pressure release

republitards

2006-11-08T19:53:00.000-06:00

SUCK IT.

enjoy your forced retirement Rummy. Hell awaits.

bye bye fuckers.

beat // pointless // tired

2006-10-13T23:14:00.000-05:00

I don't post much anymore. it's because I don't write anymore. it's because I'm too wiped from writing and running and working all day. it drains me and kills off my desire to play with words any longer than I do all day anyways.

The job that I got in July is excellent. It's easily the best job I've ever had and it suits my style and my interests. In about three months I've completed two large scale projects that I'm proud of. I'm doing pretty much exactly what I've wanted to do since around 1996.

But, I'm beat.

beck // the information

2006-09-23T18:40:00.000-05:00

1. elevator music
2. i think i'm in love
3. cell phone's dead
4. strange apparition
5. soldier jane
6. nausea
7. new round
8. dark star
9. we dance alone
10. no complaints
11. 1000 BPM
12. motorcade
13. the information
14. movie theme
15. horrible fanfare landslide exoskeleton

link

a very very weird june 23rd

2006-06-27T10:28:00.000-05:00

I'd been waiting for two weeks for a phone call from my new job's HR woman to tell me that I'd been signed off on the budget for my salary, and that I was officially hired on. I had to wait for that OK in order to issue my two week notice at my terrible current job of three years.

I work for a horrible anal prick of a micromanager named Steve. Steve is one of those people that may not intend to come off as an asshole, but does so naturally. You'll listen to him say something to you work related, or even offer up a personal opinion about a matter and you'll think to yourself "this guy is kind of an asshole." A year of day in, day out with this guy and you definitely think "this guy is a total asshole."

Steve was hired on a year ago to head a staff of three full-time writers, and one part-timer. Within a year, Nancy, a five year writer with over 20 years writing experience was the first to go (her parting advice to me was "don't let him make you think that you're not a good writer"), followed by Lauren, who had graduated from journalism school two years ago (and suddenly doesn't want to write anymore?) and now me. The part-timer, Leslie, got a book deal and is holding on to the job for the salary and insurance. Even she told me about two weeks ago that she had called a meeting with Steve to tell him that she wasn't jiving with his micromanagement style and that she thought that communication in the department was "next to zero."

Good work Steve!!

So, Steve asks me if I want to go to lunch. I automatically question "the fuck is this all about?" and say "yes." we go to the Billy Goat and Steve (in cool guy mode) spends six bucks on my lunch. I listen to him talk about himself for 45 minutes.

We go back to work and I get the call officially offering me the job. So, I asked Steve if he could speak with me in the conference room, and 20 minutes after he bought me lunch I quit on him... leaving him with just the part time writer (who's taking a lot of time off right now to go on her book tour).

Steve spent most of the time complaining that he didn't think that he'd still be there in a year, but with a new adopted son, a new house, a condo that hasn't sold yet and a home equity line, he didn't think that he could afford to go anywhere for awhile. That's bad. Worse than that: everybody at work knows that all of the writers have quit working under Steve. It's all up to Steve now.

Good work Steve!!

On my bike ride home I pedaled up to the intersection of Kedzie and Eastwood. Traffic was backed up due to the Brown line train passing at the Kedzie stop (it's ground level), so I biked slowly through the stopped traffic and saw nothing coming in the other direction. A second later I was nailed by a car speeding up to 20 mph and was thrown onto the hood, against the windshield and then down to the pavement.

I heard screams. I got up and looked over my body for cuts, blood or pain. other than a very minor scrape on my forearm below my right elbow, I was clean. I looked at the car and saw two 26 year old female Chicago Police officers getting out of their car to see if I was OK.

I WAS HIT BY A POLICE CAR!!

I said "I can't believe that I was hit by a police car." I looked at my bike and saw a contorted, fucked up front wheel. The cops said "are you OK? we've got to go and respond to a call." I said "you just hit me with your car and fucked up my bike, call some other cops."

Within in 3 minutes, a squad car with two 30-something male cops pulled up and shook their heads in disgust at the incident. something tells me that my two female cops are going to pulling traffic duty and other shit work on top of taking woman driver jokes and hassling for the next month or two.

I took a statement, which everyone was cool with, and then I took a disposable camera from my bag and took pictures of the bike and the spot that the squad that hit me was parked: alongside the curb... they weren't even in the lane of traffic. That's one of the problems with cops in this city--and I'd imagine everywhere--they're above the law, so they don't bother to follow standard rules of the road. That's why you see them driving on sidewalks, gunning down alleyways, and driving like steve wonder behind the wheel (ray charles riding shotgun).

I was released with the police report... which I'm following up on. I'm not hurt, so I'm not looking to sue anybody. I took my bike to the store I bought it at to fix it back up. they asked me if the cops even bothered to stop... apparently they sometimes don't (isn't that called "hit and run"?). All said and done... new wheel, and the fork is slightly bent... so new fork, plus labor: $240. which I'll now push to get the Chicago Police to pay for. I think that $240 is probably a small amount to pay considering they get sued for shit way sketchier than this incident.

moral of the story: cops, cabbies, grandpa and the blind can't drive.

oh yeah, and I can't be killed. I'm unbreakable.

pearl jam // chicago // 5-17-06

2006-06-20T16:11:00.000-05:00

I saw pearl jam for the 7th time on May 17th. I got fan club tickets (I'm 32 years old and a member of a rock band fan club) and took Intense Rick. We had great seats... 4th row, section 122... basically eye level with the band.

The dude next to me was a super fan. He asked me what my fan club number was. I said "I have no idea." There was an awkward pause while we both tried to come up with something else to say. Later he somehow bought 8 beers with $15 and gave me one. Even later his friend had to drag his drunk ass the the men's room because he was so fucked up.

Most people I know rip on pearl jam. They always tell me that they suck and that Eddie Vedder annoys them. I can kind of see it, but I think that pearl jam's fans are way more annoying, and I've consistantly dug their music. I could give a fuck if it doesn't sell. Everytime I've seen them live or listened to a live show or watched a live DVD, I'm reminded why I like them: because they are a solid rock band that writes solid rock songs.

AND I'm pleased that the new album is good. It justifies why I still pay attention... and it justifies why the band can still sell out the United Center and isn't stuck playing a free show at the lame ass Cubby Bear bar, like Soul Asylum has to

Coming Soon...
Friday June 30th
93XRT / Careerbuilder pres.
Free Concert with
Soul Asylum

LAME!

Instead, you get an outstanding rock show like this one:
pearl jam // chicago // 5-17-06

Malaysian "Pearl Jam" review

2006-06-15T11:00:00.000-05:00

Broken engrish is funny.

Read this review by IZZY SHAH:

PEARL JAM have stopped bothering to promote their records for a long time now, so why then is the new self-titled eighth album by Seattle’s grunge uncles their highest charter in years?

What’s for sure is that it’s a significant lowering of fences on the band’s part, with singles, videos, magazine cover interviews and photo ops being granted in what seems like an eternity (it’s been 12 years since all of the above happened ... an ice age in music industry time).

Some major music rags are even saying it’s their best in 10 years. I’m not sure about that, but this new Pearl Jam does sound spunkier, younger and more purposeful. The graceful transition to its current affirmative-action-rock phase sees the band rediscover the fire that once set it apart.

Short punk-like bursts and two-minute rock blasts are Vedder’s modus operandi this time. He emphatically spews out raging keynote addresses on class hierarchy, race and the minority welfare struggle (Unemployable), corruption and surveillance paranoia (Inside Job) and US soldier-drafting policy (Army Reserve). The blond-streaked singer even manages a moment of tribute to his favourite pastime, whistling the wonders of surfing as meditation (Big Wave).

And these three-minute songs are short for a reason ... cutting in sharply, making their point and moving on, rather than chewing forever on hollow hooks and compromised radio-friendliness.

Elsewhere, songwriting contributions by the band’s two guitarists are both weird and wistful ... from McCready’s piquant Marker in the Sand to Gossard’s contemplative campfire tune Wasted Reprise.

Vedder, still an alpha after two decades of betas, imitators and washouts, sounds as true as ever, barking leftist sentiments like a hungry wolverine throughout Pearl Jam. With Vedder, a hardened liberal, it’s not so much checking and balancing as it is an all-out aural war on the Bush administration, as the snarling guitars of Life Wasted attest.

Dense, always grasping at truth, and bordering on anarchy, Pearl Jam’s current repertoire should have been the score for the recent V for Vendetta.

But what this album (like all others before it) showcases most is that they are a band of songwriters, their own little democracy.

Even at its most adventurous (as on mid-1990s releases Vitalogy and No Code) Pearl Jam’s AOR has always been commoner fare in the feudal hierarchy of listener appreciation, but if there is anything to be admired about this angriest of outings, it’s the sheer lionhearted, warrior-like will that they’ve always had in abundance.

"Seattle’s grunge uncles"... "Short punk-like bursts and two-minute rock blasts are Vedder’s modus operandi this time"... "Vedder, still an alpha after two decades of betas, imitators and washouts, sounds as true as ever, barking leftist sentiments like a hungry wolverine throughout Pearl Jam." (my favorite).

I wish I could write this good... and engrish is my native tongue.

stupid shit said in an office

2006-06-12T10:52:00.000-05:00

"Wanna “circle the wagons right now??"

"…well… the earth’s crust is still cooling on that… you know?"

"That’s not really my ‘bailiwick’"

"put that in your pipe and smoke it when you need it."

"noodle it up"

"hump it up"

"Kersplooshie"

"One man gathers what another man spills"

"I'll smoke it up a little bit on our side"

"We’ll throw some butter his way…"

"That’s got some rhythm to it!" (In reference to a good idea.)

"So can you ‘bird-dog’ it??" (A.k.a. Can you check that out?)

"This presentation needs to be buttoned up…."

"This is no dog and pony show”"

"The last kick of the cat will be when we get the 'T.I.F's......"

"The satellites are still spinning on that one…."

"That’s back when sheep were sheep."

"What you need now is someone good looking, like me, to go in there and really sell 'em."

"We’re trying not to grow moss over here…"

"Well, we can’t be pigs, but if we just nibble on the edge a little…"

"I just thought I’d make a call and get ‘hand grenades and horseshoes’…"

"I'll take voicemail for $200" [in response to a secretary]

"I had to get clearance from the tower" [permission from wife]

[Email from me to Kari] I was talking to this one girl on the phone yesterday that was a building rep that was going to show us some space and she sounded cute on the phone.

So I just asked Eric if she has in fact cute. He said, "Ahhhh naaaa, well…. she had hoo-hoo's ‘out to here’, but she had no "willow" to her." I straight faced said, "I have no idea what you mean... "willow"?!?" Eric reply's "Yeah, me neither. But you know (then he started waving his arms around like a willow tree in a strong breeze) and says, "you know.... I like the long skinny types."

"Let’s give Morgan a call and see if he can look through the tea leaves."

"Ohhhhh… I see. So that’s a top secret squirrel?"

"Just put in a call over there and see if you can nibble your way up the food chain."

"Alright, let’s do some cowboy math here…"

"See if you can run the gauntlet here for us…"

"That’s just something to keep up there in the gray matter up there…"

cheap ass, self-serving celebrities

2006-06-09T13:42:00.000-05:00

I hate celebrities. They're handed the world on a platter and don't seem to appreciate any of it. Not only are they comp'd everything, they've got lots and lots more money than you or your parents or grandparents or family legacy combined. And for what? Nobody can convince me that being an actor is either hard work, or even a real job.

I've found an excellent website that films these cheap ass, self-serving celebrities acting like fuckwads with the homeless in public.

Check it out HERE.

George Lopez isn't really a celebrity.

pearl jam

2006-05-01T22:31:00.000-05:00

streaming here (for now).

severed hand

2006-04-19T10:17:00.000-05:00

severed hand mp3

fight club

2006-04-11T12:31:00.000-05:00

a whole lotta good fight videos here.

WHAT I DON'T SELL, I BURN

2006-04-03T15:00:00.000-05:00

I'm moving out of my place and in with JS. She has a small one bedroom condo.

My landlord has increased my rent to $860 and has some new bullshit deal where they're charging for heat also... $42 a month extra for my unit. That's $900 dude. They're also renovating the place, so my sister isn't going to take it. It would be her living amongst plaster and dust for six weeks (plus $900 a month base), so she said "no".

So, I'll be taking my $800 security deposit back and putting shit in storage for $50 a month. Not so bad.

I can't wait for it to warm up to a more consistant level because when it does I'm having a yard sale and selling off half of my shit. I may even have a lemonade stand.

I'm going to strategically place signs near the L stops at montrose and at damen and then up in Lincoln Square that reads "WHAT I DON'T SELL, I BURN"

Up for sale/to burn:
1. 20" TV from the 1980's. Includes a Darth Maul sticker.

2. A VHS VCR from about 1986.

3. A sleeper couch the weighs in at around 115 lbs.

4. A computer desk that I bought at a yard sale 2 years ago.

5. A grocery bag full of PLAYBOYS (I might be too embarrassed to actually try to sell those... I may just write "playboys" on a bag and leave them outside... last time I did that the bag was gone in under an hour).

6. Queen-sized mattress and box spring (never mind the dried blood stains)... who the fuck buys a used mattress anyways? This one will be a good start for the alleyway bonfire. I hope nobody buys it. Perhaps I'll drown a tree rat or two in kerosene to spark the flames.

7. A microwave oven with a sticker that says "New Order: Republic. Summer of '93. 93XRT." This oven has followed me around for 13 years and over 10 residences. I hope that the sticker doesn't give away its age... that sort of thing tends to automatically lower sales prices.

8. About 6 winter coats.

9. Lots and lots of clothes from the '90's (grunge still rocks!!)

I'll have a wednesday night blow out at some point in may that you'll have to attend. I have to party there one last time before I pay some immigrants $100 to clean the place.

evolution

2006-03-31T13:24:00.000-06:00

do the evolution

spike lee's new joint

2006-03-27T14:41:00.000-06:00

My sister sent me an e-mail this morning asking if I wanted to see the new Spike Lee film "The Inside Man." This is what I have to say about Spike Lee:

Spike Lee's "joints" are always boring. This new movie is supposed to be boring also... it's like getting solid 2.5 stars across the board. It's only notable because spike isn't hammering "RACISM!!" and "INJUSTICE!!" over your head for 3.5 hours (spike lee's movies are always a minimum of one hour too long).

look here: http://www.imdb.com/name/nm0000490/#director

I saw SHE HATE ME. I couldn't believe how stupid it was. There was "RACISM!!" and "INJUSTICE!!" in it.

I saw HE GOT GAME. I couldn't believe that it had to be 4 hours long. There was "RACISM!!" and "INJUSTICE!!" in it.

Spike Lee actually gets more attention when he makes a movie that's main focus is not "RACISM!!" and "INJUSTICE!!" ... rather regulating "RACISM!!" and "INJUSTICE!!" to his third or fouth subplot.

My favorite Spike Lee joke (by Howard Stern): "MALCOLM X should have been called MALCOLM Z-Z-Z-Z."

I can't be bothered with Spike Lee and his bullshit. He's a wealthy black man who sits courtside at Knicks games at the Garden, bitches every year about how he doesn't get Academy Award nominations because he's black, and cashes in on "exposing" racism in America.

If he was all that interested in helping black people, he'd do it like Bill Cosby does it: sitting in his mansion criticizing poor blacks in America who have to go to under-subsidized shit public schools -- and have no money -- for not "respecting themselves" by not going to college.

so, "no. I don't want to see the new Spike Lee joint."

gone

2006-03-08T14:15:00.000-06:00

Gone (Written by Ed Vedder)

No more upset mornings
No more trying evenings
It's the American Dream I am disbelieving.
When the gas in my tank feels like money in the bank
I’m gonna blow it all this time, take me one last ride.
The lights of the city, they only look good when I’m speeding
I wanna leave em all behind me because this time I’m gone
Gone, going for it all this time, gone.
In the far off distance
As my taillights fade
No one to witness but they will someday
Feel like a question is forming
And the answers
I will be what I could be
Once I get out of this town.
The lights of this city
They’ve lost all of their feeling
I wanna leave em all behind me because this time I’m gone
Gone, going for it all, this time I’m gone
Nothing is everything
I’ll have it all
If nothing is everything then I will have it all.
I’m gone.

pearl jam - gone.mp3

monkey wrench radio transcript

fly amongst the stars, fallen reeves

2006-03-07T11:36:00.000-06:00

nice photo... the one with reeve as lex luthor sitting in his world dominator chair, and his wife above him.... they keep that room at a cool 55 degrees.

32

2006-03-06T12:28:00.000-06:00

I woke up this year in my hot girlfriend JS’ bed to her dog wearing a Happy Birthday hat and a toffee and walnut coated rum cake coming out of the oven. I ate 3 slices with a cup of coffee. JS then gave me a tent, which was great because I had been talking about buying one this spring, and she had been listening.

I rode pista 9 miles in the 40 degree fog to the loop to work. I cut through two projects and was out the door by 12:30—the ideal work day: in long enough to be productive, out soon enough to keep from getting pissed off about something or someone.

I ate sushi with my sister and my friend Dan and then I went to the gym to get in a 30 minute work out. I then biked to Wicker Park to meet up with JS for a while. We looked online… she bought me the expensive tent. I was pleased.

I biked to Big Hair and got my haircut. The girl cutting hair told me that she was trying out for the Windy City Rollers and needed a name. She said some other girls had names like “Courtney Shove” and “Shirley Temple of Doom.” The only name I could come up with was “Donnareah.”

I biked home and started to clean the place up. I then biked to JS’ to take the dog out. He was happy to see me and then bummed when I was leaving him to go to the grocery store. I swung back and picked him up after buying groceries and went to my place to clean up some more and get ready for JS to take me to dinner.

I called my sister to come over early in case anyone got there before 9 p.m. JS and I ate an excellent Italian dinner at the joint across the street from my crib, and walked home at 9 p.m. when the kids started to show. My last guest left at 1:30 a.m.

It was a good 32.

worldwide suicide

2006-02-27T12:14:00.000-06:00

only 15 seconds?!?

pearl jam - worldwide suicide.mp3 (15 second clip)

full track

iron mike

2006-02-22T15:29:00.000-06:00

You can't touch me, you're not man enough! I'll eat your asshole alive you bitch! Not anybody in here can fuck with me! This is the ultimate, man! Fuck you, you ho! Say that to my face and I'll fuck your ass in front of everybody! You bitch, come on! You bitch! You're a scared coward, you ain't man enough to fuck with me! You can't last two minutes in my world, bitch! Look at you, you're scared now, you ho... scared like a little white pussy! Scared of the real man! I'll fuck you 'till you love me, faggot!

The government should step in and put that rabid dog to sleep.

meatpacking millionaires

2006-02-22T15:24:00.000-06:00

I like it when regular people become super millionaires. I've got my own ideas about how I'll handle sudden sick wealth.

Eight workers at a meatpacking plant in Lincoln NE just won the largest lottery in U.S. history--$365 million.

The seven men and one woman bought the winning Powerball ticket at a convenience store near the ConAgra ham processing plant where they worked. At least three of the winners are immigrants — two from Vietnam and one from the Congo.

“This is great country!” said Quang Dao, 56, who came to the United States in 1988. He still has family in Vietnam and said he plans to help them financially with his winnings.

The Nebraska workers had the option of taking the money in one lump sum or 30 annual installments. They chose the lump sum and will get $15.5 million each after taxes.

Three of the group quit their jobs when they hit the jackpot.

“I’ve been retired for about four days now,” said Eric Zornes, 40.

fucking cool.

awwwstrich

2006-02-14T15:11:00.000-06:00

ugly ass bird

one-legged yoko!!

2006-01-25T12:06:00.000-06:00

Heather made Paul McCartney stop smoking weed

Heather Mills refused to marry Sir Paul McCartney unless he stopped smoking cannabis. The 37-year-old blonde said the former Beatle used the drug "as regularly as others drink cups of tea" but she gave him an ultimatum to ditch the drug or stay single.

She told Britain's Daily Mail newspaper: "Him and (his first wife) Linda smoked it every day for the whole of their lives together.

"But I would not get married to him if he was taking drugs. I hate it." Heather insists she introduced the ban for the sake of their daughter, two-year-old Beatrice. She added: "I could not have him lying to our child about not taking drugs and then going off for a sneaky puff.

