epic tales. Time is wonderful marinade. On the other hand, retro time travel is like sitting in a snow storm under a banana tree with a cow and a bag of sugar and calling it a banana split, all the ingredients are there, but the magic trick book is open begging you to get all technical as the joy disappears.
"Nice picture of your ear mom."
Hence the need for time travel.
I think it was 1965ish, two years before I was born. It wasn't confusing for anyone in the past having me there because, since time travel has been around for so long, the past is now fully aware of the future.
Don't make me get out the charts and graphs.
Point is, I never knew my grandfather was half indian, not that it's hard to believe, he was olive complected, had sharp features, when he was younger he had jet black hair and his name was Floyd, which is way WAY PoonJob. I always suspected he was polynesian with all those winter trips in Hawaii and all, but nope, Gramplestiltskin was one half Boojie. One would think this would be something someone might've told me much earlier in life. Should it really be necessary for me to travel back in time and hang out with dear old Grampa to get very basic details about my own fucking heritage?
Although I'm not complaining, I think time travel is tits.
Anyway, I'm not a kid anymore, I just turned 40, Grampa was looking an old fashioned 50ish and dare I say, not looking his very best, he definitely improved with age. He wasn't wearing his glass eye, which was shocking because I didn't even know he had one in the first place. I knew he had false teeth, but the fake eye was a new one. I didn't interrogate him about why he never told me he was half blind or indian or how he managed to hide both those things from me for all those years, I wanted to ask, but his vulnerable posture, standing off in the corner, avoiding direct interaction, smiling nervously, shifting from one foot to the other with a little hand wringing, totally melted my guts and all I wanted to do was tell jokes with him, hear him laugh, hold his hand and inhale his woody, musty, essence of Grampa fragrance that made Christmas complete.
My mom was obviously time traveling too cuz she had a digital camera she had no idea how to use. She was bugging atomic bomb style.
Although smiling as always, I could feel Grampa's hesitance about holding my elbow as I lead him around. I did my best to make him feel comfortable til we could get back to the house so he could put his eye back in.
"Mom, you're holding it upside down and backwards, you're looking through the lens, It's like a regular camera for cripes sake. The button is where it always is."
I sat in the front seat with Grampa and he told me stories about his days as a butcher while my step brother and half brother were ball busting each other in the back seat. They never got along like chums, so it was fresh to see them bantering like good pals. Grampa's tone was different, something had either changed or not yet occurred, he wasn't trying to fuck with my brain like he used to, trying to trick me with word play or convince me he was a professional wrestler, he didn't once tell me not to hurt his wooden leg or convince me I could take out my teeth too if I would just be a little more patient with my method. Grampa wasn't testing my smarts anymore, in fact, there might be an asshole or two who might even say he was acting as though he thought I was smarter than him, like he was trying to keep up, almost like he was ashamed, but like I said, only an asshole would say that, Grampa will always be the funniest and smartest so shut up or I'll body slam every last one of you glass half empties.
So there you go, I guess I'm a quarter indian now, which finally explains the latent curry odor when I don't shower for months.
I think the reason why experts say we should limit retro time travel is because time has a way of turning our good times into great times, our bad times into jokes, our heros into super heros, and our anecdotes into epic tales. Time is wonderful marinade. On the other hand, retro time travel is like sitting in a snow storm under a banana tree with a cow and a bag of sugar and calling it a banana split, all the ingredients are there, but the magic trick book is open begging you to get all technical as the joy disappears.
"Nice picture of your ear mom."
June 29, 2007
The Parable of The Fork, The Floating Robot Ribbon Worm & Where The Fuck Was Larry David?
Give a man a fish, he eats for a sec, teach a man to fish and he will stink bad and non get laid. Give a man a fork!, is what I say. I don't know why I say it, but I really thought it was clever last night down at the community center when I made it up. I kept saying it like I was Jesus, like I had some special little nugget of wisdom, it made complete sense to me at the time and I don't even think I was drunk. In my mind I kept trying to phrase it to sound biblical "Give ye therefore un fork" ... etc... Right now, I can't for the life of me remember what it was that seemed so poetic, whatever it was, my conviction was tested only seconds later at the buffet. Two old women were sitting behind me fussing with their paper plates and eating steak with their fingers.
"You need a fork." one said to the other loud enough that I knew that they were reading my brain.
"Lemme get you that fork." I said mostly to prove to myself that my own inner conversations actually mean something.
I folded up my seat and went on the hunt. The kitchen was out of forks, the dining room had none, every fork was spoken for.
"Know where I can get a fork around here?" I asked a scrawny kid who looked rather forkish himself, I think he was Kramer's kid.
"What? at a steak convention? Good luck, this place is packed, they ran out of forks hours ago. You should go up the hill and check the shed."