"50 per cent of people can smoke joints their entire life and be fine. But the other 50 per cent, if there's a history of depression in their family or in their genes, then they cannot smoke marijuana."

The stunning blonde, who lost one of her legs in a motorcycle crash, also revealed she's always been clean and sober throughout her life.

teen today article

You'd have to be high to fuck a bitch with one leg.

restoring the rule of law

2006-01-23T16:12:00.000-06:00

read

realization

2006-01-23T11:58:00.000-06:00

"Today a young man on acid realized that all matter is merely energy condensed to a slow vibration, that we are all one consciousness experiencing itself subjectively, there is no such thing as death, life is only a dream, and we are the imagination of ourselves. Here's Tom with the weather."

-Bill Hicks

weak rundown about being rundown all weekend

2006-01-16T15:04:00.000-06:00

Last week I worked really hard at work all week. So fucking hard, that today--Martin Luther King Day--I hardly have anything to do (which explains the creation of the post you're reading).

On Friday night I dined at a Turkish restaurant on the north side called A La Turka. A La Turka is the shit. I went with my hot girlfriend. We smoked some bud in the car and then searched the front seat for change for the meter for 6 minutes.

Inside we were seated at a table near the back. Our waitress was super stupid. I was admiring the ugly poster of two fisherman in the sunset, and the cheap frame in particular. She came over and dropped some BS story about how the poster was a picture from her homeland, the boundary waters between the middle east and europe and how badly she missed it, etc. etc. etc.

Yeah right, try the boundary waters between minnesota and canada... I could almost make out the Old Milwaukee logo cut out of the corner in the frame.

I drank Turkish beer (it tasted like Michelob) and sipped Turkish red wine (it tasted like sand) and sample some of my hot girlfriend's chicken kabob. It was excellent. I had made the mistake of eating two deep dish slices of pizza after work, and wasn't hungry.

I had to piss, so I waited in line in the back. I got a chance to look at all of the autographed pictures. The collection was bizarre: nearly every senior official of the Turkish government with the owner ("Josh"), and then pictures of Josh with the killer Don King and the head bouncer of the Jerry Springer Show, Steve.

About 9 o'clock A La Turka raffled off some $15 gift certificates and then the belly dancers came out. One was fat and Turkish, one was dumpy and white trash, and one was a stripper with huge fake tits, no body fat and a spastic tweaked cocaine shake. They danced to Turkish techno for about a half hour.

After dinner we walked over to the Lincoln Tap Room and drank two beers before calling it a night at 11:30 because we are pussy adults who are tired from working at our adult jobs where we have to take shit from baby boomers all week long. Baby boomers should chill the fuck out.

--

Saturday night I had my friends over to the apartment for some beers before the Peanut Butter Wolf show at the Abbey. I told 3 of them to bring over a CD boom box without telling them why. Pat's 1991 era CD boom box had "weight room" written all over it, with stickers dating back to 1991. After I got everyone good and hi, we turned on The Flaming Lips: Zaireeka... the release that has 4 CDs that you play at the same time... it's a musical journey.

Later we drove over to the Abbey to catch the show. Unfortunately hip hop has never really taken off in Chicago. I think that Chicago is too conservative and too midwest. Peanut Butter Wolf's set sounded fucking excellent, but in the meantime, fat girls got on stage, someone kept spilling beer on the soundboard guy, and improbably a plate glass window was broken. beats me.

I ended the night very drunk on beer and whisky.

--

I finally got up about 1:30 p.m. on Sunday and drank a glass of iced tea. Iced tea always cures my hangover. My hot girlfriend juiced me some carrots and apples... damn that sweet shit is good.

Later we went over to my friend Todd's place to watch Carolina take the Bears out of the season. I'm from Wisconsin, so I couldn't care less if the Bear ever win another game again, in fact there's something sweet about watching them wreck... In all honesty I just don't ever want to hear about the '85 Bears again. Stop talking about them, it's pathetic. It was (now) 20+ years ago, and Jim McMahon was eventually a 3rd sting QB on the Packers.

After that we caught the 3rd period of the Blackhawks game with the free 13th row off the ice tickets that Todd got from work.

Later, I crashed.

Larry David refuses to see "Brokeback Mountain"

2006-01-03T13:53:00.000-06:00

I love gay people. Hey, I've got gay acquaintances. Good acquaintances, who know they can call me anytime if they had my phone number. I'm for gay marriage, gay divorce, gay this and gay that. I just don't want to watch two straight men, alone on the prairie, fall in love and kiss and hug and hold hands and whatnot. That's all.

Is that so terrible? Does that mean I'm homophobic? And if I am, well, then that's too bad. Because you can call me any name you want, but I'm still not going to that movie.

Larry David refuses to see "Brokeback Mountain"

2006: radical change or slow moving existance?

2006-01-03T13:26:00.000-06:00

I don't make new years resolutions because I don't like to set myself up for failure.

2006 promises to be either a year of radical change, or a year of slow moving existance. Maybe I'll gain 40 lbs this year... that's just about an extra 3 lbs a month for the next year. That should be super easy to do. I see fat people all the time. All I have to do is figure out how they packed on all that extra shit. This may be simpler than I initially thought. All I have to do is go where the fat people go and eat what the fat people eat.

Like, I know that if I eat an entire box of Oreo Double Stuff in one sitting for lunch one day, and the next day I eat $6 worth of Burger King, I am totally on my way to getting an extra 3 lbs of fat parked right on my ass.

So, getting fat this year achieves both goals: it will be a radical change AND it will turn being [tim] into a slow moving experience.

--

Oh, and by the way (secretly and publicly), I believe that fat people have a choice. They don't have to be fat, they just accept it. This is how thin people stay thin: exercise and sensible eating habits.

--

I excel at -- and have a talent for -- being mean.

remaining dead pool candidates

2005-12-21T11:46:00.000-06:00

2006 is going to be the last year for:

Kevin Federline
Corey Haim
Corey Feldman
George H.W. Bush
Barbara Bush
George W. Bush
Dick Cheney
Todd Bridges
Lindsey Lohan
Tommy Lee
Pamela Anderson
Mick Marrs
Nikki Six
Vince Neil
Frank Stallone
Jesse Helms
Andy Rooney
Dennis Rodman
Dick Vitale
Ashlee Simpson
OJ Simpson
Vincent Gallo
Ariel Sharon
Peter Criss
Uri Geller
Magic Johnson
Kirk Douglas
Charlton Heston
Billy Graham
Jerry Lee Lewis
Tammy Faye Baker
Dick Clark
Abe Vigoda
James Brown
Nick Nolte
Colin Farrell
Osama bin Laden
Courtney Love
Michael Jackson
Fiedel Castro

smack my bitch up

2005-12-09T13:09:00.000-06:00

video

catchphrase

2005-11-28T15:56:00.000-06:00

Want to read the greatest new catch phrase out there?

I just made it up, and soon everybodys going to be saying it because it's so fucking awesome.

Ready? Here it is:

"CUNT" is the new "FUCK"

Think about it for a few minutes, and let it sink in.

cunt is the new fuck
cunt is the new fuck
cunt is the new fuck
cunt is the new fuck
cunt is the new fuck

henry rollins "commentary" (not "insight")

2005-11-28T15:25:00.000-06:00

I enjoy receiving comments on the comment section of the entries I write. It amazes me that anyone is reading. Further, it amazes me when someone leaves a comment.

One particular skinny little indie runt (you already know what he looks like: carefully chosen thrift wear clothing, meticulously crafted and parted strands of greasy ass messy hair, and arms too weak and homo to lift a gallon of milk) left this comment sometime in the last week. I had to repost it here as a full post, along with a response.

Anonymous said...

WOW! henry rollins, huh? he's really cool! you fit his demographic. i bet you're from some shitty, small town in iowa or wisconsin where nothing ever happens. dude! it's totally rad that you were turned onto black flag in the late '80s, but most people tend to agree that they REALLY started sucking when hank joined the band.

it's sad that you look to henry rollins for insight into bush, katrina, wal-mart, et al.

i'm sure it was enlightening to hear an ENTERTAINER --- who (how many?) people paid $26 each to see --- expound on the working poor.

do you feel more informed now?

why didn't you take that $26 (plus the $10 you were dupped out of for his book) and donate it to one of the causes that hank enlightens people about? are you saving up to go see celine dion next time SHE's in town?

put down "Fanatic" and pick up something by h.l. mencken. you silly twat!

[tim] said...

indie cunt,

i haven't lived in a shitty small town in iowa or illinois since 1992 -- the year that my parents stopped paying for me and I decided to get a real education on my own dime...

a bit of a contrast to your father's name on your credit card and the university of chicago education pre-paid for... don't be too fucking surprised, I understand that the university of chicago only admits trust fund bitch boys. your collective cum stain "intelligencia" can be found with daily updates at www.pitchforkmedia.com

and by the way, it's not "insight", it's "commentary"... you MIGHT know the difference once you've finished your third year of college. And nobody mistakes henry for anything more than an "entertainer"

do you feel more informed now?

bring it, bitch.

I love this shit.

dead pool

2005-11-17T15:36:00.000-06:00

who's gonna die first?

my dead pool 11/17/05

1. Jerry Lewis (quickly sinking into delusion)

2. Vin Diesel (I want him to go first)

3. Kirk Douglas (already looks like a corpse)

4. Courtney Love (tick... tick... tick...)

5. Kate Moss (that frail body and that little heart can't possibly take that much blow for that much longer)

6. Muhammad Ali (or Will Smith)

7. Dick Cheney (no tears shed at this funeral)

8. Woody Allen (he fucks and marries his step daughter... the only reason he wasn't slammed in a career ending smear campaign is because the Jews run the media... think about it.)

9. Clint Eastwood (I'll miss Clint)

10. Jenna Elfman (non-talent scientologist. not hot at all... cold, like corpse)

the mars volta :: scabdates

2005-11-09T16:19:00.000-06:00

the mars volta :: scabdates

think tank

2005-11-09T15:07:00.000-06:00

My boss Steve and I just sat down at a meeting that went an hour and we shouldve been the fuck outta there after 20. We ran to the elevator and Steve said "do you see what I mean? Do you see what I have to do everyday? I'm a babysitter... a hand holder... a cat wrangler..."

We sat in this fucking meeting and talked for 45 minutes about these fucking charts that these fuck heads were so fucking crazy about... even after being told at least 8 times that all of this would be addressed in design.

Stupid fuckers kept dropping the word "think tank"... I've figured out what a "think tank" is... constant chatter and zero results...

Here's a thought for all you think tank fuck nuts: GET A REAL FUCKING JOB.

ebay punk ass jerk off bitch

2005-11-08T15:57:00.000-06:00

fuck assholes on fucking ebay!!!

This dipshit bought this horrible LP that I never thought that I would be able to sell by this talentless hack hip hop white girl act called "northern state".

IMMEDIATELY after ordering this ebay fuck nut began emailing me asking IS IT HERE YET IS IT HERE YET IS IT HERE YET IS IT HERE YET.

The LP went out about a week after the bidding ended because I had to order some LP boxes from uline.com.

So, on top of holding this pussy's hand throughout the duration of mail transport, I receive a "neutral" rating on ebay feedback... I emailed this person to tell them that I would give a full refund in exchange for a change from "neutral" to "postive" in the feedback section... their response is below.

in a momentary fit of FUCK THIS I responded to below's email:

"whoa... who cares? - Tim"

I guess that you can't find "northern state" LPs in marion, iowa. and seeing as there's fuck all jack shit to do there otherwise, it's a serious matter when you have to wait a few extra days for your absolutely horrible LP to arrive.

PS: 1 cent profit isn't really a profit,.. now is it?

--

The communication:

(1)
Sat, 5 Nov 2005 16:59:21 EST

Tim,

Just wanted to let you know that the record arrived as of today. Had you not told me that it was sent on Monday 10/24, but actually on 11/2, I may not have been as worried about it being lost in the mail. Any reason you decided to lie as oppossed to just saying you hadn't gotten it sent out yet?

(2)
Sent: Mon, 07 Nov 2005 09:47:24 -0600

change your feedback from a "neutral" to a "positive" and i'll refund your
money via paypal.

regardless, you received a deal on that record.

Tim

(3)
Date: Mon, 07 Nov 2005 12:17:12 -0500

Thank you for the offer, but we had a transaction and I'm certainly not looking to get anything "free". I paid for the item and got the item. I'm not looking for anything else. My feedback is honest. I got the item as described but you weren't up front about the shipping timeframe. It also stands to note that I have yet to get feedback from you, when really my obligation was fufilled once I submitted payment for the item.

As for the "deal" aspect.....there was still a sticker on the LP from Tower Records with a price of $6.99. So assuming that you bought it for full price, you're the one that's actually coming out ahead with the $7.00 ending price.

At this point I'm just happy to have the item and be done with the transaction. Leave me feedback or don't, but I guess I don't see me being at any fault in this dealing. I paid the day the auction ended and you lied about when you shipped it. A bit of honesty probably would've kept any of this from even being an issue.

--

What the fuck? 1 cent profit isn't really a profit,.. now is it?

Henry Rollins - The Vic - Chicago - 2 November 05

2005-11-07T15:52:00.000-06:00

First off: I've liked Rollins since I was turned onto Black Flag in the late 80's. I like the Rollins Band. I don't like seeing Rollins in a GAP ad, or in a shitty movie dressed up like a cop, or sucking up to MTV. The guy obviously enjoys getting paid, and wedsnesday nights performance was $26 a head.

SO, what's Rollins like without the volume... just a man and a mic?

Rollins was outstanding.

I must admit that at $26 I was wondering if it was going to be worth it, considering that it's only open mike, no music. I'd caught a video of his spoken word back in 1994 and it was borderline stand up comedy... as well as his periodic rants on corporate sponsored television. Was it worth it? FUCK YES.

Rollins hit the stage at 7 p.m. sharp and spoke straight through until 10 p.m. sharp... no breaks, no pauses, no hits off a bottle of water, no slowing down... motherfucker brought the same level of intensity to minute 179 that he had at minute 11. What did he discuss? Off the top of my head it was some insight into: Bush... Katrina... Wal-Mart... the working poor... the democrats... Trent Lott... Tulsa Oklahoma.... New York City... Ted Nugget... Johnny Ramone and watching "The End of the Century" with him a few weeks before he died of colon cancer... visiting troops in South Korea, Afghanistan, I raq, and the wounded in VA hospitals... squirells... hunters... automatic weapons... Ian MacKaye... his work ethic... turning 40... gay Bob Mould... improve yourself infomercials... what's hot... edible underware... his B-actor cameos.... good citizenship.

Rollins was excellent. I highly, highly recommend seeing him the next time you're in the same town he's playing. Twenty six bucks is worth every dime, he brings it to the performance.

I picked up a signed copy of his new book "Fanatic" at merchandising for $10. It's a collection of each of his setlists from his weekly 2004 monday night show on Indie 103 in L.A... it's full of info, personal memories, and basic music geek notes plus web sites to each of the tracks he chose to play on each show. Good, fun, quick read.

pearl jam and robert plant at the house of blues in chicago

2005-10-26T15:03:00.000-05:00

Tickets were only $1000 a head... I went down at noon to see if they'd released any for something a bit more reasonable,.. like 80 bucks.

No such luck.

Now you can see three bootlegged videos from that show for free. HERE.

DangerdooM

2005-10-17T13:38:00.000-05:00

Danger Mouse

+

MF Doom

=

DangerdooM

madlib

2005-10-11T13:08:00.000-05:00

genius.

mr. loopdigger

Madlib profile on NPR

quasimoto
broadfactor.mp3

madvillian
figaro.mp3
sickfit.mp3
shadows of tomorrow.mp3
madvillian review

sound directions
funky side.mp3
a divine image.mp3

yesterday's new quintet
keeper of my soul.mp3

baby boomers are fucked up

2005-10-10T14:10:00.000-05:00

There's a lot of aging baby boomers at my job.

They're really, really weird.

Maybe it's because:

...they ate mad amounts of acid 40 years ago. They thought that eating acid and free fucking was going to end the American war machine in Vietnam and keep Nixon from being re-elected. wrong.

...they smoked shitloads of grass 30 years ago. Maybe they should smoke more. It might chill them the fuck out.

...they cut up and snorted massive amounts of coke 20 years ago. I'm sure that the brain damage has nothing to do with their current states of panic and paranoia.

...and they have chased anti-depressents with alcohol for the past 10 years (in between plastic surgery and having fat sucked outta their asses with plastic tubes and injected into their lips).

need further proof?

Fatal drug overdoses up among California's baby boomers

edan // rock and roll

2005-10-05T14:14:00.000-05:00

okayplayer review

rock and roll.mp3

GOP christian propaganda

2005-09-27T13:23:00.000-05:00

original message:

McComb aftermath of Katrina

To my friends and family:
From a McComb, Mississippi Resident

What I have seen since Katrina:

The poor and the wealthy hurt by the storm.

Black, white, Hispanic, Oriental and Indian all hurt by the storm.

Christian people giving, giving, giving.

Churches going all out to minister in Jesus' name.

Neighbors going door to door helping one another.

Thugs and hoodlums going door to door looking for someone vulnerable.

Ice and water being fought over as police tried to keep the peace.

People coming up from New Orleans taking over empty houses because shelters are full.

Out of town volunteers coming with food and staying for now a week still serving it.

The Churches all over this part of the country doing what Christians do in a crisis.

The Red Cross doing a great job in the shelters.

The Salvation Army doing a great job in the community.

Four Hundred crewman from everywhere bring back the power to our homes, churches and businesses.

Lines at service stations a block to a mile long.

National Guardsman patrolling the streets of Mc Comb along with Kentucky policemen protecting us from the hoodlums and thugs of Mc Comb, Pike County and New Orleans (the most dangerous city in the world before Katrina).

Drug dealers working outside shelters.

Doctors, nurses and other hospital personnel working tirelessly, even sleeping in the hospital to do the job God called them to do.

WHAT I HAVE NOT SEEN;

The ACLU setting up a feeding line.

People for the American Way helping in the shelters.

The NAACP doing any work whatsoever.

The American Atheist organization serving meals in the shelters.

Jesse Jackson directing traffic at the gas stations.

I could go on but you get my message. Its the Christian people with love and compassion who do the work.

The gripers in Congress should come on down and get in line to pass the water and the ice. Are you listening Hillary, Chuck, Teddy and all the sorry loafers we call Senators and Congressmen. They don't have a clue as to what this life is all about here on the Gulf Coast.

--

they really shouldn't damn those leftist organizations (some of which who, incidentally, are doing things that Jesus requested like "love your brother" or "help out those less fortunate than you") without sending equal kicks to the right... it kills an arguement (where they're really wasn't an argument until the last 5 lines... just a lot of patting yourself on the back for getting baptised).

keep in mind that this sort of message serves three functions:

1. to connect right wing republicans (those who claim to be the christian party... show me some evidence) with the christians doing selfless work in the damaged regions... i think we've seen the republicans punished in the media and public opinion for their lack of help.

2. the further kick democrats (for WHAT reason?) and discredit organizations that in theory are meant to help people.

The ACLU will keep heat on big government who apparently wants to take more rights away with its patriot act... its renewal of the patriot act... to make the patriot act stronger. this is the work and recomendation of the bush administration. The ACLU also fights for bisexual transgenders who want to attend college... or some such bullshit, so the ACLU an easy target for upity christians.

what does this situation have to do with anything that the NAACP works for or fosters? take notice: the NAACP is NOT a rescue organization. But, then again, this was written by a resident of the fine ignorant racist shit kicker state of Mississippi... so, draw your own conclusion here.

The American Atheist organization... again, not a rescue organization, just a group of sad social outcasts who just want to piss you off and publicly embarass their parents. question: does anyone take the American Atheist organization seriously?

"The gripers in Congress should come on down and get in line to pass the water and the ice. Are you listening Hillary, Chuck, Teddy and all the sorry loafers we call Senators and Congressmen."

sure, single them out... there are WAY worst fuckers out there... a good example would be starting with the current administration.

3. christians... don't be fooled. this message was written and forwarded by right wing republican bs meant to align christians with republicans. they're nowhere near the same thing... and actions speak louder than words. need a clue? pick up a newspaper published within the last month. this is another grassroots way for the GOP to remind you that humans mess up but that they're the party of God.

it's sick.