The hill to the shed was muddy and slippery, I was tempted to slide around and have fun, but I forced myself to stay focused on finding the old woman a nice fork.
I think the "shed" was really an old self contained kitchen unit that they used to install in small one room apartments back in New York City at the turn of the century when every apartment was divided into three. It was very dirty. The drawers were filled with cob webs and greasy tools, little knobs and dials, old soap and matches and all other junk drawer type stuff. I took a good minute of sifting through the rubble to find a fork.
The fork I found had two problems;
1. It was too big for an old woman's mouth.
2. !t was covered in spider webs and dried brown fly pupae.
I used my fingernails to scrape off the debris, the pupae popped like, well, like pupae. I bent the two outer most prongs on the fork back and forth until the metal became weak enough to remove them completely so it would fit into the old woman's mouth. I rubbed the fork between the fabric of my jacket until it was sufficiently shiny and presentable as an eating utensil and I ground down the two prong nubs by scraping them on the cement wall as I walked. The result looked like a hand doing the Boy Scout three finger salute, I made up a lie about it being a BSA commemorative fork in case anyone said shit.
When I returned, the place had cleared out, there were steak bones everywhere. I really don't think I was gone that long. There was a commotion in a room down the hall. The old woman for whom I retrieved the fork had a heart attack, or she fainted, or fuck, maybe she passed out from hunger waiting for me to bring her a fork. She had an oxygen mask strapped to her face and the onlookers wagged their heads back and forth contemplating the shame, pity and dread.
I left the fork on the side table and quietly backed out of the room.
I cooked 5 steaks and ate them with my hands. Fucking YumTown.
Later, at the dance contest, a really fat 9 foot tall black guy with very noisy moonwalky golden sneakers decided to make me part of his pop-locking routine. He picked me by one arm and one leg and swung me around like I was 3. He had no idea of my pop-locking prowess, I was the best volunteer he could have picked. I warbled around in the air like I was a robot ribbon worm and when he released me, instead of sliding down on the ground gravity steeze I remained in the air, floating around the room busting my moves for the unsuspecting audience. I totally stole the show. Most people can't actually float like me. My moves were wicked. I amazed even myself.
"There is no spoon." someone said.
"Maaaatrix quoooootes aaaare foooor dooooorks." I whispered back as I did some super slo-mo moves.
On the ride home the woman who plays Larry David's wife on TV sat on my lap, I slid my hand up her shirt, and she didn't object. Her skin was cold and soft, she kept turning in a manner to force my hand onto her breast as we discussed Larry David with Kramer who was sitting in the back seat.
"I need to hang out with you guys more often. Old ladies die too much." I said.
Oh yeah, I almost forgot, my old friends The Pussycat Dolls were there at the community center steak fry too. They were mostly all fat and dumpy. They looked better when they weren't famous. Too much catering. I should've done them a favor and taken away THEIR forks.
"You need a fork." one said to the other loud enough that I knew that they were reading my brain.
"Lemme get you that fork." I said mostly to prove to myself that my own inner conversations actually mean something.
I folded up my seat and went on the hunt. The kitchen was out of forks, the dining room had none, every fork was spoken for.
"Know where I can get a fork around here?" I asked a scrawny kid who looked rather forkish himself, I think he was Kramer's kid.
"What? at a steak convention? Good luck, this place is packed, they ran out of forks hours ago. You should go up the hill and check the shed."
The hill to the shed was muddy and slippery, I was tempted to slide around and have fun, but I forced myself to stay focused on finding the old woman a nice fork.
I think the "shed" was really an old self contained kitchen unit that they used to install in small one room apartments back in New York City at the turn of the century when every apartment was divided into three. It was very dirty. The drawers were filled with cob webs and greasy tools, little knobs and dials, old soap and matches and all other junk drawer type stuff. I took a good minute of sifting through the rubble to find a fork.
The fork I found had two problems;
1. It was too big for an old woman's mouth.
2. !t was covered in spider webs and dried brown fly pupae.
I used my fingernails to scrape off the debris, the pupae popped like, well, like pupae. I bent the two outer most prongs on the fork back and forth until the metal became weak enough to remove them completely so it would fit into the old woman's mouth. I rubbed the fork between the fabric of my jacket until it was sufficiently shiny and presentable as an eating utensil and I ground down the two prong nubs by scraping them on the cement wall as I walked. The result looked like a hand doing the Boy Scout three finger salute, I made up a lie about it being a BSA commemorative fork in case anyone said shit.
When I returned, the place had cleared out, there were steak bones everywhere. I really don't think I was gone that long. There was a commotion in a room down the hall. The old woman for whom I retrieved the fork had a heart attack, or she fainted, or fuck, maybe she passed out from hunger waiting for me to bring her a fork. She had an oxygen mask strapped to her face and the onlookers wagged their heads back and forth contemplating the shame, pity and dread.