But, then again, this was written by a resident of the fine ignorant racist shit kicker state of Mississippi... so, draw your own conclusion here.

Los Angeles

2005-09-13T13:32:00.000-05:00

my brother in propaganda is currently living in Los Angeles... below is a message exchange from earlier this week...

spd-

"Don't believe the lies of the liars at 1600 Pennsylvania Avenue and 10 Downing Street," Gadahn insists. "They have dispatched your sons and daughters to die lonely deaths in the burning deserts of Iraq and the unforgiving mountains of Afghanistan."

ABC news
Breitbart.com

I've been talking to a lot of people about evacuating chicago if needed. I already decided that I'm going to get the fuck out of here.

Here's my plan:

1. get gun(s)
2. grab what is needed from my apartment and leave.

I'll end up either biking or walking back to my parents place in wisconsin. I doubt I'd be able to drive out. cash will be useless, and nobody mistakes a gun. ideally I'll have a pump action shotgun plus at least two handguns. I'll use that shit too to get out of here.

I remember seeing that your van was loaded and ready to evac. keep it ready to MOVE.

--

Hey--

thanks for the package. i particularily like 'picking up girls made easy' and 'madlib.' tight shit, man.

i've been preparing for the end for 6 years now. no circumstance will surprise me, and i have redundancy built into my primary escape portfolios, including the 15 gallons of water and selected foodstuffs i have hiked and stashed at my staging area near the peaks in griffith, and a separate cache in los padres national forest (biking distance at 120 miles). los padres is nice because it is at moderate altitude, and mostly detached from the common currents - good for avoiding fallout. my pack is always ready, sans gun, as is my girlfriend's pack (i've crash coursed her over the last 2 years in basic survival). we are fully self-contained for 2-3 weeks, roughly.

i've been mulling over the gun issue for some time now, and even before nowlins sank, i was gonna get on board with this handy little firecracker, about $150.00 at the nearby gunshop in burbank

i like that it can be easily concealed, and that the ammo doesn't weigh a whole lot. it is also simple in parts and breakdown. stopping power is another issue, though, but what this one lacks in takedown it makes up for in portability. thursday is payday,and i'm no longer on the fence about this...

you know, the power was just out all over LA, and people everywhere were flipping out, with the new tape and all... i grabbed my headlamp out of my daypack, strapped up, and went outside to bounce a tennis ball against the side of our building, giggling at the scared herd of hysteriacs crowded into our parking lot. fools.

nobody laughs at crazy-shawn anymore.

brother at the end,
spd

heavy rotation -- august '05

2005-09-08T15:19:00.000-05:00

music
1. stones throw 101
2. coldplay -- a rush of blood to the head / x&y
3. yesterdays new quintet -- stevie
4. sleater-kinney -- the woods
5. dr. dooom -- first come, first served

movies
1. in the realms of the unreal
2. gumball 3000
3. end of the century: the ramones
4. dead alive
5. wedding crashers

tv
1. rescue me
2. battlestar galactica

books
1. the time traveler's wife by audrey niffenegger
2. a confederacy of dunces by john kennedy toole
3. a pretext to war by james bamford
4. the coming global superstorm by art bell and whitley strieber
5. hiroshima by john hersey

seven years

2005-09-08T03:00:00.000-05:00

September 1st was my 7th anniversary of living in Chicago.

The day I moved here -- September 1st 1998 -- was the longest day of my life.

Observe:

1. I woke up in Milwaukee around 9 a.m. I was living in a college house with 6 friends. All of my shit was boxed up and in the side living room.

2. I drove from Milwaukee to Racine to pick up my uncle's van. he kept me at his place to bullshit for at least 20 minutes (10:30 a.m.).

3. I got on the road and drove 15 miles to my grandmother's place to pick up two chairs, and then to my parent's place in Janesville (65 miles) to drop them off (noon).

4. I ate something and then drove back to milwaukee (80 miles) to pack the van. I said goodbye to milwaukee and college (3:00 p.m.).

5. I drove into Racine to look for the court house to try to get out of a speeding ticket. I couldn't find it, so I said fuck it. I think I finally paid that ticket off in 2001 or 2002 (4:00 p.m.).

6. I drove into Chicago rush hour traffic and crawled through the I-90 Kennedy Expressway (6:30 p.m.).

7. I finally got off of the Kennedy and drove through heavy traffic to my new residence at the intersection of Clark/Roscoe. I ran into a night Cubs game. I double parked the van and turned on the hazzards. Two of my roommates ran downstairs and helped me unload all the shit. I dumped it all into my new bedroom, drove around looking for parking for 20 mins., found parking and then went back to the apartment and and chilled for a bit (9:00 p.m.).

8. After the night game let out (10:00 p.m.), I got into the van and drove back to Racine (100 miles) to drop off the van (12:00 a.m.) and retrieve my car.

9. I then drove back to Janesville (75 miles), and crashed on my high school bed (2:00 a.m.).

10. The next day -- September 1st 1998 -- my parents and sister drove me to Chicago and dropped me off. I was a 24 year old fresh college graduate with no job lined up and $4,000 in savings, living three blocks from wrigley field with two friends from college and another guy who turned out to be a total dick, who went to DePaul. My dad told me that he wished he was me.

--

September 1st 2003 -- five years to the day -- was a bad day. Shannon expressed full-on paranoid breakdown, and killed it. I remember her meeting me at my apartment to pick up her shit... most noteably her Technics 1200 turntable. I drove her back to her place and was at a total loss because of all of it was sudden, and I wasn't ready for it to be over.

I dropped her off and went home. The french windows in my apartment were open, whipping stronger Fall winds through the front room. I noticed the crater of open space where the turntable had been, and the sinking feeling that I was ditched and going to be alone for awhile creeped in.

I recalled that THAT day was five years to the day that I'd moved to Chicago. It made me feel worse. I was defeated and questioned WHAT did it all mean.

--

September 1st 2005 was a good day (for me anyways,.. kind of a shitty day for anyone on the Gulf coast). At the end of a long day I disqguised my identity by wearing a form-fitted ball cap and black sunglasses, took the L home.

I stood above a hot blonde who was wearing a green t-shirt that said something about pirates and was playing a video game on a T-Mobile. she wore excellent artistic jewelry and I liked her bag. She looked up once and it was her -- Jen from Lollapalooza 2005 and Madison 1993 -- she was beautiful. At one stop, the person sitting next to her got up, and I took the vacant seat.

I sat there for a couple of minutes thinking about how bizarre this all was. I recalled everything that I'd thought of this particular stranger over the past 12 years, and the cosmic occurance of actually running into her and speaking to her this last summer. I questioned if I should say anything, but I recalled two things:

1. The last time I spoke to her I could tell that she was kind of unsure what to think of the whole deal.

2. I've recently met a girl that I've gelled with -- also named Jen -- and I was headed to her place to go out.

I decided to not say anything, and rather enjoy the creepy reality that I was aware of who this person is, and she doesn't know me at all. I got to sneak some looks... she's super hot, and appears to be my type. Just not in the cards this trip around.

Meeting the new Jen kind of killed the opportunity to meet the cosmic Jen. I'll take that to mean that I like the new Jen.

religion teacher deemed "too hot" to teach about jesus

2005-09-06T13:13:00.000-05:00

Caterina Bonci said Church authorities decided she was just too attractive and dressed too sexy to teach religion after 14 years on the job.

The Church says it sacked the 38-year-old blonde from the central Adriatic city of Fano because she is divorced.

so what? there's lots of catholics out there living in sin.

She said she has never hidden her 2000 divorce from Church authorities, dresses down when teaching and defended her right to dress how she likes in her private life.

she wants to show off that 38 year old ass...

She said reports that fathers accompanied their children to religion classes so they could look at her meant little to her as long as the children came to class.

“When a woman is considered too sexy and attractive in a small town it becomes a big thing,” she said.

these are ITALIANS after all.

Look at that picture again, this time a bit closer... why is it that people who deem themselves attractive rarely are? this bird looks like she's been hanging onto the attention she got when she was 18 for the past twenty years.

hot religion teacher article

worthless leadership

2005-09-02T12:29:00.000-05:00

you need to listen to New Orleans mayor Ray Nagin on a radio interview this morning.

this cat is not fucking around -- and he publicly states that the federal government and the president are worthless, the response is a 'national disgrace.'

New Orleans Mayor Ray Nagin on WWL radio

--

George W. Bush:

"Bureaucracy is not going to stand in the way of getting the job done for the people," the president said after a meeting at the White House with his Cabinet on storm recovery efforts.

ironic... isn't standing around giving speeches about what you say you're going to do actually keeping you from doing something?

"What I intend to do is lead an investigation to find out what went right and what went wrong," Bush said. "We still live in an unsettled world. We want to make sure we can respond properly if there is a WMD (weapons of mass destruction) attack or another major storm."

oh yeah, weapons of mass destruction. I forgot about those. I'm suprised that his handlers fed him that term,.. seeing as when used together "Bush" and "WMD" equals "load" and "horse shit".

link

old and busted

2005-09-01T15:39:00.000-05:00

"I'm not old... I'm young and beautiful and current and with it!"

Look here: chicago scene to discover the lowest common denominator.

This explains why American Idol is a runaway hit and why standardized test scores in math and science have been on the decline every year since my birth in 1974... Americans are becoming increasingly vapid.

My bloodline originated in Ireland and Germany... I may have to immigrate back there.

For further insight into this moronic "community" (there's no real culture in this community), read the "NYC Bouncer" link in the right collumn...

on a totally related note:

As gas prices hit new records across the country, the top average price for unleaded regular hit $2.84 in Chicago, according to the Lundberg Survey, which checked fuel prices at 7,000 stations nationwide. That compared with the lowest average -- ironically, $2.45 a gallon in Hurricane Katrina-whipped New Orleans, said the survey, which studied the two weeks ending Aug. 26.

You don't need to tell that to Charles Ibitoye. He looked dazed after he spent $65 to fill up his Ford Expedition on Monday.

"I guess I can't eat lunch,'' said Ibitoye, 38, a janitor at Holy Angels School in Chicago.

"Now isn't that ridiculous?'' asked his sympathetic father-in-law, Bill Gaither, 58.

what is he getting at by calling it "ridiculous"?

is it ridiculous that a janitor (who is apparently living beyond his means) is driving a ford expedition? (you know,.. it's all about appearance and shit... you're either making it or faking it)

or is it justified that SUV drivers are blowing a shitload of cash out their ass because they drive cars with bullshit mileage? you don't drive a truck that gets 16 miles to the gallon unless you can afford it, dummy.

--

one last kick: nice hair, retard.

the chronic

2005-08-30T12:48:00.000-05:00

I was digging through my CDs (which apparently are going the way of the 8 track... anybody actually purchased an $18 compact disc lately?) and formed a stack of at least 17 that I can honestly say I will never listen to again.

One which made the pile was Dr. Dre: The Chronic. I got it sometime in 1992 during my freshman year of college, but hadn't given it a spun for about six years. I decided to throw it on while I swept the floor and washed some dishes.

It's suprisingly good. When Dr. Dre didn't have 30 niggaz in the studio recording lame ghetto skits, he produced some beats and MCs that are nothing short of brilliant.

This disc is to gangsta rap what nirvana: nevermind was to mainstream rock.

Consider: the chronic not only transformed the sound of mainstream west coast hip hop from the ashes of N.W.A., but featured the full length debut of snoop doogy dog (heard of him? he's still in show business making a shitload of money).

So I tracked through listening to the standard five or six strong tracks that spawned an entire summer soundtrack, and dug up two buried gems.

Listen here:

lyrical gangbang.mp3

stranded on death row.mp3

I hate actors

2005-08-30T12:07:00.000-05:00

I like comedy plays as opposed to serious plays because in serious plays the actors always seem like they're overacting... like they should be paid twice: first for "acting" and then a second time for "overacting."

All of it makes me quietly disruptive. At first I attempt to supress what I believe is "false" and then I start to think thoughts like:

"you're not a very good actor"

"you should give up this dream because you're not going anywhere with it"

"any woman can cry on cue/I'm not impressed"

"pretending to be somebody else in public is weird"

"you won't make it as an actress because you're an ugly woman"

"giving this 'acting thing' five years means folding sweaters at the GAP for five years"

"only fuckable men and women are hired to be on TV. I wouldn't fuck anyone in this room."

"people don't really act like that when they find out that they have HIV."

"the only make believe taking place is that the shitty play you have a minor role in will lead you to something bigger"

"a $40,000 college degree in theater prepares you for a career in answering the phone at a corporation."

"acting class are taught by fellow delusional failed actors who are really only trying to fuck stupid 22 year olds."

"you're an embarrasment to your father."

etc, etc, etc,

Hunter S. Thompson memorial

2005-08-30T12:03:00.000-05:00

Two stoned 19 year olds read about charred remains of Hunter S. Thompson blasted into atmosphere from 153 foot cannon in the late morning edition of The New York Times stolen from asshole dorm resident assistant’s mailbox.

JOHN: “Holy fuckin shit Russell… read this shit about Hunter S. Thompson. They shot his ashes out of fuckin cannon!”

RUSSELL: “No way.”

JOHN: “Yeah.”

RUSSELL: “No way.”

JOHN: “Yeah.”

RUSSELL: “Let me read that shit… Ashes-to-fireworks send-off for an 'outlaw' writer
by Katherine Q. Seelye…WOODY CREEK, Colo., Aug. 21 - Hunter S. Thompson indulged in numerous hallucinogenic fantasies over the years, but this weekend, one of them morphed into reality: his ashes were blasted into the sky over his farm here, carried by red, blue and silver fireworks in front of a 153-foot monument that Mr. Thompson, the writer and avatar of "gonzo" journalism, designed himself almost 30 years ago… FUCK.”

JOHN: “Yeah.”

RUSSELL: “…Mr. Thompson's family and friends - including Senator John Kerry… Hunter Thompson was friends with John Kerry?”

JOHN: “Yeah.”

RUSSELL: “Fuck…”

JOHN: “Yeah.”

RUSSELL: “They probably got so fuckin high.”

JOHN: “Yeah.”

RUSSELL: "And if Kerry was the president he'd probably end all this shit because he'd get the Taliban to stop fucking all this shit up because he'd roll them some killer shit and the Taliban would be like "fuck yeah" because the Taliban grow heroin... and you don't want to kill anybody when you're high."

JOHN: "Yeah."

RUSSELL: "Fuck."

JOHN: "Yeah."

RUSSELL: "Fuckin'... you know that Hunter was like hanging out with his assistants in like 1972 on some fucked up peyote trance when he came up with this shit, and they wrote it down. That's power."

JOHN: "Yeah. He was probably smoking some hash out of a monkey skull and shit on the beach in Mexico, and shooting tequilla and drinking a case of beer and getting blown by a 17 year old Mexican whore..."

RUSSELL: "Yeah?"

JOHN: "Fuck yeah."

RUSSELL: "Dude, when I die, I want you to make sure that they preserve my body so that I can still get high with my friends."

JOHN: "Yeah?"

RUSSELL: "Yeah... like, have them skin my body and turn all my skin into rolling papers. That shit would burn real slow..."

JOHN: "Yeah?"

RUSSELL: "Yeah."

JOHN: "Fuckin' cool."

RUSSELL: "Yeah. And fuse my femurs together into this fuckin' two foot bong and shit so that I can always get high with my friends... for fuckin' forever!"

JOHN: "Yeah!"

RUSSELL: "Fuck yeah!"

squirrels

2005-08-29T12:17:00.000-05:00

I hate squirrels... everything about them. I hate trying to remember how to spell "s-q-u-i-r-r-e-l-s", and I hate having to look it up in the dictionary.

Let's get one thing straight: Squirrels are TREE RATS... they are RATS that live in TREES!

Squirrels are sneaky little thieves. They will raid your campsite, your garage, your home,.. just to steal from you.

Squirrels can be difficult -- but are not impossible -- to kill with an air rifle. Sometimes it makes me warm and happy inside to know that the squirrel died slowly and painfully by catching 17 BB's instead of the 2 or 3 that it takes to kill a smaller vermin.

Because squirrels are always watching, it's a good idea to take off your jacket and hang it on a tree branch when you've got one scurrying up a tree (tree rat). It'll (neither HE nor SHE, squirrels don't have souls) think it's being real crafty by clawing over to the opposite side of a tree, but will see your jacket and think that it's you... fatal mistake, my nemesis.

my friend matt (www.helbing.com) says that squirrels are good eating, but I wouldn't know anything about that because I kill squirrels for fun.

listen

2005-08-05T10:08:00.000-05:00

beck :: paper tiger.mp3

modest mouse :: dark center of the universe.mp3

coldplay :: low.mp3

colorado mountain bike action shots

2005-07-27T16:41:00.000-05:00

[tim] once again getting used to that fucking helmet...

lollapalooza - chicago - 05

2005-07-25T14:19:00.000-05:00

My sister moved to chicago from washington DC last august, and promptly moved into a large two bedroom apartment (paying rent so low it's a crime) and a high-paying manager's job at a local non-profit. She can credit both of these scores to ME.

a) I hooked her up with the apartment when my friend Chris and his wife moved to L.A.

b) I kept dating this girl I couldn't stand (I could indirectly make fun of her to her face and she had no idea what I was talking about. Or where she was. Or what was going on... I question if she's still learning her colors and shapes) because she's a headhunter and was working double time to secure my sister a job at a solid firm, and a place within my cold, hardened heart.

oh yeah,

c) my dad and I (sorry, I must mention, my parents drove a rented truck full of all of her shit from DC to Chicago over night, while she rocked hard to bar time and caught a flight the next morning) moved all of her furniture and boxes into her new place before she even got there after landing at O'Hare.

So, anyways, she has been slowly repaying the favor. Earlier in the year it was announced that Lollapalooza was returning and that it would make ONE weekend appearance in the country... at Grant Park in Chicago. No tour, rather one location/one weekend. The initial deal was paying $35 for a weekend pass (both dates) without seeing any of the line-up.

My take on it was one of total indifference... my sister's was "it's going to be in Chicago? it's only 35 bucks? fuck it!" and she picked up a block of tix. good move, sis.

--

So anyways, I attended Lollapalooza '92 and Lollapalooza '93 in Chicago. It was a time and a place for me at that age, but it also seems that it truly was a fertile period for music as well... the comebacks on this festival line up reads like early 90's revival: pixies, weezer, primus, dinosaur jr., digable planets, liz phair, DJ muggs (cypress hill).

what seemed revolutionary then (lineups consisting of rock, metal, hip hop and brit rock acts) is standard now. I thought that the set up for this (6 stages, spread out) achieved the mixed bag concept better than the earlier version. why? because you were free to roam around and check out whatever act you wanted at this year's festival, whereas before you were stuck in the same spot on the grassy hill, which made for a long, tiring day in the sun.

my recap:

Saturday
I rode the pista to my sister's place to pick up my ticket. It was 90 degrees, overcast and muggy. I chatted with her hungover friends from New York and DC, then biked down to the venue to meet up with my pal Pat who was already there.

I walked through the gate and heard Perry Farrell performing the song "pets" on the kids stage for about 80 people. I walked over and couldn't believe the luck: Perry was performing this little suprise concert in front of a pool of about 30 kids and 50 parents who were all around my age. After "pets" Perry sang some b-side throw away song about dolphins called "aqua".

A girl about my age with a baby in her arms turned to me and said "this is awesome." I smiled and said "I agree", then I pointed at the group of children that Perry was singing to like the motherfucker was Barney, and said, "that guy used to be a heroin addict."

Perry sang another song and then thanked everyone for coming. It was fucking cool.

I met up with Pat and we caught ...And You Will Know Us By The Trail of Dead who put on a loud, crushing early afternoon hard rock show. Points for their front man ripping on sponsor Budweiser and that shit brew they distribute worldwide, but points taken away for busting up the drum kit at the end of the show. The Who trashes their instruments (it's been done), and... you're... who?

Next we met up with my sister and her crew and caught a nice hard fucking performance by the Kaiser Chiefs, an outfit from the UK.

Pat and I each like Cypress Hill, so we walked across the street to the planet stage to catch DJ Muggs' set. I wasn't carrying, so this was a logical stop to find some smoke. It wasn't difficult -- it was everywhere.