I left the fork on the side table and quietly backed out of the room.
I cooked 5 steaks and ate them with my hands. Fucking YumTown.
Later, at the dance contest, a really fat 9 foot tall black guy with very noisy moonwalky golden sneakers decided to make me part of his pop-locking routine. He picked me by one arm and one leg and swung me around like I was 3. He had no idea of my pop-locking prowess, I was the best volunteer he could have picked. I warbled around in the air like I was a robot ribbon worm and when he released me, instead of sliding down on the ground gravity steeze I remained in the air, floating around the room busting my moves for the unsuspecting audience. I totally stole the show. Most people can't actually float like me. My moves were wicked. I amazed even myself.
"There is no spoon." someone said.
"Maaaatrix quoooootes aaaare foooor dooooorks." I whispered back as I did some super slo-mo moves.
On the ride home the woman who plays Larry David's wife on TV sat on my lap, I slid my hand up her shirt, and she didn't object. Her skin was cold and soft, she kept turning in a manner to force my hand onto her breast as we discussed Larry David with Kramer who was sitting in the back seat.
"I need to hang out with you guys more often. Old ladies die too much." I said.
Oh yeah, I almost forgot, my old friends The Pussycat Dolls were there at the community center steak fry too. They were mostly all fat and dumpy. They looked better when they weren't famous. Too much catering. I should've done them a favor and taken away THEIR forks.
June 28, 2007
DIY Disaster, Drugs/Religion Like There is a Difference & So Cute I Could/Did Smash Them
A former tenant of mine, who I never really liked, kidnapped me a few days ago to show me his new house that he'd been "remodeling" for the last couple of years. The "remodeling" he was doing would have given Bob Villa 5000 heart attacks, a bloody nose and an imploded ball sack. The vaulted ceilings were scabbed in with terribly aligned sheet rock caked with cracked mud, the basketball court had slivers big enough to stab through the fattest, most calloused of feet and the foaming insulation he sprayed in the attic was still actively foaming like super yeasty pancake batter.
"How long ago did you spray that stuff?"
"'Bout a year ago."
"When is it supposed to stop bubbling?"
"Probably never."
"Are you gonna get your money back?"
"Am I supposed to sue myself?"
"Oh."
Turns out his place was part of a bigger compound of DIYers, DIYing themselves into a full blown religion, literally. The compound, as was so rudely explained to me, was a temple of sorts. On the whole I'd describe the architecture as Superman's Ice Castle meets Concrete monolith meets all public libraries built in the 70s meets your local high school production of "2001 a Space Odyssey". Everywhere I walked I found myself stuck in the middle of some pseudo ancient ritual usually involving blue makeup and/or stilts. It was all very Alice in Wonderland - Burning Man edition.
I did my best to avoid the "sacred spaces" but the place was so haphazard in the layout that it wasn't at all obvious how to get the fuck out. Eventually I landed myself in the food court way down in the basement. even the food was trying way too hard to be religious. there were xanax cupcakes, viagra hot dogs and a bunch of other pharmaceutical pastries. I'm afraid of drugs so I went for the basic peanut butter and honey corn dog which as you might guess was nothing more than a corn dog dipped in peanut butter and honey. REVOLUTIONARY. It was a bad choice considering the crumb duster/keystone cop mustache I grew that morning as a joke.
The food court was over run with little chipmunks type animals with oversized heads stuffing their already filled chipmunk cheeks with any and all pills that hit the floor. They were obnoxiously cute, like cartoons come to life, little spots on their cheeks, cute whiskers etc... I tried not to step on any, but they were dead set on placing themselves directly under my feet. I think they were trying to lick off the pancake batter insulation from earlier. Their little heads popped like bubble wrap as I made my way outside where a carload of people dressed in zany pink outfits was just pulling up to go church.
I don't care how wacky the outfits and music, church eats balls always.
Oh yeah, I ate a bunch of yogurt.
"How long ago did you spray that stuff?"
"'Bout a year ago."
"When is it supposed to stop bubbling?"
"Probably never."
"Are you gonna get your money back?"
"Am I supposed to sue myself?"
"Oh."
Turns out his place was part of a bigger compound of DIYers, DIYing themselves into a full blown religion, literally. The compound, as was so rudely explained to me, was a temple of sorts. On the whole I'd describe the architecture as Superman's Ice Castle meets Concrete monolith meets all public libraries built in the 70s meets your local high school production of "2001 a Space Odyssey". Everywhere I walked I found myself stuck in the middle of some pseudo ancient ritual usually involving blue makeup and/or stilts. It was all very Alice in Wonderland - Burning Man edition.