There was a short girl with a fine body and small tube top with jeans dancing in front of us, displaying her stripper moves. I guessed that she was 33 and had been fucking since around the age of 12 (which would give her over 20 years of experience -- an expert), Pat guessed that she was a 33 year old stripper in Indiana with two kids and had received "the bad touch" my an older male family member before finishing 4th grade.

Next to her was a pair of couples: your typical chicago chach guys and their dates. I could tell that one couple had been dating for a long time (the girl had that drunk at wrigley field girl beer gut/fat ass), and that the other couple was new.

I actually felt kind of bad for the guy dating the new girl, because although she was a total angel that any man (even a fag) would break any and all laws of decency to fuck, she was a total pain in the ass. she didn't even bother to look like she was having fun, and her date was doing the best he could to keep her happy. she kept wandering off to make a cell phone call, or to sit on the grass by herself. The other girl and her boyfriend looked at their friend working hard to please the angel brat, with the kind of look that can only say "your new girlfriend sucks shit."

A little hi, we walked back to the main area and towards the Billy Idol show. I was discussing my disdain for Billy Idol's approach to rock with Pat...

Billy Idol had like three wardrobe changes, and rock music is not about wardrobe changes -- wardrobe changes are for Cher...

Rock music is about covering your t-shirt with sweat and/or blood, and then tearing it off and throwing it into the audience, killing a can of beer and then stage diving into the audience... being body passed to the soundboard and then back again, and then being fished out by security and tossed back on stage... all within a three minute guitar solo.

THAT is "rock music", "Billy Idol" is a 50 year old nostalgia act.

While "punk rock" act Billy Idol crooned "Eyes Without a Face", an early 30's girl behind me sheepishly smiled at me and waved me over. She was really, really drunk on beers (it was around five in the afternoon), and said "you are the cutest thing that I've seen all day." I could tell that it was a balls thing for her to say to someone (even loaded), so I spent some time talking to to her. She was nice. I gave her a cigarette and told her that Pat and I were going to go catch the Black Keys, then we disappeared into a crowd of 30,000.

Pat and I met up with his cousin Mike just as the Black Keys began their set. The two piece was really good, and I was marveling at the guitar work when I noticed a few girls moving our way. I caught a glance from the hottest of the three and she approached me. She was fucking fine, she looked like a 23 year old Christy Turlington with her fine bred chiseled face and tall slender kick ass body. She was dressed the part too, with a pair of high cut shorts and sleeveless shirt. She had to carry her small purse.

She told me that she was from Lake Forest (this terrible enclave of horrible, obnoxious, super-wealthy white people who breed the worst trustafarian scum imaginable... they also always name drop "Lake Forest" when given the chance to speak during any conversation... they rival New Yorkers, in this sense). She told me that her name was Jess, and introduced me to her friends. They were typical spoiled, rich brats. I watched my mouth.

I could tell that this was happening and that Jess was super fucking hot... and young, she graduated from college in '03. she told me that she worked in human resources, but hated it. I asked her if she talked to nervous people everyday and she said yes. I bet she speaks to nervous men constantly. she said that she and her friends were going to see the pixies, and I told her that we were going to see the pixies too. she told me and her friends that she had to use the bathroom, and left me, my friends and hers.

Pat and Mike wanted to go grab a spot before the Pixies took the stage. Jess was still gone. I weighed my options:

a) let those two dudes take off and hang around with Jess' friends who I didn't know and hadn't talked to... other than to question if my awful skank co-worker's father is still the mayor... waiting for the girl to come back from taking what I imagine was a monster shit in a port-o-john, and then walking to the pixies stage and not being able to find Pat and Mike

b) say goodbye to Jess' friends, and go to the pixies' show.

I opted for option (b). I figured that I'd probably see Jess somewhere in the crowd and capitalize on our introduction later. Besides, hanging around reeks of "loser".

Did I mention that I'm partially retarded? Of course we didn't see that amazing piece of ace again, there was like fuckin 33,000 people walking around. Pat wanted to know what my problem was... was I becoming half a fag? A girl who would never look him in the eye approached me, and I decided to slip away. Fine. Agreed. Stupid. Beyond that, he reasoned, she was from Lake Forest, which equals riches. I had to remind Pat that residents of Lake Forest are like the fucking British aristocracy... they're fucking useless and they only marry their own kind.

So I'm getting into "bone machine" when I notice a beautiful blonde (no engagement ring) about 15 feet away from me. She looked very familiar, and I almost immediately thought that I knew who it was...

In 1993 I had dropped out of college and was slowly losing my shit as my first relationship disintegrated in Madison, WI (read "catch"). That year I worked at the Discount Den, and this beautiful, athletic blonde came in a couple of times and smiled at me and flirted with me. I also recall going to a BBQ with some friends from work, and that blonde girl and her friends. I talked to her for a bit, but I had my girlfriend Kelly to deal with, and was probably headed off to see her anyway.

I remember thinking way back then "shit. should I scrap a 4 year relationship - that's going to shit - for something that has no guarantee?" What makes this all the weirder, in the past 12 years or so, I've actually thought of THAT blonde girl maybe three or four times... as if to ask "what would've happened...?" I've also questioned "I wonder whatever happened to that particular girl?"

Flash forward to the pixies show at Lollapalooza in Chicago, 2005. I'm not 19, I'm 31, and there's this blonde that looks a lot like the Madison girl from years ago. The blonde girl in the crowd caught me looking at her and smiled. I decided that I had to find out if it was her.

I approached her and said "excuse me, did you happen to go to UW-Madison?" I looked closely at her face, she appeared to look much younger than the girl I'd met so long ago would probably look now.

She smiled and said "yes." I asked her if she lived there in 1993, and she said that she had, that she'd graduated in 1997.

it was her.

I said, "I thought so, I've met you before. I lived in Madison and worked at the Den, and I've met you before."

She told me that her name is Jen, I told her that mine is Tim. I gave her and her friend a cigarette. We talked for a couple minutes, and she had no recollection of me. Which isn't suprising because we didn't know each other, and that we had been passing strangers 12 years ago during another life.

At first she seemed flattered, but then it was a bit awkward, and I think that she got a bit freaked out... which is obviously not what I'd prefer, but what can you do... we're dealing with a random sighting... I'm sure that I appeared to be either psychic or insane.

The pixies set ended and jen and her friend said goodbye and walked away... all we are is dust in the wind. The universe is mysterious.

Jen, if you happen read this stupid, profanity-laced blog for any reason whatsoever, please contact me here. or leave a comment. I'd like to buy you coffee and bum you some smokes... we'd figure out pretty fast if we're the same kind of people or not... I suppose that this is an example of "stranger things have happened."

Completely floored by the universe colliding, Pat and I walked over to digable planets and caught an excellent hip hop show complete with a live band, and lots of j's getting passed to me by incredibly beautiful women. Saturday was one of those unusually cosmic days of good fortune.

If Jen doesn't see this (imagine that), maybe I'll run into her again in another 10 to 20 years, or so.

Sunday
Sunday had a totally differnt vibe than Saturday. It was fucking hot with blinding direct sunlight and a 100 degree humidity to contend with. It was the kind of hot that kills shitloads of senior citizens. It was so extreme. This cut down the number of people in attendance by a bit (and also lost both Jess, the totally fucking hot Lake Forest girl, and Jen, the beautiful athletic blonde who thinks that I'm psychic).

Todd joined Pat and I for the day, opening with Los Amigos Invisibles, a fucking 100 degree party at two in the afternoon. Their guitarist is amazing... look for them.

I found that scouting for hits wasn't such a problem. All you have to do is conduct a little bit of profiling before approaching for a hit. When you want to catch a buzz at a show, and have confirmed that there's shit in your midst, consider the source...

approach
(a) anyone younger than 22. they'll immediately let you take a hit. they won't be sure if you're security, a cop, or merely a rad 31 year old.

(b) women. they'll always give up a hit to a polite boy. stick near them, girls who smoke shit are cool.

(c) any odd numbered group of boys and girls... say three guys and two girls. they're not exclusive, and their circle is easy to penetrate because there's a third wheel.

do not approach
(a) anyone who is clearly insane. if they look anything like andrew w k, and you're stupid enough to still approach them for anything, you deserve whatever happens to you.

(b) any even numbered group of boys and girls... you're dealing with two squads of boyfriend/girlfriend, which really means that you're dealing with a team... a team that has equal veto power, plus the imagined belief that they're in charge of the world together. Avoid. they suck.

We caught Satellite Party, the new Perry Farrell project. I got to say that I'm a fan of Perry Farrell, and other than Jane's Addiction, not much else that he's fronted... I thought that the last jane's addiction record was only as good as it didn't suck as bad as it easily could have.

I figured out Perry's stage moves as well: he's doing a Mick Jagger/Iggy Pop impersonation. Perry rocks.

Arcade Fire was excellent. It was fucking bloody fucking hell with the sun beating down and the dust blowing. it looked like fucking Iraq. Stage hands handed out several hundred bottles of water. it was needed.

We caught Spoon with my sister and her friends. I was so tipsy from the bud that I caught here and there, plus the whisky I'd snuck in and mixed with Sprite (it tasted like warm Sprite with whisky mixed in 100 degree weather and direct sunlight) and foamy beer suds going to my head.

I told her that I figured out who Spoon sounded like: the Counting Crows with a hint of Supertramp. Sorry, Spoon fans.

We went to check out famed Chicago DJ Derrick Carter spin some house music as the sun set. Thirty-five repetitive minutes of that took us back to the main area to see Death Cab for Cutie.

I didn't know any Death Cab, and can now say that "they write songs that your girlfriend likes." Sorry, Death Cab fans.

Widespread makes me want to rest my mouth over the business end of a shotgun, so we got the fuck out of there and biked home.

I was crashed and passed out by 10:30 p.m.

40 year old virgin

2005-07-25T10:16:00.000-05:00

This just looks fucking funny.

It's the British site, so they show some titty and at the end of the clip there's an old man at Circuit City saying:

"life isn't about sex, it's about love... it's not about fucking and balls and butthole pleasures... pussy juice cocking... the shit stained balls... rusty trombone... dirty sanchez... cincinnatti bowtie..."

pixies :: dead

2005-07-21T13:49:00.000-05:00

In anticipation of seeing the pixies again at this weekend's Lollapalooza in Grant Park, the pixies' dead...

you crazy baby bathsheba, i wancha
you're suffocating you need a good shed
i'm tired of living, shebe, so gimme
dead

we're apin' rapin' tapin' catharsis
you get torn down and get erected
my blood is working but my, my heart is
dead

hey
whaddyah know?
you're lovely
tan belly
is starting to grow

uriah hit the crapper, the crapper
uriah hit the crapper, the crapper
uriah hit the crapper, the crapper
dead

pixies :: dead mp3

colorado, 13 July - 19 July 05

2005-07-21T11:51:00.000-05:00

On Monday morning of this week I woke up around 9:15 on my pal EP's living room floor in his rented condo in Boulder, CO. His wife J had already taken off for the day, and his dog Sagan was staring at me. EP was boiling water for coffee, and I got up off the floor to pack a one hitter.

EP had to go to his bike store job, and I had the entire day to myself. He left me keys to the truck, Sagan's leash and driving instructions to the mt lily trail just outside of Estes Park. I checked email and found that an ex girlfriend is getting married. I decided to bury that for future mental examination. I got hi, I got the dog into the truck and I got on the road.

Mt Lily is a good 45 minute drive from Boulder, passing through some of the most fantastic natural beauty in the United States. I asked myself over and over what the fuck I'm still doing in Chicago, when it's become obvious that after seven years of living here it's kind of run its course...

I'm finding the city to be more of a pain in the ass than usual lately. Considering that I could look for a job in the Denver area, I'd rent a small apartment or cottage - at least a half hour out of the city - and live on the mountain with a mountain view.

All the shit I like to do outdoors is there, whereas this city can only accomodate long distance bike rides, and not much of anything else. even that is a pain in the ass with all of the fucking guidos and dickheads with large trucks on the street... since when is being a fat piece of shit revving SUV engines at a stoplight a cool thing to do? Fucking Italians.

Anyways, I'm missing the positive mental clarity provided by the west, and hating on the metropolitan commuter smells like some old man shit himself on the train a half hour late for work where nobody does anything but talk smack anyways. bullshit...

Wednesday the 13th was a travel day. EP picked me up at the Denver Airport, had a beer and hitter waiting in the truck, and we drove into Denver to meet up with my 25 year old still in college total flake druggie sister to score some shit for the week.

She's dating this dude who looks a lot like that dude in the Tao of Steve. He's a physical therapist for babies and grows bud with the medicinal license he somehow got from the government. This was my first time meeting him and I thought that he was pretty cool. We crashed on the floor and were out of there by 10 a.m.

Thursday July 14th
We drove through to a camp site and set up shop. We drank tea and assembled el scorpio. Paranoia ran a bit high after sampling some of EP's mushroom tea. I wasn't sure if EP or one of the animals in the forest was plotting to kill me, so I kept a swiss army knife handy in my backpocket, and a watchful eye on my comrade.

The heavy drugs soon wore off and we ate hot dogs off the fire and looked at the new issue of Playboy.

Friday July 15th
We drove straight through to Winter Park to begin two days of downhill mountain biking.

This is downhill in a nutshell:
you take a chair lift up about 2,500 feet with your bike hanging on a hook next to your seat on the lift, and from just like skiing, you get to the top and have several runs to choose from. All of the runs we rode down were pretty much the same: single track through wooded areas, switchbacks, and cutting across ski runs. The trails are fucking steep and loaded with large rocks, tree roots, loose gravel, and dirt. You end up riding your back brake the entire time because if you loosen up, you end up going way too fast to handle the trail.

So your hands begin to hurt from the constant braking (make a fist for 40 minutes straight -- it's like that), and your arms get tired from the constant jackhammer motion of the bike fork riding over all kinds of obstacles on the trail.

However, your mind switches over to a purely reactionary, spatial problem solving at 22 mph mode and you get into a zone. You're surrounded by large solid objects (like, "trees") -- that could seriously fuck you up -- but your athleticism and coordination keep you from wrecking.

I wrecked twice: once going too slow down a pass with too much dirt (I got a dirty arm), and the second time from riding off the trail from going too fast (I cut up my hand and scraped up my forearm). EP wrecked once in a spectacular wipe out. He was a bit shaken, but fine.

See, EP really fucking likes to point it out when you crash, or slip, or fuck something up in some minor way. That's fine, that's human. He loves to tell his wife about it immediately so that they can both get a laugh out of it and remind each other that EP is the greatest in the universe.

However, when EP wrecks like he did that day, it's like the fucking end of the world... he's injured, his wreck is horrifying, and he's lucky to be alive... so, there's great concern. I didn't want to laugh at him, but his wreck was a wild one and didn't look like he could have gotten hurt. He was fine, we moved on.

Saturday July 16th
We drove to Keystone for another day of downhill. Keystone was better than Winter Park, and more challenging. I would recommend Keystone over Winter Park, but only if you've downhilled before (Winter Park was actually a really good warm up for Keystone). That night we drove back to Denver and had dinner with EP's wife J and a few of her friends in her teaching program. We were beat, a glass of red wine nearly knocked me out.

Sunday July 17th
EP had to work at the bike store, and J had a paper to write, so I got out of the condo with my bike and smoked and biked around Boulder. There was an art fair going on on Pearl Street, so I went to check that out.

Boulder (and it seems all of Colorado) is full of totally fucking hot women in their 20s out doing the type of outdoor shit -- like ride a bike.. everywhere. -- that I've adopted into my lifestyle that the clueless money lusting women in Chicago haven't figured out.

Beyond that, the hot women in Boulder actually make eye contact and smile at you like you're a fuckable human. And when I say hot women, I mean toned bodies from physical activity, sun kissed skin, and real social skills.

None of this high gloss make up with a fucking $500 purse the size of a TV remote control, and way too obvious materialism petty cunt attitudes. Oh, I guess you might say that I'm over the crazy bitches in Chicago. Make that the midwest.

Go ahead materialistic crazy bitches... marry that fat fucking piece of shit with male pattern baldness. However, don't be suprised when your old, aging ass is dumped at age 45 for a younger model... that's the deal, retard. You've got a shelf life for that ass.

Anyways, where's my mind?

So that night after EP got off of work, we took a pair of tubes down to the Boulder river and tubed down through the submerged rocks, waterfalls and heavy current in two feet of water. It was extreme. For real.

That night I took EP and J out to dinner at a mexican place. We got hi in the truck and began to name and number all of the jobs we've had. By my count, I've had 23 jobs in the last 17 years. I drank two Fat Tires and left a shitty tip for the hair gel year round tan west coast boy waiter who appeared too stupid to handle tying his own shoes.

Monday July 18th
So I find out that ex is getting married, and drive Sagan the dog to Mt. Lily to climb and contemplate.

Whenever I've found out about ex's getting engaged, I've always thought about the same thing: I'm happy for them. I'm happy for them because they found someone that they want to marry who actually wants to marry them. I know with full certainty that I would not want to be married to any of my ex's. I know this because I know that we cannot get along. That's been proven.

Regarding this ex's upcoming marriage I have a few different thoughts because this particular person is much different from the rest. This one seems to be following in her mother's footsteps -- a person of horrible decision-making skills who is an alcoholic and most likely mentally ill -- and that makes me blue.

It's because this particular girl has so much more going for her than she knows, and because she hates her mother's example (her mother recently got married for the 7th time in Las Vegas to a fellow alcoholic who she met at a fucking airport bar after dumping husband #6). This girl is following in her mother's footsteps.

I totally loved this girl more than anyone I've met in the past 10 years. She's flawed and fucked up and fragile and free spirited. I cannot imagine dealing with the shit hand she's been dealt in her life, but she's also evil.

I used to be in great pain because she was my partner and she fucked everything up and left. I wanted her to be my friend and my woman, and sometimes when I saw little girls in public, I'd see my ex's face. It hurt me. She told me that she loved me but couldn't be with me. That went on until I cut her off in an especially cruel way (I, too, am capable of evil).

That was a calendar year ago, and now she's getting married. I can't say I blame her, because what else is she going to do? She's an emotionally disturbed drug addling totally broke cocktail waitress with no education. And she's 31 years old. What the fuck else could she do besides sell out and marry some jagoff with a lot of money. Hot women like my ex can do this because she's manipulative and a survivor.

So, finally, I hope that she's happy. I know that I made her happy on a spiritual level, and that when I finally rejected her (I had to get her out of my life), that must've hurt... but considering how badly she fucked with my head and heart, it's justified. She simply doesn't know any better and was probably really hurt when I shut her out. It really hurt me to do it.

All of this sent her in the direction she's in, and when I consider what that means, all I can think is that that's weak.

Reader... always remember this:

LIFE IS WHAT YOU MAKE OF IT.

--

I flew back on Tuesday night. I checked my email and got a very positive message from my pal Carney about a woman who works with his wife that I met at his house party before my trip. She's a knock out, and I made a good impression. Which is good because I thought that she was pretty cool. I'll take her out next week and see how it goes.

--

The universe has been openly talking to me over the past year. I've been watching for signs and listening. I think that I'm on the right path.

NYC bike messenger rat race

2005-07-07T10:48:00.000-05:00

This is my favorite video of all time... a bike messenger rat race starting in central park and racing through the city traffic with a video camera mounted to a rider's helmet.

this is what it looks like to ride a fixed gear through chicago traffic.

this is about 5 minutes of pure adrenaline... watch this shit: you will freak

NYC bike messenger rat race video

Widespread Commentary on Dorito’s New Spokesman Saddam Hussein

2005-07-06T16:28:00.000-05:00

From Advertising Monthly

Last Thursday Frito Lay unleashed its boldest ad campaign to date:

eXtra BOLD Doritos endorsed by Saddam Hussein.

…consisting of TV, radio, print, outdoor and Internet spots, the campaign centers around Saddam Hussein imprisoned on a remote, heavily fortified and protected, south pacific hidden U.S. military base island.

The TV ads portray captive Saddam Hussein sitting in his 8’ x 10’ suspended cage in a low-lit airplane hanger, surrounded by countless machine guns, German Shepards and military attack robots.

Saddam Hussein escapes his troubles by devouring bag after bag of eXtra BOLD Doritos. Saddam Hussein then looks into the camera and says in broken English, “With Doritos, I Win!” – the new campaign’s tagline.