I did my best to avoid the "sacred spaces" but the place was so haphazard in the layout that it wasn't at all obvious how to get the fuck out. Eventually I landed myself in the food court way down in the basement. even the food was trying way too hard to be religious. there were xanax cupcakes, viagra hot dogs and a bunch of other pharmaceutical pastries. I'm afraid of drugs so I went for the basic peanut butter and honey corn dog which as you might guess was nothing more than a corn dog dipped in peanut butter and honey. REVOLUTIONARY. It was a bad choice considering the crumb duster/keystone cop mustache I grew that morning as a joke.
The food court was over run with little chipmunks type animals with oversized heads stuffing their already filled chipmunk cheeks with any and all pills that hit the floor. They were obnoxiously cute, like cartoons come to life, little spots on their cheeks, cute whiskers etc... I tried not to step on any, but they were dead set on placing themselves directly under my feet. I think they were trying to lick off the pancake batter insulation from earlier. Their little heads popped like bubble wrap as I made my way outside where a carload of people dressed in zany pink outfits was just pulling up to go church.
I don't care how wacky the outfits and music, church eats balls always.
Oh yeah, I ate a bunch of yogurt.
June 26, 2007
Mormon Sopranos, Prince Is Just Gonna Hafta Wait & Fizzy Ink
Most people assume that The Sopranos was based on a fictitious Jersey based mob family. I wasn't. It was actually inspired by a family in Utah who owned a furniture business. At first it would seem like those two worlds would have very little to do with each other, but I'm here to tell you, as a person very familiar with the Utah furniture family, having been a tenant of theirs in their gigantic warehouse that has been divided haphazardly into small apartments mostly rented to artists and Utah's apostate community, them fuckers know the art of intimidation. The walls were all crooked, the floors were slanted and trash and thrift store style valuables were piled all over the place. People drove their cars up and down the hallways all willy nilly like it was a driveway. Anyway, I can tell you that they rule with the same kind of fear tactics and brazen violence as your TV pals.
For instance, recently I returned to Utah to remove the rest of my stuff out of the slum warehouse I mentioned. As I was moving out I noticed a rug was missing. I't was one of those really cool rugs from the 70s that were made to look like old italian tapestries only instead they had a deer or Elvis printed on them. Mine had a couple of ladies in swimming suits on it. I knew not to investigate. Fucking organized crime. So glad I moved out of Utah.
Plus my other blue rug was had totally been eaten by moths. Exactly. Total mob scare tactic.
In different news, I went out into the back yard to write a song I had in my head all week, but once I got out there all situated at the desk by the plum tree I got distracted by the hose. I placed the nozzle on the desk and let the water pool out over my notebook, I tried to write on the paper with the water pouring all over it but it wasn't working very well, the paper had too much sponginess and the tip of my pen was getting stuck on the upstrokes. Besides, my nosey neighbors were laser beaming the back of my head with their nosey neighbor stares so I couldn't concentrate on the song, which sucks because when I talked to Prince on the phone I told him I'd have it ready by the end of the day.
"Don't act like that.
Don't act at all.
You're an awful actor."
Not much of a poem but that was all was able to rub into the wet paper. The only reason I could even read it was because I wrote it. I squeezed out the paper and the bluish ink water into my mouth because I didn't want anyone else to see what crap I had written and I thought maybe it might be cool to drink my own lame poem. It was fizzy.
Kinda defeats the purpose by re-writing it here. What the fuck do I care.
For instance, recently I returned to Utah to remove the rest of my stuff out of the slum warehouse I mentioned. As I was moving out I noticed a rug was missing. I't was one of those really cool rugs from the 70s that were made to look like old italian tapestries only instead they had a deer or Elvis printed on them. Mine had a couple of ladies in swimming suits on it. I knew not to investigate. Fucking organized crime. So glad I moved out of Utah.
Plus my other blue rug was had totally been eaten by moths. Exactly. Total mob scare tactic.
In different news, I went out into the back yard to write a song I had in my head all week, but once I got out there all situated at the desk by the plum tree I got distracted by the hose. I placed the nozzle on the desk and let the water pool out over my notebook, I tried to write on the paper with the water pouring all over it but it wasn't working very well, the paper had too much sponginess and the tip of my pen was getting stuck on the upstrokes. Besides, my nosey neighbors were laser beaming the back of my head with their nosey neighbor stares so I couldn't concentrate on the song, which sucks because when I talked to Prince on the phone I told him I'd have it ready by the end of the day.
"Don't act like that.
Don't act at all.
You're an awful actor."
Not much of a poem but that was all was able to rub into the wet paper. The only reason I could even read it was because I wrote it. I squeezed out the paper and the bluish ink water into my mouth because I didn't want anyone else to see what crap I had written and I thought maybe it might be cool to drink my own lame poem. It was fizzy.
Kinda defeats the purpose by re-writing it here. What the fuck do I care.
June 24, 2007
The Pescalator, 400 Grounded Gummingbirds & Other Things From The House of Bill Gates
For being such a straight forward fella, Bill Gates sure has a goofy house. Some of the tech totally makes sense, lights come on when you raise your right leg, music turns up loud in the bathroom when you're taking a crap, curtains close if you squint and show your teeth, the refrigerator locks up when it hears wheezing, these are all completely practical ideas.
What didn't seem completely necessary was the waterfall stairway, I mean, walking up the stairs against the current was hard enough, but coming back down with all the salmon slapping me in the face was pretty much impossible, especially cuz my reaction was to clench my teeth and squint which of course closed the curtains and made it hard to see forcing me to lift my leg to take another step to get the lights to come on. By the time I got down to the kitchen I was breathing so heavily that the fridge wouldn't let me at the gatorade. Granted, Bill did tell me it was under construction so I can't give my full review, but I don't really see the "Pescalator" making it's way into your local mall.
Another idea I thought was not quite on point was the Gummy Varnish he was testing on the floors. As far as I could tell it was nothing more than a way to trap humming birds, which is fine and dandy until you have 400 humming birds stuck to the floor. That's roughly 20 billion decibels of hum and if those little wings touch your bare ankles it's rash city. Hummingbirds are filthy animals, what people don't realize is that, while humming birds eat primarily nectar, they live in nests made out of tuna fish cans and mite infested mouse fur. Also about the gummy floors, if you drop your earring or jeweled tooth pick don't even bother trying to dig it out because the hummingbirds will peck your hand like piranhas.
The tour of his house really wasn't the highlight of the visit anyway, the best part was just sitting around with Bill talking about the future. Bill is a very casual man and not at all afraid of wild tangents. Ten minutes with Mr. Gates and he seemed like the really cool uncle I never had. Judging by his excellent relationship with his ten year old kid, he is also a man with whom I'd feel completely happy about leaving my kids if I had them. I don't think his joy of playing "What If" has changed one speck since he was 10. Me neither.
After a few hours brainstorming and making up scenarios with Bill there was a little lull in the conversation. I never liked lulls much.
"I wish your company would come up with a computer that was really adapted to all the art programs I use, I'd really enjoy bailing on Steve Jobs, he seems like such a pretentious self important and paranoid art snob." I said.
"Aw be nice to Steve, he's far too good looking to have a good self esteem. It has kept him from seeing the big picture and being secure enough about his own ideas to allow anyone else to help. If he was born with no eyebrows he'd be in my place and I'd be in his market share wise, with which I'd be totally happy, but I'm afraid a guy like Steve in my position would have every ounce of variety stripped out of the market place." Bill said as he looked at some imaginary source of inspiration up in the corner of the room and one of the robotic emu hopped over and refilled the potato chip bowl.
What didn't seem completely necessary was the waterfall stairway, I mean, walking up the stairs against the current was hard enough, but coming back down with all the salmon slapping me in the face was pretty much impossible, especially cuz my reaction was to clench my teeth and squint which of course closed the curtains and made it hard to see forcing me to lift my leg to take another step to get the lights to come on. By the time I got down to the kitchen I was breathing so heavily that the fridge wouldn't let me at the gatorade. Granted, Bill did tell me it was under construction so I can't give my full review, but I don't really see the "Pescalator" making it's way into your local mall.
Another idea I thought was not quite on point was the Gummy Varnish he was testing on the floors. As far as I could tell it was nothing more than a way to trap humming birds, which is fine and dandy until you have 400 humming birds stuck to the floor. That's roughly 20 billion decibels of hum and if those little wings touch your bare ankles it's rash city. Hummingbirds are filthy animals, what people don't realize is that, while humming birds eat primarily nectar, they live in nests made out of tuna fish cans and mite infested mouse fur. Also about the gummy floors, if you drop your earring or jeweled tooth pick don't even bother trying to dig it out because the hummingbirds will peck your hand like piranhas.
The tour of his house really wasn't the highlight of the visit anyway, the best part was just sitting around with Bill talking about the future. Bill is a very casual man and not at all afraid of wild tangents. Ten minutes with Mr. Gates and he seemed like the really cool uncle I never had. Judging by his excellent relationship with his ten year old kid, he is also a man with whom I'd feel completely happy about leaving my kids if I had them. I don't think his joy of playing "What If" has changed one speck since he was 10. Me neither.
After a few hours brainstorming and making up scenarios with Bill there was a little lull in the conversation. I never liked lulls much.