Obviously re-dubbed in English by American Ha Ha Funnyman Robin Williams (employing a stereotypical – bordering on outright racist – middle eastern accent… and hamming it up), the film speed is slowed during Saddam’s endorsement creating a visual effect reminiscent of the poorly dubbed Asian karate films released in the United States during the 1960’s and 70’s.

The radio ads feature the sounds of mortars, explosions, gunfire, bullet ricochet, swords clanging metal against each other, German Shepards barking, and a distant emergency foghorn. The listener is purposely left unaware if the situation is taking place on a battlefield or inside of a sensory deprived torture room. After 20 seconds of chaotic warfare sound effects, the sound of a Doritos chip is bit into and chewed with satisfaction and Robin William’s middle eastern towel head Saddam Hussein impression states the campaign tagline “With Doritos, I Win!”

The print campaigns feature full page ads of an official U.S. Government released photo of Saddam Hussein sitting in his underpants eating a bag of Doritos with the tag “With Doritos, I Win!” emerging from a thought bubble above his head. This image is also being widely spread across the internet with the campaign’s e-card promotion.

Frito Lay spokesperson Burt Vernon said “the campaign promotes Doritos as an extremely pleasurable experience, taking even the second most notorious man in America away from his worries, and to a place that only eXtra BOLD Doritos can take you. It’s reminding consumers that “With Doritos, I Win” …it’s about finding nirvana, really. Frito Lay is extremely proud of this promotion and of our excellent new and improved eXtra BOLD Doritos.”

# # #

From Zell Miller

The liberal media has once again weakened America by taking our most prized trophy in the War Against Terrorism, and creating a harmless, almost sympathetic, figure out of a butcher like Saddam Hussein in the new eXtra BOLD Doritos advertising campaign. This is the kind of imagery that weakens America’s resolve to kill all terrorists by making the enemy seem like anything other than what he is: a God-less instrument of bloodlust and evil.

Considering Saddam Hussein’s involvement in the tragic events of September 11th and that the advertising agency – Dot Communications…a known financial contributor to the unsubstantiating and disturbing MoveOn.Org, as well as other socialist, America-hating organizations – responsible for creating this resolve-weakening message… is based in New York City! You would want to believe that the ad agency would show more compassion for the surviving families of 9/11, or that some members of the ad agency may have felt it inappropriate, but this is what happens when there are no set standards for common decency in broadcast.

Or this is what happens when the terrorists infiltrate our media and begin to spread messages designed to weaken our purpose in the War Against Terrorism. By showing Saddam Hussein as “one of us”… enjoying a bag of eXtra BOLD Doritos and declaring that he wins, the liberal media is effectively telling you that the enemy is you and that you should not believe that America will win the War Against Terror.

The liberal media has attempted dismantle the America that I love – and that I know YOU love – since the dawn of mass communication. Spreading anti-American thought and ideas and attempting to tear down the norms of decent society… they even tried to take over the United States with communism, if you can believe that… and we all know how that went for the Soviet Union… their God-less blanket of repression lost.

Frito Lay, Dot Communications, and any broadcast channel that delivers this type of message is a menace to our American way of life and should be stopped.

Please join my support of the new broadcast amendment to the Patriot Act, which deems that the government shall establish an advisory board to review any and all messages – from any source – with a political angle or political implication embedded with in its message or imagery.

Help keep America united and strong… please contribute to my re-election fund to ensure that our children enjoy the same freedoms and open society under God that you and I have grown to love and would die to defend. God bless.

# # #

From Sean Penn

The White House has gone too far this time with their obviously endorsed Doritos advertising campaign starring Saddam Hussein. Stringing Saddam up like a puppet for entertainment purposes is the exact sort of thing that you’d see in a country like Germany in 1939. This is exactly what they’re doing.

Consider that the White Hose started the war in Iraq, and it’s not going as well as they would have thought. Beyond killing 100,000 innocent Iraqis and almost 4,000 of our service people, they’ve got no exit plan to end the killing.

The American people know that we’re being lied to and that they’re not facing the truth, so they dig up their best bounty since the invasion and film him eating Doritos in his underpants to remind you of what a pathetic figure he is, and how powerful we are because we are humane… and oh look! Saddam likes Doritos! He can’t get them in Iraq, and now – in the end – he can see that America is superior.

I found it very telling that Frito Lay considers Saddam Hussein the second most notorious man in America. Who’s the most notorious? Who’s no-tor-i-ous? Who’s bad? Not Michael Jackson, he’s guilty… the correct answer would be Osama bin Laden, the fanatical crusader who ordered September 11th – not Saddam Hussein – and started this world war by striking first. I guess the government didn’t have any recent pictures of Osama bin Laden available, seeing as they can’t find him.

The White House is almost boasting their biggest catch because that’s all they’ve got, and they’ve got to remind everyone who voted for Bush that they’re on the right path and that they’re getting results and making America safer. I question if it’s harder to drive through the border from Canada, or to drive across the Iowa stateliness into Nebraska. Maybe you have to watch for speed traps set by bored cornfield patrolman driving into Nebraska.

When it comes down to it, the White House is lying to you, and this advertisement is just another example of the government’s control over the media in this country and the propaganda that it distributes under an umbrella of closely linked networks.

Don’t believe it, and don’t pay for it. As an American you have the freedom to chose: to not believe the lies, to not give up hope for the future, and to not purchase Doritos ever again. If they’re the choice of Saddam Hussein, and when he eats them he wins? Fine. If Saddam Hussein is a winner because he chose Doritos, let him be.

I can choose to be a winner in other ways! Like, for instance, that I have the freedom to write about my opinions and all of these sorts of ideas anytime I want, like this one… the one you’re reading right now… on my blog, SeanPennBlog.com.

I win because I got over 3,000 hits last week when I wrote about how the White House wants to go to Mars… but how that doesn’t make any sense because the war in Iraq costs a billion dollars a month… and because there are children starving in poverty here in this country… and because the Patriot Act is openly taking your freedoms away from you.

They’re lying, don’t buy it. And don’t buy Doritos!

# # #

Pearl Jam: USA Today's Greatest American Rock Band

2005-07-06T14:46:00.000-05:00

USA Today article.

And though the results were close, there could only be one winner. So, without further ado, I present your top pick for the greatest American rock band of all time:

Pearl Jam.

This is in 2005.

Why is Pearl Jam the greatest? Here's what you said:

•They've stayed true to themselves. "Instead of selling out with videos and constant press coverage, they pulled back at their height, and focused on the music," wrote Willie McNabb in El Dorado, Ark. "They belong up there with Neil Young, Zeppelin and The Beatles because they never compromised their integrity, which is really all any of us have."

•The music rocks. From Atlanta reader Tom Baker: "They've continually reshaped their sound, album after album, and are still making great, vital music 12+ years into their career. What else could you want?"

•Their records sell ... "... because they're good, not because they've been hyped to death by the media," McNabb added.

•There have been scores of imitators. "How many Pearl Jam/Eddie Vedder knockoffs have invaded rock radio since Ten?" asked Scott Jordan, another Atlanta fan.

•Their concerts are first-rate — and affordable. Jake Mohlman from Barrington, R.I., praised the band for keeping ticket prices low. "It's unique in an era when most artists gouge their fans to the limit," he wrote. "Likewise, releasing their shows on low-cost bootlegs brings a new dimension to seeing one of their shows."

Interesting selection for greatest rock band, but keep in mind that this is in USA Today... a daily newspaper for people who admittedly don't want to know shit about anything, and who prefer big colorful pie graphs to actual investigative journalism.

The rest of the list has some questionable runners up (this is the USA Today reader list... plus my asshole commentary):

2. Aerosmith – Living proof that quitting drugs kills creativity. Aerosmith is eagerly awaiting the next Bruce Willis/Michael Bay/Nicholas Cage/Michael Bay action film extravaganza (Armageddon, The Rock, Gone in Sixty Seconds) to release their new power ballad that sounds fucking EXACTLY like the power ballads they've released every other summer for the past 15 years.

3. Van Halen – Why are they even on this list? They haven't released anything with any merit since their greatest hits collection a couple years back… reminding us that diamond dave beats the shit out of sammy hagar, and both of those cats got dumped for the likes of gary cherone... ex lead singer of Extreme. yeah, good move.

4. The Eagles – In 1992, The Eagles decided to tour for $100 a ticket, and now everyone who used to charge $20, now charges at least $45. Thanks a lot. Assholes.

5. Journey – You've got to be fucking kidding me.

6. Guns N' Roses – Have not released new material since 1993. Let me remind you that that was over 12 years ago.

7. The Grateful Dead – I had hoped that this band (and their annoying caravan duped into believing that they’re anything OTHER THAN CONSUMERS) would vanish after Jerry died TEN YEARS AGO this summer. No such luck.

8. Queensryche – Huh?

9. The Doors – The Doors died with Jim Morrison. The Doors still toured with the lead singer of the cult last year. I think that that sucks.

10. R.E.M. – Have not put out a decent record since 1996's New Adventures in Hi Fi. 1996 was nine years ago.

11. The Allman Brothers Band and Fleetwood Mac (tie) – Who wants to see these creepy old hippies? Make a mental picture of Stevie Nicks’ pussy. Right now. Yeah, no thanks.

12. Metallica – Watch Some Kind of Monster, the documentary on Metallica. They're hee-lar-i-ous! Lars Ulrich’s dad look exactly like Gandalf the wizard in Lord of the Rings.

13. KISS – No make up, no fireworks, what've you got left? Merchandising and no talent.

14. The Ramones – These guys are dropping off by the year. Apparently nobody sees 55 in the Ramones.

15. Bruce Springsteen and the E Street Band and Creedence Clearwater Revival (tie) – For me, torture is listening to Bruce Springsteen… true torture is being trapped at one of those infamous 4 hour Springsteen concerts. I'll slit my wrists before having to endure nineteen minutes of "The River."

16. Dave Matthews Band and Lynyrd Skynyrd (tie) – It just occured to me that The Dave Matthews Band IS Lynyrd Skynyrd.

17. The Beach Boys – This is a nostalgia list, right?

18. Nirvana – Take punk, hardcore, power pop, stadium anthems, guitar hooks and distortion and suddenly you have a new movement to market to the lucrative 18 to 34 year old demographic.

19. The Replacements – This is an interesting selection. I didn't realize that the musical taste of the average USA Today reader extended beyond Bon Jovi.

Rounding out the list is ...

20. Bon Jovi – Bon Jovi fucking sucks. That Triumph the Insult Comic Dog bit on Bon Jovi is so fucking funny that I wet myself, and had to pause it twice because I was in tears. video.

writing

2005-07-06T11:05:00.000-05:00

I've been questioning copywriting for the past six months.

Because I consider it to be a bullshit profession. I really question WHAT, if ANY, real working skills I'm developing, or if I'm just seriously wasting a lot of time.

I got a new direct boss about six weeks ago. I had the opportunity to get a look at his resume and talk to him during the interviewing process, and I knew right away that I wanted to work for him.

With over 20 years of hardcore Chicago advertising creative experience, SB is an asskicker among the weak and the tame. He has had the copywriting career that I wanted when I graduated from college seven years ago and decided to move to Chicago to write ads.

Fortunately, SB is a fucking cool guy, so we're getting along very well on many levels, and that's great.

Last week after a particularly long day, the department director dropped the credit card down at the Rock Bottom rooftop and began buying drinks. Most everyone took off after a couple rounds, but SB and I stuck around for another hour talking honestly about the profession and about what I wanted to do with my career.

It was good because SB believes in constructive encouragement. There's no bullshit, and I respect that.

I told him that I thought that writing was a scam and a bullshit job. It almost knocked the air out of him because I seemed sincere.

He said,

"Of course this is a bullshit job! You had to have known that getting into it. We mess around with fucking words all day... That's not a real job.

However, if you do this long enough and you get good enough and can talk your game up enough, you can develop an expertise that no one can deny or touch, because nobody can write, and writing scares people. That is your advantage. And that justifies your career.

Let me put it this way: you're probably innately more intelligent than 50% of the lawyers out there. Nobody questions the advice or recommendation of a lawyer because the law is foreign language to the lay man. The same thing goes on with writing. It's foreign language to almost everyone. And yes, it's all a big fucking joke."

Finally, a true mentor.

--

A final thought on writing:

Writing is a lot like sex. At first you do it because you like it. Then you find yourself doing it for a few close friends and people you like. But if you're any good at all...you end up doing it for money. --Unknown

puget sound, august 2002

2005-07-02T16:07:00.000-05:00

A few weekends back I met up with my old friend EP and his large family in Winona, MN for his college graduation. He started college in 1992. he got a teaching degree,.. following in the path of his mom and step dad Al. Al was our middle school principal.

One time when I was 12 I named the middle school’s newspaper The Raider Review and I got to choose between a gift certificate to the mall or a lunch with the principal. I decided to go to lunch with Al.

We went to this piece of shit small town greasy spoon and had a decidedly easy-going chat for an hour. Today – 18 years later – it’s one of Al’s favorite memories of being the principal. He always asks me why I chose to have lunch with the principal and I never give him a real reason. My mom thinks that it was because I was receiving the honor of lunch with the most powerful man in the school.

EP has been with his wife J since 1993. He’s known her about a month longer than I have. I was the best man in the wedding. Since then she and I – and a revolving door of colorful others – have driven cross country and back, camping and partying along the way, to meet up with EP. Or to travel with EP to fucking fantastic locations.

EP and his wife J and I and youngest brother B biked – with attached bike trailers – and camped 240 miles of Puget Sound and the surrounding Olympic national park in 2002. It was incredible.

We biked all of our equipment from my Chicago apartment to the Amtrak station downtown and took the train – two nights in coach seats – to Seattle.

The train is a total head game. It’s like being locked in Old Country Buffet for two days:

You have four cars to roam [which you’ve instinctively mapped out – finding all dead ends – within the first 45 minutes] all in coach,..

an opened up windowed car for looking at landscape and chats with middle aged people [on their third marriage/fourth whisky at 10 in the morning],..

a convenience store/bar [where it doesn’t matter how long the line is, the convenience store guy/bartender takes his sweet ass time. It takes fucking forever and you’ve got no say in the matter. Because you’ve got nowhere to go anyway],..

and a smoker’s car. We quickly learned that the jet exhaust toilets on the floor below coach were ideal for exhaling bats of the trader green. I had fantastic chats with drunk middle aged couples while totally stoned. You choose your poison.

At night they showed movies. They would never tell you what the movie was going to be that night. No matter who or how many times you asked. I kind of appreciated that though,.. it created a low level of needed anticipation because you were so fucking bored [you can only read so many books, magazines, day old newspapers, Amtrak brochures, listen to so many CDs, try to take a nap so often]...

SO FUCKING BORED that you actually brought it up in conversation with middle aged drunks and your bored friends. Finally at dark they turned the VHS tape on to two 26” mounted TVs in the bar car.

One night it was harry potter and I fell asleep an hour in. The next night it was the Britney Spears movie Crossroads.

Crossroads is remarkably disturbing. I don’t know if it was made for 11 year old girls or if it was made for their fathers. There are several awesome shots of,..

Britney taking a shower with her full figure sillowhetted in the steam,..

Britney wearing this high engineered perfect tit scoop bra and kissing -- and about to agree to fuck -- this loser kid,..

Britney in a bikini rubbing oil on her hot, tight 19 year old body,..

There was this 10 year old loser kid sitting ahead of us who was fucking freaking out when Britney would change her shirt [while poorly acting out a scene about her friend’s most recent abortion… I think it was her 4th. Is that too many?] because the little motherfucker was seeing shit that was giving him 2” inches of manhood, and because his mom was nowhere to be seen to tell him to leave the room. J thought that he looked like he was getting away with something.

In this situation I’m going to believe that Crossroads was also made for middle aged suburban dads, 10 year old boys and two appreciative 28 year old men stuck on a damn train for two nights.

We got off the train in Seattle and biked to the downtown hotel that J had got us for super cheap. Smoked some shit, sat in the 7th story open air pool and went out to get some great thai and look around. Seattle is one of my favorite cities. We took the ferry to Bainbridge Island the next morning.

I learned pretty fast that bikers get preferential treatment in Washington. We get on the ferry first at a deep discount/we get off first. Every campground in the state is lawfully obligated to give bikers and hikers a spot even if they’re sold out. Because of this they have excellent walk in campsites far away from the RV parking lot. They’re usually thick and secluded, and sometimes on a bluff overlooking the sun set over the Pacific.

We rode over four incredible bridges. The first was the most intense because I followed EP towards the sidewalk edge and then back onto the shoulder of the bridge. J rode up onto the sidewalk and had to bike the distance of over 150 feet on a 20” wide “sidewalk” [with two panellier saddlebags]… with a three foot drop down to the roadway and cars speeding past on one side, and on the other side there was a handrail [overlooking a 200 foot drop] running at the same level as the frame of J’s bike. When we met up at the other side of the bridge, I walked up to the sidewalk and was horrified by the size of the walkway and low height of the handrail. And then I tried to think of all of J’s options while biking that entire 150 feet of bridge. I had to sit down.

I found that with the bike trailer attached to the back of my bike, that my top safe speed was around 28 miles an hour. My bike computer kept a very accurate read. I figured out 28 miles an hour the first time we came on a long descent that stretched over a mile. I let my bike – a full suspension Trek VRX mountain bike (very poor choice for the trip} – speed up to around 35 miles an hour. The trailer hitch began to violently shake at the hub of my back wheel, to the point where I was slowing down with the brakes and leaning back but strategizing and preparing for a violent bike crash. By 28 miles an hour the bike was controllable.

Bike trailers add a completely different physical balance to a bike. They’re a bitch to lean against anything, because combined the length of the bike and trailer is easily 10 feet long. And heavy. Getting going is slow, all wide turns, and real weight to stop when slowing to a traffic light. However, once the momentum is rolling, the bike and trailer are very fast, solid and gentle to maneuver.

Everyday we camped and biked 40 mile days through 10 mile wide valleys [which sustain constant 10 mile an hour headwind] and challenging foothills. I ate a lot of peanuts, drank a lot of Gatorade and tea, and always picked up a coffee.

Before the trip my apartment had been broken into and all 300 of my CDs,.. and all 50 of the DVDs my friend who worked for 20th Century Fox gave me,.. and all $9.87 of my laundry change in a pint glass,.. was gone. Some nimble little fuck broke in through the window above the back door and made off with my shit one Wednesday in June. I got a police report, reported it to the insurance, made a comprehensive list of the shit that was stolen, and had a $5,000 check cut to me within 48 hours.

So I outfitted my trip to the pacific northwest. I got all big money and bought two CB radios that worked as CBs and AM/FM radios and weather report frequency and it’s waterproof and easily clipped onto your handlebar. It was awesome. Sometimes we’d talk to children at campsites. We’d try to organize beer raids on camp coolers after dark. We’d ask the kids if their parents had beer?.. and if they did,.. what was their campsite number? Most of these children were around 8 years old. We adopted CB handles. EP was “Captain Insane-o” and I was “Maximus Sunburn.” J thought that we were misbehaving and didn’t make up a CB handle.

One time we were about bike from a campsite on the water, across a large/high bridge in an area called Deception Pass. We were on the water’s edge and I was looking at pebbles. I saw a small, smoothed over black pebble and put it in my pocket [I kept that pebble in my pocket for almost two years. One day it came up missing]. We took a couple of photos and began to psyche ourselves up for the ride over this enormous bridge. I turned on the CB radio and began scanning channels. I found a frequency with a mother telling her children to come up from the water to have breakfast. When they were done speaking I said “mommy! We’re about to ride our bikes across that big bridge!” A couple seconds later the mother said “be careful.”

Riding ten hard miles into a valley headwind is hard. It makes it even harder when you have the constant reminder of the tall foothill you’re going to have to bike up – once you actually get to it – on the distant horizon. Tedious, draining, bored riding calls for the morale boost provided by the classic rocks stations we picked up in the middle of nowhere. Classic rock like eddie money and zz top and van halen is a fucking boost when jammed on two small travel CB/radios while you’re tired and getting your ass kicked by a mountain. Sometimes we mess with the acoustics of the radios if we were riding alongside the wall of the hill blasted away for the road. If we rode in the same spots, and aimed the radio speakers in certain directions, we’d almost get stereo sound.

At night after setting up camp we left all of the trailers and bags and rode lighter bikes to a restaurant for steaks or fresh seafood. When you’re not paying for a car rental, gas or hotel rooms, you can afford steaks and fresh seafood every night. One night we were biking back to our campsite from the nearest small town [that was about 5 miles away] and a car pulled up alongside as I was racing down a hill at 40 miles per hour. The window came down and a beautiful blonde Canadian girl asked me in a normal voice, “where is the camp grounds?” I said “about 2 miles ahead” she thanked me, and they drove off. What was awesome about it is that we were speaking at a normal volume [the volume you use when you’re indoors], and we were moving at around 40 miles per hour.

We spent a couple of days in Bellingham and then took a much much nicer Amtrak Cascade train to Everett to meet up with EP’s younger brother B, who drove up from Eugene, OR to join our trip. I’ve know B since he was 6 years old. He grew into an All-Conference athlete and scored a touchdown during the high school state finals at Camp Randall in Madison, WI [where the University of Wisconsin plays]. I’ve seen the video of it at his parent’s place. Al is B’s biological father and EP’s step brother by marriage, because Al married EP’s mom.

We drove into the Olympic national park and ditched B’s car. We biked over 10 miles on the road winding along side a mountain lake. When we got to the guard’s post for the del sol hot springs resort we were told that reservations stopped in an hour and ten minutes, and it was over 8 miles uphill to the resort. B said that he’d do it, and we slowly followed. It was an ass kicker. Two hours later we reached the resort and B had already staked us a site. We set up camp and walked through a visually intense stretch of young tall white birch and florescent Kermit the frog green two foot high grass. At then lay the drive up to the resort parking lot. It was built XXXXXX and featured two large hot spring pools full of Europeans and Asians, one large lane pool and several freezing cold showers with pull ropes. The people at the resort told us that they hadn’t seen bikers in years.

For two full days and nights we smoked and hiked to mountain waterfalls, dipped into frigid mountain streams, and sat in the oily and fucking disgusting hot springs pools with Europeans and Asians. Nobody but the help was speaking English. It’s hard not to stare when you’re super fucking high,.. sitting in an oily hot springs pool in the midday sun with an 88 year old Asian man who is speaking Japanese to 7 or 8 other Asians sitting next to you,.. and a 58 year old fat German woman is sitting across from you,.. staring. You remedy this awkward situation,.. and cleanse yourself of this international bodily fluid run off ooze shit,.. by walking over to the shower and flash flood dropping cold water over your heated body,.. giving your whole shit a 20 second shock of mountain stream.

We biked down to the guard post in 35 minutes and said goodbye. We biked past the 10 mile mountain lake and I got some great action shots. That night we drove to a camp site on the shoreline of Puget Sound, across the bay from Seattle and 2 miles from the next morning’s ferry. J and I drove to the grocery store to buy food to cook out and a case of beer and bottle of wine and a four pack of wine coolers and two 6 packs of local microbrew. We decided to move the drinking to a picnic table out on the beach. B said that he’d carry the firewood and fire, and I watched him pick up and balance two burning logs with two dry firewood logs across 70 feet of sand to the fire pit,.. where he dropped the two burning logs and cracked a beer. We got piss drunk and I slept in the car because a camp boss picked up, and held onto, my sleeping bag,.. because,.. [???] I guess that the camp boss thinks it makes perfect logical sense to pick up a lone, bundled sleeping bag from a fully set-up campsite.

The next day we had to leave on the train at 3 pm, so we drove into Seattle’s downtown,.. near the train station,.. and parked the car. We check all of our shit into Amtrak and walked to the waterfront. We had been talking about, stressing over and conserving green the past couple of days because we were almost out. This was a legitimate issue. Trust me, you have to have weed to get through three days and two nights on that fucking train.

Our trip was blessed with good karma. The night before we even left Chicago to begin the trip, EP and J and I took a late ride through Chicago to the paved bike lanes along Lake Michigan. It was an early August clear summer night, which didn’t explain the 7 and 8 foot waves crashing up the bike path and against the flood wall. The force of the water was stronger than I’d estimated, and pulled with true force when I biked through it. Our feet were soaked. We rode back through the city.

Walking from the downtown train station in Seattle, we came across more and more foot traffic and hundreds of posted fliers directing us to motherfucking Hemp Fest. We had located the pot at the end of the rainbow. Within 10 minutes I bought everyone a brownie. We ate them and felt nothing. No jitters. We walked around looking at the booths and the kids and the belly dancers and the people with snakes and the punk midgets with tattoos and the live bands. EP and I bought the same sweet black hemp wallet for $5 each. I wish I’d gotten more. Mine is torn to shit and the company went out of business. You can’t even find Manastash on e-bay.

We split for awhile to gather supplies. I walked down to the large rocks on the shore and quickly found a west coast kid selling shit. He was engaged in a lot of small talk with the kids around. He asked me about what I’d been up to and I told him an abbreviated story of the entire bike trip, and our train leaving for Chicago in a couple of hours. He seemed genuinely interested. He gave me a nice amount of beautiful west coast green in an empty cigarette box and I re-joined my friends.

We walked back to B’s car and I started to feel psychic pushes from the brownie kicking in. EP said, “well I guess we’re going to find out what was in those brownies.” The shit then started to kick in and I saw a trail. Two Seattle cops came in off of the stairway and walked past watching us frantically try to gather any loose items we owned from B’s car. I began to question if we were on psychedelics or just weed. My paranoia began to fuck with me. I started to silently question if they were going to search our bags and pat us down at the train because of Hemp Fest. They hadn’t checked in Chicago, but it might be different here. I stuffed the cigarette box I bought from the beach into my jacket’s inside chest pocket and put on my sunglasses to hide. We carefully walked to the train and said farewell to B.

Nobody checked for shit. I found my seat and read three newspapers cover to cover totally stoned on a 8 hour weed brownie. The rest of the train ride EP, J and I had a casual leave each other alone approach, which was welcome and wise. The train ride back was long but manageable. Finally back in Chicago, we biked back to my apartment, they loaded up and drove back to Wisconsin, and I crashed.

So anyways, I went to lunch with EP’s step dad Al – the principal – when I was a kid, and now that we’re all adults, everything’s loosened up a lot. During my toast at EP and J’s wedding I told a story about how when we were in high school EP used to always snag a beer or two at a time from Al’s garage beer refrigerator, squirrel them away in hiding spots until he’d amassed 14 or 15, and then we’d drink them. Al’s taste in beer ran from Red White & Blue to Grain Belt. We’d each struggle through can after piss warm can of Red White & Blue because it was all that we could get our 16 year old hands on, and because it was the principal’s beer. EP’s mom – Al’s wife – always brings that one up, and reminds me that EP’s grandmother and all of his relatives [who apparently don’t really know him] were there. EP’s mom is that way though, you couldn’t call his house after 8:30 on any night of the week. She didn’t care who was calling, she’d tell you that EP could not come to the phone, and would please not ever call after 8:30 ever again.

Al makes inappropriate comments about women when it’s just guys around all the time. I was making fun of him for drinking a bottle Grain Belt telling him that even at 15 I knew that Grain Belt was cheap piss. Al said “you know, there’s only one thing better than Grain Belt beer,.. you know what that is? Two women at the same time.”

Later he offered me and a couple other guys a stick from the pack of this gum that looked like it had been in his pants pocket through the washer twice. I told him “I don’t want any of that.” He asked why, and I said “because your wife washed those when she was doing your laundry.”

bomb

2005-06-30T12:56:00.000-05:00

July 2005 is going to be a good month.

I'm finishing up the arrangements for this month's outing: From 13 July to 19 July I'll be mountain biking with my pal EP in Colorado.

First I found roundtrip air fare for $190. This is cheap for this season, and I've actually heard of the airline.

I'll be out the Wednesday afternoon of the 13th. EP will pick me up at the Denver airport, where we'll proceed to the city of Denver to meet up with my 25 year old sister and secure the week's natural resources.

It's advantageous to have a druggie baby sister still whittling away at that elusive bachelor's degree (entering year seven of such endeavor) and keeping my parents from achieving retirement.

I'll take her to dinner out of gratitude and then out for a few drinks to settle the caps and stems digested during desert. From there, EP and I will return to the rental house in Boulder that he's staying at this summer with his wife J and dog Sagan to prepare for the next morning's departure.

By the time I get to Boulder, my bike -- el scorpio -- a klein mantra, will have arrived at EP's bike shop and will have been fully re-assembled from the UPS shipping box that I mailed it out in.

Thursday morning we take off for Winter Park in the truck with our bikes and camping gear for the start of three nights of camping and biking and mind exploration.

I intend to bring no less than three rolls of 35 mm film for this excursion.

I'm stoked about this particular trip because el scorpio was designed for this sort of shit... Made of this light weight high endurance chropoly metal that's used in the production of this bike... and the wings of fighter jets... el scorpio is a full suspension Klein Mantra that was built to just fucking bomb down a mountain.

Winter Park has an entire series of runs that are adapted for summer bikers. First we take a gondola from the Mary Jane Base Area (9,450 feet) up the mountain openly smoking a j during the 15 minute ascent to Lunch Rock (11,200 feet).

From there it's fantastic scenery, thin air, countless action shots and pumped adrenaline.

We'll return to Boulder Sunday afternoon, and I'll get to hang out with EP's wife J and dog while he has to work at his temporary bike store job... those two are moving to Eugene, OR in late August.

where you been?

2005-06-27T12:16:00.000-05:00

I've neglected making any bold statements or blanket generalizations on this page for awhile now.

Why?

The easy answer is that I've been busy as all fuck with this job of mine the past two or three weeks. The annual meeting has come and past, and this last weekend I finally got my weekend off. I actually had to work Saturday AND Sunday of last week. It was a bitch.

To answer your obvious question of how bad it was, let me put it this way: last Sunday I had to be at the hotel at 8:30 in the morning to sit through the "Finance and Governance Reference Committee hearings"... scheduled to go until 12:30 p.m., this went a little longer. This one ended just after the five hour mark. I sat through the whole fuckin thing too. I turned it into an endurance challenge: no smoke breaks, no 45 minutes of wandering around, no newspaper. FIVE HOURS OF FINANCE AND GOVERNANCE.

Next, on Monday morning, I had to track down two employees serving as secretaries of that particular reference committee and figure out which 4 topics should be covered in my 200 word story. Next, I had to actually write the shit in legalese (note: everything is vague and ambiguous with words and sentence structures that make no sense). Next I had to get the two secretaries to sign off on it, then I had to get the reference chair to sign off on it, then I had to submit it for slight copy edits prior to publication. I hated every fucking second of it... this part of it was true work.

This past weekend was good. My friend Chris was in town from Los Angeles, so we met over at our friend Carney's place and grilled out, then Carney’s wife got even more annoying, so we went to the Irish Heritage Center for some drinks.

Chris is an actor who seems to have more success getting commercial work than actual acting roles. He's basically a large oaf of heartwarming violence. Think John Goodman or James Belushi. Those guys have got to die or something soon because Chris needs work! Chris had a good line. He said that people out of "the industry" ask him all the time "how much did you make on that commercial?" or "how much does TV work pay?" so he likes to answer "it's funny that you brought that up because I was going to ask you how much you make."

Carney is a yuppie who recently bought a bungalow with his spoiled cold hearted wife and the screams of his 18 month daughter. Carney loves company because he's not allowed to go anywhere. The three of us went to college and lived together on Clark street from 1998 to 2000.

Chris kept commenting on how everything has changed so much in the past few years: he got married and finally moved west to be an out of work actor in Los Angeles, Carney got married and had a kid and started to buy real estate. And there's nothing different about me: still working through a string of girlfriends, writing jobs and general and complete asskicking in everything I touch or gently massage.

Chris must've forgotten to mention that both he and Carney are showing signs of grey, whereas single Tim is in shape, gets smiled at by (hot) women on the street, and had five women ranging in age between 22 and 28 guess that I'm 26 years old in the past couple weeks (I'm 31).

Ha! Fuck you two, I win! Return to your Land of Lame, Rule Followers!

Saturday my friend Dan and his wife Susan rode their bikes over to my place and we rode down to Wired magazine's Next Fest at Navy Pier. It was intriguing and cool in a Sharper Image catalog kind of way. Actually I was very impressed with the event's layout and lighting scheme. They were able to recreate the look and feel of the magazine's layout note perfect.

The shit that bugged me was the whole corporate marketing thing going on with giants like GM and Pfizer. GM had four totally efficient and reasonable hydrogen-run cars and minivans on display. Now, if they wanted to mass-produce these vehicles, people would buy them. But they won't. AND, GM was handing out these pieces of paper with wildflower seeds embedded inside the paper for me to toss out the car window at 80 mph on I-94 to spread the growth of wildflowers. Yeah, so this was GM's marketing platform that they're a corporation that actively cares about damage to the environment. Right.

Pfizer was even scarier. They had this fucking cat that they cloned into an identical cat inside of this plastic box. The signage said that they were going to begin cloning dogs next. Doesn't anyone else see the danger in allowing one of the world's largest pharmaceuticals to begin cloning life? What could happen here? Maybe I'm alarmed by this because I naturally assume that the human element of selfish irresponsibility will turn this cloning-thing for the worst... I mean, look how responsible they were with nuclear research and weaponry.

In short, we're doomed.

After the fest we smoked and went to catch Batman. That movie rocks. After that we went to Rossi's for a few. Rossi's was typical chaotic on the edge of absurdity that that place always is. We had to give Susan a look. It was time to go when some fucked up cubs fans (all fat single sunburned dickheads with Prior jerseys and goatees) dropped a dollar in the jukebox and starting to shout along to John Melloncamp. Fucking lame, dickheads... John Melloncamp is fucking lame (I shouldn’t have to tell you this)... and you're fucking lame. Point to this part of the story: Rossi's has no door policy.

We biked over to Tuman’s to meet up with my pal Tim and Todd and their crew. It was a slow moving easy Saturday night for drinking on the sidewalk and making fun of Bishop – Tim’s 12 year old husky – to his face because he gets into the garbage and likes to lick his own ass and sometimes eats drunk puke. Bishop knew we were ripping on him and just layed on the pavement in self loathing shame.

We smoked in the alley like lowlifes and then went over to Todd’s place to watch edited footage of this year’s south side irish parade… shots of Greg walking around the Cork and Kerry with a cigarette and drink holding a rolled up blanket like it was a baby… on camera interviews with the drunk and the mentally ill…

Sunday was fucking hot. Biking from the north side to the loop I caught a flat and had to walk pista about a mile to a bike store, where they pulled an office-sized staple from the side of the back wheel. I must’ve picked it up while cutting a corner. Anyways, I got down to the ESPN Zone to collect Rick and Andy, and then took them to my gym’s outdoor 7th floor pool. It rocked: hot black girls, hot thai girls, hot blondes and a humid late June afternoon plus bud and a 12 pack of coronas. We picked up some dinner at Heaven on Seven, then I rode north to my crib, smoked and kicked back to some Yesterday’s New Quintet and drew for an hour.

super millionaire

2005-06-06T16:55:00.000-05:00

Once again somebody else has won the mega millions lottery. This time it was won by someone in Ohio. Yes, Ohio. Not Illinois. Not Chicago, Illinois. Not me.

The news reports that it was a single winner this time. Somebody in Ohio is the sole winner of $106 million. Every time the lottery shoots north of $40 million, I spend ONE dollar at the newsstand in the lobby of my workplace. I figure that one dollar is enough to win, and anything short of $40 million is a waste of time. Every time I play, I lose,.. or, rather,.. I "don’t win."

I think that that fucking sucks and that I would rock as a multi-millionaire. I fucking would, and many, many people would benefit from my sick wealth. I already got all that shit planned out.

First I would contact my friend Dave who’s a lawyer that defends insurance companies who don’t want to pay when somebody gets killed. Dave is a self-loathing asshole who’s barely tolerable to be around for longer than a three hour stretch because of his black heart and growing gloom due to knowingly performing the devil’s work on earth and fucking over grieving families for multi-million dollar insurance firms. Dave needs to take on a pro-bona job like advising me on my legal rights to claiming $106 million dollars to cleanse his conscious and his soul of encroaching wickedness.

Dave also serves as a fence for the untraceable firearms I’ll need when transporting the winning ticket to a lottery official. Dave knows the type of people who know where to procure the types of weapons I’ll require.

Overkill? Fuck off, have you ever carried $106 million dollars in your pocket? No one has. I break a sweat if I’m carrying more than $200... yeah, that's right, chicago trixies, I wasn't born into a wealthy family, so I'm not used to having cash just laying around. And, oh yeah, after I've fucked you five ways to friday, you're still not getting anywhere near my money.

After the winning ticket has been authenticated, I’ll handle all the PR bullshit myself. The lottery winner telecast has always been a bit of a let down for me because the "winners" always seem to blow it. I’m sick of listening to some "winner" with an oversized check stammer into the microphone about how they’re going to quit their job and pay off some debts. Blown opportunity, my friend.

I’m going to walk into the press conference wearing a white t-shirt with "ex girlfriends suffer" written in blood from my pricked finger across the chest, and look dead into the camera and say:

"I am going to use $100 million to create a clone army for George Bush, complete with advanced weapons training and karate moves to fight the terrorists who linked 9/11 from al-Qaeda in Iraq."

I will answer no questions, and instead repeat the mantra on clone armies and karate moves in Iraq.

Next, I will change my address, my telephone number, my e-mail account, and most likely my name ("Maximus Sunburn" is sounding pretty fuckin right on right now), and I will take off for an extended six month trip through southeast Asia and the south pacific.

My travels will take me through tsunami ravaged regions where I’ll volunteer service in the excavation and rebuilding of the region. I will make private financial donations where needed. I will not reveal my true identity, nor financial capabilities to anyone during this time. I will role play a traveling westerner lending a hand, and I will live simply.

When I return to the United States, I will pay off the remaining mortgages on all of my immediate family member’s homes. I will purchase a house in the city limits of Chicago and begin to furnish it. I’ll let my sister live there for free (I’ll also buy a home in Denver for my other sister to live at for free, even though I know that she won’t work and will smoke pot and watch TV all day). Once the house is complete, I’m going to invite all of my friends in the city to come over with their credit card bills and I’ll begin to write checks. Bring everyone back to zero.

With the home base complete and virtually everyone stupid debt free, I’m going to purchase a fully loaded RV and two Doberman pinchers (for breeding purposes) and hit the road on a cross country mountain biking/disc golf tour. I will follow my muse and begin to create amazing oil paintings on black velvet canvases. I will drive into small towns and find the busiest intersection (usually at a gas station) and display my original art for sale. I will also sell Dobermans for $20 each (by this time I’ll have bred and trained 10 to 15 killers).

While on the road I’ll contact my oldest and greatest friends and begin to grant wishes. Cross country road trip on new motorcycles? Sure. A hiking trip through Vietnam? You got it. Two women at the same time? Well, I get that shit whenever I want now, so, sure, go for it.

Cause I got fuck you money.

I’m a big believer in doing good deeds and not telling anyone about it. I think that you lessen the deed if you tell anyone about it. Like you’re looking for praise or some such shit. So, vast generosity will be bestowed upon those deemed in need. I’ve got nothing more to say about that.

Oh yeah, I’ll also be keeping a detailed journal of my journey, to be self published under the title What I Did My First Year As a Super Millionaire.

Look for it June 2007.

scientologists are insane

2005-06-02T10:45:00.000-05:00

I can't help it. I have to keep railing against the cult. Tom Cruise is making it far, far too easy. And you can't just let him get away with talking this shit...

Cruise: If someone wants to get off drugs, I can help them. If someone wants to learn how to read, I can help them. If someone doesn't want to be a criminal anymore, I can give them tools that can better their life. You have no idea how many people want to know what Scientology is.

SPIEGEL: Do you see it as your job to recruit new followers for Scientology?

Cruise: I'm a helper. For instance, I myself have helped hundreds of people get off drugs. In Scientology, we have the only successful drug rehabilitation program in the world. It's called Narconon.

SPIEGEL: That's not correct. Yours is never mentioned among the recognized detox programs. Independent experts warn against it because it is rooted in pseudo science.

Cruise: You don't understand what I am saying. It's a statistically proven fact that there is only one successful drug rehabilitation program in the world. Period.

SPIEGEL: With all due respect, we doubt that.

Dummy.

Oh right, "Narconon"... that teaches that drugs remain in your system indefinitely, until you take a lot of vitamins, exercise and then sit in a sauna.