"I wish your company would come up with a computer that was really adapted to all the art programs I use, I'd really enjoy bailing on Steve Jobs, he seems like such a pretentious self important and paranoid art snob." I said.
"Aw be nice to Steve, he's far too good looking to have a good self esteem. It has kept him from seeing the big picture and being secure enough about his own ideas to allow anyone else to help. If he was born with no eyebrows he'd be in my place and I'd be in his market share wise, with which I'd be totally happy, but I'm afraid a guy like Steve in my position would have every ounce of variety stripped out of the market place." Bill said as he looked at some imaginary source of inspiration up in the corner of the room and one of the robotic emu hopped over and refilled the potato chip bowl.
June 20, 2007
The Mud Bowl Rodeo, The Bait Donkey & How PETA Fucks Up The Whole Deal as Usual
Mud bowl rodeos are barbaric, not that I'm against them or anything, I think it's best to keep barbarians properly supervised so they don't sneak into our homes to saddle up grampa or hog tie the kids. But still I think there oughtta be a few more reasonable regulations. For instance, I'm not so sure the whole bait donkey concept is such a good idea anymore.
If you have never been to a mud bowl rodeo, a bait donkey isn't always a donkey, sometimes it's a very old german shepherd, sometimes a wild hog, a baby moose or a seal deer, sometimes its all of those things at once. No matter what form it takes, the job is the same. A bait donkey is tied on a short chain on a slippery slope right next to the mud bowl/bull ring just barely out of/within reach of the shark bulls. If you have never seen a shark bull, It's just what it sounds like, half shark, half bull, body of a raging bull, teeth and appetite of a great white shark, pretty ruthless to say the least. The bait donkey acts as a distraction to the starving shark bulls who, as cowboys are stabbing, lighting them on fire and otherwise infuriating them, in turn gnash their teeth at the legs and otherwise try to eat the bait donkeys in what appears to be a demonstration of the natural phenomenon of shit rolling down hill. The bait donkeys struggle to keep a good footing on the muddy slope and not slide into the bloody mouths of the shark bulls, but often their back legs are snagged and bitten off. When this happens, as much as one might feel for the poor bait donkey and hope for it's survival, sentient creatures like myself often end up hoping for a quick death and speedy end to their misery.
Trouble is, this doesn't happen, the bait donkeys are just left there, slightly out of reach, to suffer and bleed as the shark bulls rip little morsels of flesh from their hind limbs as the audience screams in delight.
But it gets worse. What many people don't know is that in recent years, PETA and other animal rights organizations have come down so hard on mud bowl rodeos and the specifically the use of bait donkeys that now, instead of using actual donkeys, dogs or hogs, they now use under privileged and at risk youth dressed up as bait donkeys instead. Apparently it's all legal and PETA endorsed. One would never know any of this by watching the show because the costumes are very very realistic, It's only when one gets access to back stage and the dressing rooms that the horror actually unfolds.
Last night I met an actual bait donkey. She was a young girl from a crappy town in nevada with messed up dirty blonde hair and a meth toothed grin. She just finished putting on her post show ball gown when I made my introduction.
"So you were the bait donkey tonight?"
"Yup, that's me." she said as she covered her smile with her bandaged hand.
"I really thought you were a goner a couple of times when that shark bull had your back leg in his mouth."
"Ha ha, yeah, people love that part of the show." she said as she reached down and popped off her crudely fashioned artificial leg revealing an infected stump. "I lost that leg months ago, now before every show we attach a pigs leg to to my nub to make the show more exciting for the fans. Under the costume nobody can tell. Plus the shark bulls gotta eat, right?"
I could see in her pinkish, glassy eyes that her momentary feeling of victory and ingenuity was overshadowed by the glaring fact that within weeks, perhaps days, she would meet the same bloody fate as every bait donkey before her. I knew she wouldn't listen to me if I tried to preach to her about life and possibilities and If I tried to openly stage an intervention I'd surely feel the wrath of a herd of angry cowboys and the sanctimonius PETA activists who brokered the poor kids for donkeys deal. Instead I scribbled my name and number on a napkin and handed it to her.
"I'm having a party at my house on saturday night, lots of cool girls are gonna be there, you should come." I said.
"Ooh cool. Let's hope I'm not ate up by then!" she said with the smiling eyes of a comedian on death row.
Even if she ain't ate up by then, meth heads are pretty flakey, so I'm not counting on it, but I hope she comes, she obviously needs new friends.