Scientologists believe this even though repeated studies have shown that when drugs remain in your system, they do so in the fat cells IN YOUR BRAIN.

I don't know if somebody has to actually sit Tom Cruise down to explain this to him, but you can't actually burn off brain cells from exercise.

Spiegel interview

--

Brooke Shields gets a few kicks in:

Shields Attacks Cruise for Criticizing Her Drug Use

Actress Brooke Shields has lambasted former pal Tom Cruise for criticizing her "misguided" use of drugs to combat her post-natal depression.

Cruise - who claims to have helped people fight drug addictions through his controversial Scientology religion - recently attacked the Suddenly Susan star for becoming dependant on Paxil, following the birth of her daughter Rowan.

But Shields is disgusted by the Top Gun star's "dangerous" comments and took a swipe at his Scientology beliefs, by saying she wouldn't take advice from someone who devotes his life to creatures from outer space. She fumes, "His comments are dangerous. He should stick to saving the world from aliens."

ok, I'm going to stop talking about Tom Cruise, aliens and Brooke Shields now.

scientology tool

2005-05-24T16:21:00.000-05:00

I think that scientologists are fucking insane.

I enjoy making light of the fact that you have to pour millions into the organization in order to achieve higher levels of "understanding," but if you're poor, you're stuck with lawn work.

Tom Cruise is becoming increasingly bizarre, due in part with his brainwash re-programming.

As evidence:

"Tom Cruise has thanked scientology for helping him achieve things he thought were impossible.

The actor feels so empowered by the teachings of the religion that he has achieved dreams he thought were out of reach, including flying planes and producing movies, celebrity portal Femalefirst reported.

The actor told Britain's Premiere magazine: "Scientology is an applied religious philosophy. It gives tools to improve your conditions, tools I have learned in terms of literacy that allow me to fly planes, produce movies."

Flying planes and producing movies are a direct result of wealth, not the teachings of scientology. Ask the scientology members (slaves) who do not bring in millions of dollars (to the cult) how they like producing movies and flying planes when in actuality they're stuck doing lawn work at the Celebrity Center in North Hollywood, and handing out pamphlets on the Sunset Strip.

"My literacy level, IQ, is up. I know I can learn anything."

Tom Cruise is gay.

www.hindustantimes.com

Could this guy get any more annoying?

Tom Cruise jumps for joy on a TV chat show as he tells of his love for Katie Holmes. Smitten Hollywood star Tom, 42, leapt from his seat and punched the air.

Amazed U.S. host Oprah Winfrey told him: “You’re gone!”

She added: “I’ve known Tom a long time and I’ve never seen him like this before — he’s gone.”

no,.. he's gay.

Tom tried to get Dawson’s Creek actress Katie, 26, to join him on stage but she ran away.

do you think that this guy has any friends? he seems like a lonely, confused, easily manipulated cult member.

The Sun (UK)

TOOL!

L'Via L'Viaquez

2005-05-18T16:30:00.000-05:00

I picked up the 3 LP gatefold The Mars Volta: Frances the Mute last night. It was realeased on my 31st birthday, I'm just getting around to it now. The Mars Volta is one half of the defunct At The Drive In.

It's fucking crazy. holy shit!

The Mars Volta is like hard prog... I picked up "frances the mute" yesterday... it's wild. it's it's big and theatrical and meandering and never boring or white noise... some of it sounds like keyboard solos by YES... some of it sounds like ATDI... some of it sounds like fireside jams in Morocco... some of it sounds like hard RUSH.

it rocks.

They just played a two night stand at the Riv in Chicago. Reads good. Sold out, sold out.

I've finally figured out how to post music files. I've got a great one here from Frances the Mute,.. it's a 12 minute jam featuring john frusciante on guitars. It's spans the entire second side of the first record in my new 3 LP set. fuck yeah, fuckers!

L'Via L'Viaquez

I got the video right here.

smiling at strangers

2005-05-12T14:25:00.000-05:00

I've started a new movement!

It's called SMILING AT STRANGERS

And it's super positive. this is what it's all about: earlier today I downloaded some Beck: Guero remixes off of the inter-web. I downloaded like seven of them. seven more than the eight that I had yesterday. that's almost twice as many.

Problem is, I burned a disc of Beck: Guero re-mixes and live tracks yesterday. so I decided to burn a new disc with all of the new re-mixes and live tracks, and found that now I had two.

I stole a CD envelope from a designer's desk and wrote this message:

---

Hey you! This CD is for YOU!

BECK: GUERO RE-MIXES AND LIVE TRACKS

My boredom is your fortune!
Please accept this CD as a gift.
If you don't like Beck, give this CD to someone who does.

And remember: Always be
SMILING AT STRANGERS

---

I figured that it was cryptic and creepy enough with that message. but I also figured that whoever received it would find it mysteriously friendly.

Anyways, over my lunch hour I walked to a busy public square. I wanted it to be in a place where I'd be surrounded by people, but challenged myself to time it so that no one would actually see me set it down.

I took a seat and lit a smoke and waited. I waited two or three minutes and then I set the CD in a visible yet secure spot and walked away.

Wah-lah! A new movement! And it's super positive!
SMILING AT STRANGERS

I command all followers of the SMILING AT STRANGERS movement to follow suit and leave an object of value in a public area with a similiar note.

You'll feel like you're doing something really stupid the entire time, and question why exactly you're doing it, but while you're doing it, you'll feel like you're getting away with something, and it'll give you a super lame rush.

And, who knows what the recipients of the object of value will think of the find... they may even figure it out and join the movement!

SMILING AT STRANGERS!

The Decline of the American Empire

2005-05-05T16:37:00.000-05:00

I’ve been thinking a lot lately about the decline of the American empire. With the dollar losing value, all manufacturing jobs shipped overseas (and all goods imported from those countries), plus the Chinese buying up all of our debt and the rise of the Euro,.. we’re most likely headed towards becoming a service industry nation.

What’s that going to be like? It’s going to be AWESOME!

Think about it: In three or four generations everybody is going to be moving back to Europe… this little “democracy experiment” lasted an entire 300 years! People will discuss their land of origin… like New Yorkers will still talk up fucking New York like it’s the epicenter of all culture and intellectual thought (and the rest of us will still shutter in silent embarrassment during this three minute verbal stroke off).

Or, “my family came here from Mil-ay-wau-kay”. Or, “I’m from Delaware”.

With most of the educated white people gone back to Europe, the entire country will become exactly like Branson, Missouri or the Wisconsin Dells. There’ll be casinos and flashy lights and shiny brass and chrome everywhere!

Everywhere else will be a wasteland of white trash and gas stations resembling most of central Illinois…

The white trash that stay here will work for the casinos which will be owned by the native Americans. How cool is that? The Indians will get their entire nation back! And it only took like 800 years! America will be one large vacation destination – a total party nation! Fuck yes!

And the citizens will live in relative poverty while ruled by entitled political families. But that’s cool because the ruling families will keep the America Red White and Blue propaganda in full force, and nobody will remember that they’re poor because they don’t know any better and further, they don’t care! As long as WWF comes through town – like the when the circus came though town for their ancestors – and nobody fucked with the 2nd amendment, so they’re fully strapped – it’ll be all good.

And there won’t be any money any more because all of your bank records and credit card information plus identification will be embedded in your wrist, right next to the GPS tracking device. No more IDs!

America will be a nation of unemployed bankrupt uneducated white trash armed with high intensity plastic handguns and virtual reality three dimensional lap dances after a night out at the $3.99 Old Country Buffet all you can eat and six pack of tall boys all shining under the setting sun of freedom.

--

Canada will remain exactly the same.

catch

2005-05-05T14:00:00.000-05:00

This morning I found The Cure's catch online. Catch always catches me off-guard when I hear it because a long time ago it was one of the theme songs to The Tim and Kelly Show.

The Tim and Kelly Show ran from roughly 1990 to 1994. I met Kelly through my friend Aaron when I was 16 and she was 15. We attended different schools in neighboring Wisconsin towns. She is the first girl that I was a fucking maniac over. Not only was she tall, blonde, crazy smart and super hot... but we had virtually the exact same personality, thought the same shit was funny, liked the same music, had like-minded friends and were attracted to each other. We quickly became good friends. What made it better was that we were good friends who were 16 and wanted to get naked with each other.

Kelly and I dated through the rest of my time in high school. She was my first real girlfriend (8th grade girlfriends don't count), and we were super fun together. Sometimes we'd drive around smoking pot in the car and drive up to parks full of children. We'd call them over to the car to offer up candy, cigarettes and sometimes Kelly blew weed smoke at them. We'd ask their name and address, and then tell them that they had bad parents and that they were super stupid for approaching a stranger's car, accepted candy and had given their names and addresses. We'd yell YOU'RE FUCKING STUPID! and sometimes they'd cry.

Kelly's parents were extremely lighthanded about allowing me to sleep over at their house in Kelly's room in her bed with her. Her father was a push over who kept quiet, and her mom was (in hindsight) a wack job who knowingly allowed me to fuck her daughter in her house while she was home. She also used to buy us liquor. Sometimes Kelly and I would get fucked up, fuck around and then go drive around in the middle of the night naked. One time I ate half a bottle of Flintstone's vitamins (because they tasted pretty good!!) to make Kelly smile at me. I started to feel kind of jittery, so we called the Ask A Nurse hotline. The nurse on the other end of the phone laughed at me and told me that I'd probably be alright. I pissed florescent yellow for two days.

The Cure's "Kiss Me Kiss Me Kiss Me" was one of our mutual favorite CDs back in the day, and "catch" is one of the songs that we liked to listen to together. I remember dancing with her to it in her room and her smile. We also listened to a lot of New Order, Nine Inch Nails, The Smiths, Happy Mondays, Ice Cube and Pearl Jam.

When I graduated from high school, I went off to college while Kelly had a year of school left. We still dated through the first year of college/high school girlfriend at home thing, and I remember only a couple of drunk hook ups that didn't go beyond making out. I always felt like a fucking asshole afterwards, but I didn't say anything to Kelly about it because I was in love with her and knew that I'd messed up.

I hated the small college that I attended my freshman year. It was so small that seniors lived in dorms. I thought that it was fucking pathetic that 23 year old men lived in a dorm with resident assistants on the floor telling them to shut up at two in the morning. The whole summer between freshman and sophomore year I knew that I didn't want to go back, and wanted to go to Madison instead. Friends from high school were there, and Kelly was an entering freshman. I went back to my college for sophomore year, looked around, and said FUCK THIS SHIT. I set up a meeting with a dean or whoever and formally dropped out a week into my sophomore year. I spent the next few days drinking and fucking off with my college friends, and then that weekend my friend Frank came and picked me and all my shit up and I moved to Madison.

That year was fucked up. My parents were pissed at me and cut me off. I didn't enroll in school. I got a job working part time at a record store and dove into the 19 year old college dropout druggie lifestyle with vigor. I decided that the only time in my life that I'd be able to get away with this was the present.

Kelly, however, took a different route. She had an older brother named Todd who was fucking piece of shit asshole yuppie motherfucker (at age 18) who was this ass licker frat boy at UW-Madison, and obviously promoted this scene for Kelly and her impressionable new freshman friends. I remember one time when I was actually allowed to enter one of Todd's asshole fucknut frat parties with Kelly. The frat house had fucking hired security at the door with a guest list. Their deal was that they'd let in anything with a pussy off the street, but all male attendees were reduced to frat members and this fucking guest list of approved strokes. Kelly got into the party and I stood outside for about 20 minutes before Kelly and Todd appeared at the door and Todd asked me if I wanted to come in. I wanted to break his fucking arm for being such a fucking cock smoke.

The party was super lame. They weren't allowed to have kegs in the house, so they had dozens of cases of Huber beer. I saw lots of khaki and birkenstocks... all meticulously pressed and polished. I fucking hated just about everything I saw and heard. I overheard motherfuckers asking some kid what his dad did for a living. It was like a gathering of young republicans.

I was clearly out of place. I was a college drop out with no real plans or focused goals, no direction. I was dating this hot chick who was interested in joining a white bread sorority and was getting hit on constantly by this obnoxious breed of yuppie fuck. We were getting older and we were growing in opposite directions. It started slowly and developed painfully.

Kelly wasn't always nice (just as I'm not always nice), and the first chip away came on my 20th birthday when she dumped me in her dorm room. It was March, it was cold and wet in Madison, and she made me cry. I think she cried a little bit too, but I was more focused on my own grief. Maybe I'm giving her too much credit; she might not have cried at all. For a long time when I'd think of her, I'd think "you dumped me on my birthday." That night I got fucked up with my friend Eric and became sick and violent.

Because of co-dependence we kept dating and breaking up. My self esteem fucking dropped through the floor. I didn't trust her, and I think that she thought that I was a loser going nowhere. We entered that emotionally damaging and bad period when a relationship goes wrong where you're fucking each other to hold on to each other, but that spiritually it's doing more bad than good. To top this off, it was the first time I was experiencing this sort of pain and self doubt. I was estranged from my family and developing damaging chemical habits.

My friends -- who were friends with me and Kelly throughout high school -- fucking hated her now. They thought that she had evolved from a funny hot girl into a mean-spirited cunt. They'd tell me to get rid of her. I had a very hard time letting go, and I feared that I was losing their respect.

Eventually I found out that Kelly had started seeing someone on the side. Some 24 year old motherfucker from England. I never got the full story, because I ended it. We had fucked with each other's head for so long that we had no trust and no connection beyond the occasional late night hook up. We sat on a pier on Lake Mendota one night and saw a couple our age playfully wrestling with each other. Kelly said to me "we're not like that anymore." That summer night in 1994 was the last time that I ever saw or spoke to her.

By the end of that school year, three of the four friends from high school that I lived with had dropped out of college and were doing jack shit. Madison was kind of over for me and I wanted to get out. I moved back to my parent's house and got a job at a warehouse that stocked 6' x 40' sheets of UV paneling. I worked with all white trash. We Listened to Alice In Chains: Dirt and several hours of country music radio daily. To this day -- even with that much exposure -- I fucking hate country music. A couple of the guys were on Huber Law (sentenced to stay at the County Jail, but allowed to work during the day) for various offenses... one kid who was my age was on Huber because he'd taken a hammer to another kid during a drunken fight at a party. There was no air conditioning in the warehouse, and temperatures rose above 90 degrees daily. At one point I consciously thought "my youth has died here in this heat."

That fall I was sick of being at my parent's house, sick of my life, sick of how fucked up all my friend's lives had gotten (Frank's dad had just died of cancer -- after his mom had died of cancer in high school... Bob had lost his leg in a motorcycle accident, now had a prosthetic and was dealing high volumes of weed and acid to fuckwads... and Eric was saving cash to move to Arizona), and needed an escape. I applied to colleges and was accepted into the spring semester. I called Kelly's house around that Christmas break because she hadn't left my mind or my broken heart. Her mom knew goddamn well who's voice was on the phone, but asked who was calling for Kelly anyways. I told her that I was going away to college in a couple of weeks and wanted to talk to her. Kelly's mom told me that she was "visiting her boyfriend in England, but that she'd be sure to tell her that I'd called." I never called again.

Every couple of years after that I'd get an email from Kelly asking me how I was. I'd reply and I'd be nice. We traded phone numbers but never called each other. I learned that she had moved to England after college for a few years and then to NYC where she worked in marketing for DKNY. The last email I received from her a couple of years ago she wrote that she was contemplating moving to California, and asked if I had moved to Los Angeles like I had been thinking about. That was it.

She's been a ghost inside for a long time. She was my first real girlfriend, my first sex, my first love and my first heartbreak. When I hear the cure's "catch" I think of the start of all of these things.

This relationship has shaped me for better and for worse in regards to how I've behaved and handled all of the girlfriends I've had since then. And the experience pushed me in the direction to where I am right now. I wouldn't be sitting on my ass in an air conditioned office writing ads and brochures for a paycheck in a skyscraper in downtown Chicago if I hadn't made some of the decisions I made over ten years ago.

Kelly will be 30 years old on May 25th.

I know that when she hears catch... she thinks of me too.

insane art

2005-05-04T16:05:00.000-05:00

I picked up the the new Quasimoto: The Return of Lord Quas LP last night at Dusty Groove, and it's excellent.

Quasimoto is a project of Madlib, a highly prolific producer given free reign over at the Stone's Throw label. I've been getting into his shit lately, and as you can see, he's a workaholic.

I caught a documentary on him about a month ago. He's around my age (31) and spends his entire waking hours digging through vinyl looking for samples and loops he can use to craft his productions. He doesn't use computers, and is himself an encyclopedia of beats and loops.

One thing I picked up on -- and definitely noticed during last night's first spin -- is that Madlib may suffer from some sort of mental illness. His albums -- including Lord Quas -- feature some excellent beats,.. and then you'll get a colorful interlude of two minutes of crazy sounding shit,.. and then another outstanding track. It sounds like schizophrenia.

The guy puts out music constantly because he is constantly recording beats and mixing albums together. He has an entire host of MC who rhyme over his beats, and Stones Throw releases it under different titles... but it's all Madlib.

Quasimoto is an interesting project because it's Madlib rhyming with two characters: as himself (madlib), and as Lord Quas (with a voice filter that makes it sound like he's inhaled helium. Example: broad factor (turn it up).

So, either Madlib is schizophrenic or eats mushrooms for breakfast everyday [motherfucker mentions shrooms in interviews often while he's swaying and drooling... I've been told that an acid trip is a taste of insanity].

Who the fuck knows. Look for it.
A-

--

So, yesterday I got this fucked up catalog in the mail from this company called Bud K. I haven't the slightest idea how I got on their mailing list because I never buy shit through the mail. Not even adult videos.

Bud K sells these fucked up weapons at deep discounted prices... like this evil little mofo. Read the fine print:

Unlike any other sword in its class, this hi-tech offers a hanlde with firm gripping power. Simply strap it onto your arm, grab the handle, and your ready to go! Go what? open a belly with a quick slashing motion? Who needs this?

Or this... 12 pocket knives for $6.99. This shit is too fucked up and it fucking scares me. I would argue that the government should be cc'd on customer addresses and purchase orders.

I did find one item that I'd buy if it didn't mean further surveillance... the Lady Luck pewter belt buckle on page 10. That shit is fucking cool! It tells everyone that I am a winner and that I get pussy on demand!

Fuck yes!

broken drum

2005-05-03T14:03:00.000-05:00

BECK put out this song on his excellent new disc guero. it's not going to be a video, or a club hit, or a single, or any of that shit.

"Broken Drum" is a super creepy track with a great slide guitar effect and a wide open atmosphere of melancholy. something tells me that this one could fit easily on beck's last release -- my favorite -- sea change. I don't listen to that one anymore because it reminds me of someone who was very close to me but is no longer around. This track is a sequel of sorts I guess.

I see you there
Your long black hair
Your eyes just stare
Your mind is turning

You know I'll laugh
And I won't take it back
I've seen your eyes I know
What your thinking

And one by one
We'll shoot our guns
We'll have fun
Don't ever doubt it

And when I say
Fare thee well
My only friend
Oh how the days go

Your setting sun
Your broken drum
Your little drugs

I'll never forget you
Never
Forget
You

Actually, now that I've listened to the track a couple of times while typing this and reading/re-reading the lyrics, this song reminds me more of the departed than I'd originally thought.

This one makes me blue.

vin diesel

2005-05-02T13:45:00.000-05:00

random vin diesel facts:
Vin Diesel intends to retire from acting at the age of forty to concentrate on his dream career of waiting tables in a Los Angeles cafe.

who cares?

the art of vin diesel

breakin'

Rick's letter to Heather from Gay Paris

2005-05-02T12:22:00.000-05:00

A couple of years ago, Rick found himself alone in Paris for a couple of days. He emailed Heather concerning his whereabouts, and she forwarded it to me...

Hi Heather,

Sorry I could not get in touch on Easter- I called on Monday but I got your mom's answering machine. I spent Easter inside Notre Dame for about 10 mins then it closed. Every hotel in Paris was booked- this is the thing that sucks about my trip.

So to compensate for the shortage of rooms I had to call this guy named deluie gilbert that I met in the Paris train station the day before I went to Madrid about a week ago. He told me if I needed a place to stay in Paris to call him. I knew something was fishy because he said that I would not have to pay anything.