If you have never been to a mud bowl rodeo, a bait donkey isn't always a donkey, sometimes it's a very old german shepherd, sometimes a wild hog, a baby moose or a seal deer, sometimes its all of those things at once. No matter what form it takes, the job is the same. A bait donkey is tied on a short chain on a slippery slope right next to the mud bowl/bull ring just barely out of/within reach of the shark bulls. If you have never seen a shark bull, It's just what it sounds like, half shark, half bull, body of a raging bull, teeth and appetite of a great white shark, pretty ruthless to say the least. The bait donkey acts as a distraction to the starving shark bulls who, as cowboys are stabbing, lighting them on fire and otherwise infuriating them, in turn gnash their teeth at the legs and otherwise try to eat the bait donkeys in what appears to be a demonstration of the natural phenomenon of shit rolling down hill. The bait donkeys struggle to keep a good footing on the muddy slope and not slide into the bloody mouths of the shark bulls, but often their back legs are snagged and bitten off. When this happens, as much as one might feel for the poor bait donkey and hope for it's survival, sentient creatures like myself often end up hoping for a quick death and speedy end to their misery.
Trouble is, this doesn't happen, the bait donkeys are just left there, slightly out of reach, to suffer and bleed as the shark bulls rip little morsels of flesh from their hind limbs as the audience screams in delight.
But it gets worse. What many people don't know is that in recent years, PETA and other animal rights organizations have come down so hard on mud bowl rodeos and the specifically the use of bait donkeys that now, instead of using actual donkeys, dogs or hogs, they now use under privileged and at risk youth dressed up as bait donkeys instead. Apparently it's all legal and PETA endorsed. One would never know any of this by watching the show because the costumes are very very realistic, It's only when one gets access to back stage and the dressing rooms that the horror actually unfolds.
Last night I met an actual bait donkey. She was a young girl from a crappy town in nevada with messed up dirty blonde hair and a meth toothed grin. She just finished putting on her post show ball gown when I made my introduction.
"So you were the bait donkey tonight?"
"Yup, that's me." she said as she covered her smile with her bandaged hand.
"I really thought you were a goner a couple of times when that shark bull had your back leg in his mouth."
"Ha ha, yeah, people love that part of the show." she said as she reached down and popped off her crudely fashioned artificial leg revealing an infected stump. "I lost that leg months ago, now before every show we attach a pigs leg to to my nub to make the show more exciting for the fans. Under the costume nobody can tell. Plus the shark bulls gotta eat, right?"
I could see in her pinkish, glassy eyes that her momentary feeling of victory and ingenuity was overshadowed by the glaring fact that within weeks, perhaps days, she would meet the same bloody fate as every bait donkey before her. I knew she wouldn't listen to me if I tried to preach to her about life and possibilities and If I tried to openly stage an intervention I'd surely feel the wrath of a herd of angry cowboys and the sanctimonius PETA activists who brokered the poor kids for donkeys deal. Instead I scribbled my name and number on a napkin and handed it to her.
"I'm having a party at my house on saturday night, lots of cool girls are gonna be there, you should come." I said.
"Ooh cool. Let's hope I'm not ate up by then!" she said with the smiling eyes of a comedian on death row.
Even if she ain't ate up by then, meth heads are pretty flakey, so I'm not counting on it, but I hope she comes, she obviously needs new friends.
June 17, 2007
Dog Tales With Tom Cruise, The Crash of The Gliding Silver Asians & Picnics Are So Uncivilized
I built a monolithic cement deck in the back yard and Tom Cruise came over to check it out. He wasn't nearly as annoying as I expected him to be but his hair is still totally stupid. I thought he was gonna start yammering on about his dumb cult but luckily all he wanted to talk about were dogs which was a huge relief. I like talking about dogs, although he kept making sad attempts to one up my stories and everyone could tell. It was a little pathetic. He's no story teller.
I did my best to pay attention and seem interested but out of the corner of my eye I kept seeing something popping up over the trees. It was getting dark so I didn't know if it was a crazy branch or a UFO.
"...and so his little paws were all covered in paint and....."
"Excuse me Tom, did you see that?"
"See what?"
"Something keeps popping up over the top of that tree right there."
"It's these old victorians with the telescopic turrets." said Tom.
"Really? It didn't look like a telescopic turret."
Just then in the in the dark blue sky a brightly lit hang glider came flying up from behind the tree. It bolted straight into the air and paused where we could clearly see the asian hang glider, dressed in a sparkled silver jump suit get a nervous look on his face as he stalled and then began plummeting right before our eyes. He came down with a crash in the next door neighbor's yard smashing the fence. I ran over a quick as I could to see if he was hurt.
"You ok buddy? Anything broken?"
"AAAaaahhhh ooooooooooohh ooowww oh eeeh oooooooch"
"Don't move, stay still."
"My bars, my bars, my bars all clushed."
"Oooh yeah, your balls ARE crushed don't tug on them like that."
Why do asians invert their L's and R's? Dummies.
Tom Cruise was nowhere to be found, fair weather friend. All the neighbors came out into their back yards and we all watched as the asian man held his broken balls while swearing in whatever language he spoke and refusing any kind of assistance. It wasn't long before the rest of the silver asian hang gliders all swooped in to retrieve and mock him. Poor dood got his balls busted twice.
Tom Cruise left his shoes on the deck. They were super tiny car salesman loafers with stupid looking tassles, figgers.
I tried to get the neighbors to help me get rid of some of the picnic tables in the back yard but nobody helped. I don't need 50 picnic tables. What was I thinking? And all the desks? Seemed like a good idea the time. Even though a friend of mine stripped nude and was doing her best to show me all the sexy poses available on an old school desk, I still felt like the whole thing was a little forced and unnecessary. School girl porn is so cliché. May as well dress up like a nurse. WOW INNOVATIVE!
I did my best to pay attention and seem interested but out of the corner of my eye I kept seeing something popping up over the trees. It was getting dark so I didn't know if it was a crazy branch or a UFO.
"...and so his little paws were all covered in paint and....."
"Excuse me Tom, did you see that?"
"See what?"
"Something keeps popping up over the top of that tree right there."
"It's these old victorians with the telescopic turrets." said Tom.
"Really? It didn't look like a telescopic turret."
Just then in the in the dark blue sky a brightly lit hang glider came flying up from behind the tree. It bolted straight into the air and paused where we could clearly see the asian hang glider, dressed in a sparkled silver jump suit get a nervous look on his face as he stalled and then began plummeting right before our eyes. He came down with a crash in the next door neighbor's yard smashing the fence. I ran over a quick as I could to see if he was hurt.
"You ok buddy? Anything broken?"
"AAAaaahhhh ooooooooooohh ooowww oh eeeh oooooooch"
"Don't move, stay still."
"My bars, my bars, my bars all clushed."
"Oooh yeah, your balls ARE crushed don't tug on them like that."
Why do asians invert their L's and R's? Dummies.
Tom Cruise was nowhere to be found, fair weather friend. All the neighbors came out into their back yards and we all watched as the asian man held his broken balls while swearing in whatever language he spoke and refusing any kind of assistance. It wasn't long before the rest of the silver asian hang gliders all swooped in to retrieve and mock him. Poor dood got his balls busted twice.
Tom Cruise left his shoes on the deck. They were super tiny car salesman loafers with stupid looking tassles, figgers.
I tried to get the neighbors to help me get rid of some of the picnic tables in the back yard but nobody helped. I don't need 50 picnic tables. What was I thinking? And all the desks? Seemed like a good idea the time. Even though a friend of mine stripped nude and was doing her best to show me all the sexy poses available on an old school desk, I still felt like the whole thing was a little forced and unnecessary. School girl porn is so cliché. May as well dress up like a nurse. WOW INNOVATIVE!
June 14, 2007
I'm No Barbara Walters, Ya Know Who Loves Group Parcipitation? Lemmings! & I'll Slap Those Tigers Right Off Your Diaper Mister
I had a talk show but I quit it because every guest ended up crying no matter what I said and that only served to really frustrate and annoy me to the point where I wanted to MAKE them cry. Even Metallica cried when I had them on. All I did was ask them about why they cataloged all their photos according to mood and off they went to criesville and lemme tell ya, those guys are already pretty ugly but get them crying and they actually make Paris Hilton look like a cute crier. Ugly criers, so sad.
Another thing about the show is that whenever we filmed a group participation segment everyone would gang up on me mutiny style and I really really really hate group participation in the first place with all the pressure to listen to boring stories and pretend to be interested etc... I was always super condescending and passive aggressive and then they'd all turn on me and point out all my faults and shortcomings which of course is not good to do with me because I point out faults better than anyone and lord knows I was born with a chip on my shoulder. Bring it losers.
Here's the deal though, I don't think it's cool when a four year old is allowed to confront me for talking shit about him to his friends. Kids should never confront adults no matter how much shit is talked. Long haired little smart ass, I shouldda kicked his ass.
Another thing about the show is that whenever we filmed a group participation segment everyone would gang up on me mutiny style and I really really really hate group participation in the first place with all the pressure to listen to boring stories and pretend to be interested etc... I was always super condescending and passive aggressive and then they'd all turn on me and point out all my faults and shortcomings which of course is not good to do with me because I point out faults better than anyone and lord knows I was born with a chip on my shoulder. Bring it losers.
Here's the deal though, I don't think it's cool when a four year old is allowed to confront me for talking shit about him to his friends. Kids should never confront adults no matter how much shit is talked. Long haired little smart ass, I shouldda kicked his ass.
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