So now, a week later I get to Paris and there are no hotel/hostels for the weekend. Who do I call? deluei. My stay was nice - he got fish and potatoes for Easter, made me breakfast in the morning, gave me metro tickets, bathed me.... yep, he barged in when I was showering in the bathroom and cleaned my naked body with a wash cloth. I told him he should stop because I was done showering, but he continued.

I wasn't too nervous because this guy is 49 years old and 5 feet tall so if he decided to take it any further I would knock the shit out of him. He stopped after a long minute. I told him that I was not like that and that he shouldn't do that, especially to Americans, because we are extremely homophobic.

So I continued to stay at his place for three nights. He insisted that I sleep in his bed with him because he would be more comfortable. The first night he told me this, I told him that I was going to sleep on the floor- he got all bent out of shape so after a small broken English argument I said fine- I wore all my clothes and got in to my sleep sack. That night he stayed on his side. The only other time he advanced was the morning I was supposedly taking a train out of Paris (today). At 7:00 am, I was waking up from a very light sleep and I got on my back. He reached over with his arm and leg, grabbed my you know what and was begging me. I jumped out of the bed and the usual bantering followed.

He just didn't seem to understand that the male sex did not arouse me. I tried explaining but it was useless. He made me breakfast immediately afterwards and saw me off to the train station. My train doesn't actually leave until tomorrow, I just thought I would situate my self closer to the station for an early train, get a nice uninterrupted shower and get away from the queer.

My hotel is 450 franks for tonight-a pretty hefty price but all of the hostels are full even after the weekend. I guess I still saved some money... if I spent every night in a hostel the price would be 468 franks that is 18 franks saved (about $2.50). So I guess spending the three nights at weirdo's house was a good, financially sound decision.

Well I am off to a different land and a different people tomorrow. I am learning that I should plan a little before I go to Europe next time. Well got to go this e-mail is costing me a fortune. And of course I love you very much. Oh yeah I might be coming home early.. I will let you know on the phone later today.

deflated crybaby... dizzee rascal... despicable humans

2005-05-02T12:13:00.000-05:00

This weekend was like all the rest, all the time. I'm bored as all fuck. I'm so bored that I'm bored with myself. Any y'all niggaz feelin this?

--

yoda vs. the emperor

--

My friend at work sent me a pic from the photo shoot she was in for some local band she knows called royce. she's the dark haired principle above that punk ass in the tub. what's up with that girl sitting on the floor in the shower? what the fuck is going on in the motherfuckin amateur photography scene?

--

Friday Rick and Heather were over with Andy and we played 90 minutes of intense foosball. Rick kept winning and becoming more and more of an asshole as the night went on. some people cannot handle their foosball domination with subtlety or class.

I could tell that Heather was getting happier and happier to see Rick destroy Andy and then turn around and quickly waste me. It pissed me off that he was receiving positive reinforcement for this type of obnoxious behavior. I decided that Rick had to be taken down a level, so I made him smoke this shit while I sipped an Old Style tall boy and never broke eye contact when I approached the table to pummel Rick and end his reign of obscenities and bravado.

10 minutes, 10 points later Rick was a pissy, deflated crybaby.
That's to teach you, Rick.
Motherfucker.

We went to this fucking godawful bar down the street called The Rail. It was late and the stupid waitress gave us menus. I ordered a stella and wanted appetizers. We all wanted appetizers. We each chose one and decided that we would each order one, and that we were going to be polite and share. The stupid waitress came back and told us that the kitchen was closed... even though the fucking sign outside said that the kitchen is open late. Can you see why I fucking hate this place? We told her that we wanted the bill, and we got the fuck out of there.

We went to this greasy spoon that pretty much sucks called Le Sabre. It was bar time, and there was a couple sitting in the booth next to us, so that I was facing the girl, and Rick and Heather were sitting back to back with her date. It was around 2:30 in the morning, and they were talking about the safest, most random still-getting-to-know-you bullshit that people would be talking about on a first date that's not really going anywhere. You have a really good idea if a first date is going well within an hour or two (and if it's going well, I'm sure as fuck not stuck in a dead conversation about a jam recipe in the middle of the night, I'm showing the girl that I like her).

I think that they were on an internet date because they didn't seem to know the first thing about each other. Oh well, none of us were getting laid that night... except maybe Rick, because of his foosball reign earlier in the night... that son of a bitch.

--

Saturday I met up with my sister and her friend Heidi and this fuckwad that Heidi invited out named Matthew. My sister and Heidi are college friends, and Matthew is one of Heidi's old roommates from New Orleans. I think that Heidi hooked up with Matthew before because Matthew was all about pushing it.

I met up with this crew around five o'clock. They'd already been out for the afternoon, and I was just catching on to the crazy train. I hated Matthew right away. He started out by making some comment about staying over at my sister's place, with her, in her bed. He looked at me and started to laugh saying he was "sorry." I cut that shit down immediately when I pushed my new pint of stella over, lip first towards Matthew and spilled a pint off the table and onto Matthew's crotch. I said I was sorry. The motherfucker knew it was intentional, and that it was on if he wanted to fuck with me.

Heidi lives in Africa and works for the UN, so she's only in the states every 9 months or so. The last time that matthew was supposed to meet up with Heidi -- in Paris -- she cancelled a day before the trip, and Matthew had to pay a $200 cancellation fee.

Yeah, that sucks, but... the pussy could've gone anyways. He had the trip planned out, he had the money saved and waiting, and he knew where they were going and what they were seeing. But he pussied out, and several months later made a lot of noise about how Heidi was paying off the debt during the day out. That was super annoying. What made it even a bit more embarrassing was that he was trying to fuck her.

A party fell through and I suggested Dizzee Rascal at the Double Door. Heidi flipped because Dizzee Rascal is fucking huge in Europe and parts of Africa. Matthew agreed because he said that he had read a mention about the show in the Red Eye. I called the Double Door to secure tickets and the door guy told me that there'd be no problem walking up and getting in.

We took a cab over, Matthew was beginning to whine because he hadn't had a real chance to change his pants. We told him that we were running late to the show, and that we didn't have time for him to change his pants at his shithole bug infested no cable TV studio apartment reserved for poor people. I told Matthew to get into the cab and to close the door.

There was 15 people in line, 12 wearing hoodies. We got inside and I got real excited real fast when they charged me $4 for a red bull and skyy vodka. Red bull and vodka is gasoline. It's unnatural. It promotes time travel. I found Matthew standing in front of the stage with Heidi and my sister. They were taken care of, drinking raspberry stolis. I decided to go sneak a quick smoke in the men's room. Tonight was going to be a long winded process of finishing a red bull and vodka followed by breaking through the crowd to the bar for another red bull and vodka followed by sneaking a quick smoke in the men's room followed by a piss and breaking my way through the crowd, back to the spot in the center of the floor.

Dizzee Rascal was off the fucking hook.

There was a good number of beautiful 25 year olds in attendance... that's my new crowd. I go six years younger these days. I decided to create some uncomfortable fun just before (and then again after) Dizzee went on stage by approaching men my sister was staring at and introducing them to her. Every guy I walked up to was spooked when I said "Hey! Yes! You! Come here! What's your name?" they'd reply with a meek little voice and I say, "OK _name_, this is my sister." then I'd walk away to find some fine young canibal for my sister to introduce me to. It was up to her to make something happen (nothing was happening).

Dizzee was starting to finish up, and so some crazy bitch in brown cowboy boots, a pink tutu, baby girl dress and messed up doggie style blonde hair pushed past my sister and said "move, cunt." My sister said "what the fuck?" And I watched and waited for the crazy bitch to circle back. When she did I tripped into her, spilling some of my drink on her dress and stabbed a lit cigarette onto her hand shouting "sorry" over the boom beats on the sound system. Her male friend made a move like he was going to intervene, so I looked through him like I was about to take him apart, and I started to move closer. Predictably, he just grabbed her forearm and moved away. Direct eye contact avoids violence 80% of the time in white culture.

When went over to the Pontiac Cafe for a drink, but it was nearing the end of the night, and Matthew was becoming unacceptible, so I showed him the backseat of a cab. My sister, Heidi and I took a cab back to my place and I passed out.

Sunday I saw that ENRON movie. I think that there are three or four white men walking around right now that would be fucking dead if they didn't have millions of dollars worth of professional security protecting their ass of the legions of workers these men stole hundreds of millions of dollars from.

Kenneth Lay - CEO, Jeffrey Skilling - COO, Andrew Fastow - CFO and an Asian gentleman who favors strippers and making off with $200 million basically worked off of this model where they cooked the books to record projected earnings as actual earnings.

This scam goes on for awhile. Fastow begins to create bullshit business ventures so that he can funnel money into that company's account, PLUS take a commission... he makes off with around $200 million. Skilling resigns about 4 months before the crash, and someone asks Lay during a meeting near the end "do you smoke crack?"

The movie shows how energy traders were able to create the rolling blackouts in California to milk the state by having the energy powerhouses shut down for a couple hours... over a simple recorded phone call.

In the end, the top brass at enron drain the retirement savings of all of their employees... and keep telling them "don't worry about your 401K! keep investing!" while they are selling off the soon to be worthless stock for top dollar.

If there is a Hell, these despicable humans belong there.

blown

2005-04-25T15:58:00.000-05:00

blown

lethal weapon

2005-04-20T17:32:00.000-05:00

I can't tell you how many times I've found myself in a position where I’ve had to warn a potential foe that "these hands are registered with the local police department as lethal weapons."

Apparently, the debate on whether or not to register hands as weapons is a hot debate topic on the message boards over at KarateForums.com...

For instance, Luckykboxer writes:
"Basically, if jo blo was to injure/kill someone in a brawl, under the self defence law, they would have more leniency than if a martial artist inflicted the same injury/death in the same situation.

well yes and no.

a trained martial artist will avoid more situations and will be able to keep himself out of trouble more then jo blo will… also will be able to handle small situations better then Jo Blo will… when it gets serious will have a better chance of coming out better then jo blo…. self defense is self defense no matter how you cut it.

the problem is when a trained martial artist has a situation under control then takes advantage of it to inflict harm when he could have safely walked away… i dont consider that self defense, i consider that assault. Now myself I feel that some people deserve it, but that still is against the law. if soemone chooses to break the law, they have to be ready to face the consequences."

Interesting point.

GCav states:
"OK, heres my two cents worth. I have been in law enforcement for a very long time, longer than some of the KF members have been alive. I do not claim to know every thing, but I have noticed several threads in different areas of the KF dealing with this subject and other LE stuff. So, based on many years of LE experience, and going to court 1000s of times, here we go:

NO, you do not have to register your hands as deadly weapons.
NO, you do not have to announce that you know MAs (for several reasons it is better that you don't).
NO, you will not be given a harder sentence for knowing MAs.
NO, police officers can not shoot an unarmed man 21 feet away for just standing in a "MAs stance". (from a different thread)
NO, there are no laws restricting what techniques an instructor can teach his/her students.
YES, as some have said, you must use the least amount of force necessary to defend yourself. Anything over that, by a MA or non-MA, moves your actions into the criminal area.

Now, the laws in each state are different on self defence and for what is a concealed weapon, deadly weapon, illegal weapon, and how you can carry your MAs weapons to and from your class, so I can not comment on that.

This post is not meant in a mean spirited or "I'm right your wrong" way, so please do not take it the wrong way. I'm only passing on my little bit of knowledge. :)"

Red J provides a hearty laugh for karateforums.com readers when he dropped:

"I must warn you that my hands are registered as lethal weapons with the FBI." -Ralph Malph - Happy Days

And 47MartialMan followed that up with and even bigger laugh when he typed:

F.B.I.?
I nthis case, the Federal Bereau of Idiots?

--

so, the debate still reigns...

KarateForum.com readers on are definitely on the fence about revealing their powers to local law enforcement, but seem to be in agreement that self "defense" is spelled "d-e-f-e-n-c-e."

KarateForums.com message board

Lez Is More, episode 3: "Take Off"

2005-04-20T13:40:00.000-05:00

Lez Is More, episode 3: "Take Off" has been posted online.

Check it out here: http://www.effingcomic.com/lezismore.html

Le Experience

2005-04-20T11:48:00.000-05:00

"Le Experience" is a social idea/game/movement that I did not create, but pinned a label to.

It occurs when one suspends all personal prejudice, judgment and attempts at control and allows a situation to play itself out on its own karmic wave. Occasionally it requires taking yourself out of your own comfort zone. Basically it means that you allow the scenario to play itself out while you enjoy the spontaneous ride and take something away from the experience.

I have almost never regretted taking a chance during a period of Le Experience because I have almost always been rewarded by the endeavor.

Friends who have discussed this movement and explored it on their own report similar positive results. Subscribers to the Le Experience movement find themselves being photographed for major department store catalogs... learning how to create computer animation after packing two suitcases and moving to foreign countries... writing advertisements read by 17 year old social misfit geniuses in the Middle East... drinking wine and smoking while staring at a full moon shining over the water and beach at the shore of the Puget Sound... laying in bed with incredible and beautiful women after intense, sweaty sex sessions...

There is however an aspect of Le Experience that must be strictly enforced: the participant must at all times understand that this is a ride and that there are parameters to this freedom. Although engaged in spontaneity, the participant must be of sound judgment and morals.

Basically, if you're some crazy bitch who has no game plan, doesn't follow time (and, in fact, questions "what is time?")... then you are not following Le Experience... rather, you are an unaccountable, irresponsible crazy person. Get a grip. This is merely a social idea/game/movement that I pinned a label to.

fixed gear

2005-04-20T11:46:00.000-05:00

The Pista is light, solid (sturdy) and super fucking fast.

I'm reaching an age of tripped out euphoria on that shit.

It's like effortlessly running 28 miles an hour on air. Through city traffic. It's visually fucked up and very hard to describe. It's like zen. It's like channeling the force. I am a padawan learner who is slowly tapping into my abilities and freaked out by what I'm finding.

The bike is fuckin fun.

shellac with a wild cat... sideways... spike lee

2005-04-18T12:00:00.000-05:00

I really like the production on this track M.E.D. - push.

--

I'm thick and sick with whisky and nicotine.

Holy shit! I should've taken the day off.

I got up late feeling like ass because I was out until 3 am with that super fucking hot crazy girl Sarah. We went to see Shellac play at Martyrs, and the shit was off the hook. Fuckin shit.

Shellac is a three piece headed by world-famous record producer Steve Albini. A Shellac show is an event because they play very infrequently and have no timetable with their releases. Shit, this 6'5" lumberjack looking motherfucker standing next to me flew in from Portland, OR. for the show. He wasn't disappointed. They fucking rocked this shit.

I'll see if I can dig up a stray mp3 file somewhere to post. Until then, pick up Shellac: At Action Park Check out the clip of "crow"... the rhythm section is super tight. I've always liked the way that Albini has recorded bass and drums. He mixes this enormous powerful wall of sound that has brought out the best sounding material from bands on records like The Breeders: Pod, The Pixies: Surfer Rosa and Nirvana: In Utero

The Onion interviews Steve Albini.

Anyways, it was a great rock show and I drank three or four pints of Jack and Coke. And Sarah and I killed a pack of Parliament Lights. And then we went to the Gingerman and closed that joint down. It's a bad idea to start the week like this. Who cares.

--

I saw the movie Sideways this last weekend, and it was super funny. Paul Giamatti is one of my favorite character actors now. He's very very good at freaking out on camera. And he's played some real losers believably... American Splendor is one of the best movies made in the past few years... his portrayal of Pig Vomit (image removed due to unintended heavy traffic to site which doesn't actually own image) in Private Parts stood toe to toe with Howard Stern. And he was barely recognizable - it was the make up - in Planet of the Apes. In short, to not even be nominated for an award for Sideways, Paul was robbed.

However, you don't hear Paul pissing an moaning like Spike Lee does everytime some piece of shit he releases is overlooked by critics, the media, and basically anybody with $10 in their pocket and two hours to kill.

But that's just me kicking Spike Lee for sucking as bad as he does and playing the race card every chance he gets. I should devote a post to Spike Lee, but why bother? I'll just bitch about him here right now.

Spike Lee is compelled to always include some sort of racial tension, usually ending in violence of some sort. I'm too bored with the subject of Spike Lee's films to list which ones include racial violence, it's basically this list.

Scanning this list the only movie I liked was The 25th Hour, and if I remember correctly, he was still able to include yet another montage of New York actors "rapping" about racial stereotypes. For every instance of Spike Lee screaming racism, he still manages to get his digs in against Italians and Jews... so, what the fuck is that all about?

And he sued the cable station SPIKE TV because he believed that whenever anyone heard "Spike TV" they thought of "that little punk ass bitch spike lee"... and not bad television.

Give it up Spike, YOU SUCK!

Larry King = LAME

2005-04-13T15:39:00.000-05:00

Hotmail sucks. It's so fucking slow I can't believe it. Half the time the fucking send button doesn't work, and the other half of the time it says that the server is busy after I hit send and I have no idea if the message I sent actually hit the recipient.

--

I'm tired again. How boring is that?

--

I had to walk down Michigan Avenue this afternoon to go to the North Face store at the base of the John Hancock building. I had to replace this footprint for a tent that I borrowed last fall when I went camping. Everywhere I look I see two things: mid 20's (and up) women walking around with shopping bags from expensive stores and wealthy europeans who don't work.

That's one thing that bugs me: every girl in this city carries all of her shit for the day (an apple, maybe a newspaper, maybe her feminine products) in a fucking bag from The Limited, or Nordstroms, or Saks Fifth Avenue. What the fuck is that all about?

And another thing: The Red Eye and The Red Streak ARE NOT REAL NEWSPAPERS... they're condensed, edited down cliff's notes of real newspaper articles (already written at the 6TH GRADE level) for people who don't want to know shit about anything... except for the latest on the Britney Spears pregnancy watch.

Materialism is the bane of civilization.

"Someday a real rain will come and wash all this scum off the streets."

--

BK's Tender Crisp Bacon Cheddar Ranch ad is given a psychoanalysis.

--

Larry King's articles are asinine and poorly written... however very difficult to mimic. It's really kind of hard to write stream of thought lameness like Larry has created an empire upon. That and he's been married to the same looking woman about 17 different times... everytime they hit 45, he trades them in for a younger model. Larry's a talentless hack.

Socialist Saturday

2005-04-11T16:40:00.000-05:00

Saturday I drove up to Madison with Rick to meet up with Lope. Lope is on a 26 day, 6700 mile cross-country fundraiser for his left wing radio station out of LA. He’s traveling with his boss, another gay boss and the gay boss’ gay boyfriend who’s acting as a videographer (he videotapes the events they’re attending) and to provide gay love for Lope’s gay boss in a mid-sized rented RV.

Let me preface this by citing that I have nothing against gay people, and in fact like Lope’s gay boss quite a bit (Rick and I took a trip out to LA last year and saw some good times with Lope and his gay boss) – I just think that it’s funny and power abusing to bring along your lover on a month-long cross-country business trip in tight quarters... especially if the “videographer” has zero filmmaking experience.

Anyways, Madison is about a 3 hour drive from Chicago and Saturday was a sunny 75 degree day. We pulled in about the same time that Lope pulled in. We hadn’t seen him since our last visit to LA about a year ago, and the change was definitely for the positive: Lope leaned down from his husky self, was in more playful better spirits and apparently has had a girlfriend for several months. The whole crew was tired as hell: they’re only left California on April 3rd and had already hit 4 events on their way east (they were next scheduled to attend an event in Philadelphia today). That’s insanity.

Lope had to do some setting up, so we went into the community center hosting the "socialist potluck." Judging by the aging long haired burned out "socialists" in attendance, the government has nothing to worry about… most of the socialists looked hand to mouth poor, were there for a free dinner (a bowl of potato chips and donuts), and – according to their leader – were "considering" placing their meeting minutes online… they’ll get around to that.

Radical!

One crazy ass looking woman in a winter coat cut off the guy at the podium with a "does anybody have a copy of the new civil rights law?" and then later took the open microphone and said:

"I want to start a group for vegan free thinkers… like, every afternoon. I don’t got no money for a place or anything, so we can just meet where ever."

Vegan free thinkers.

When all that socialist crap wrapped up we hung out by the RV and Lope told us about the geocaching hunt that they’re on with the GPS they brought along. It sounds like super fun.

The socialist head of the local left wing radio station took us to this joint called the Weary Traveler. It was way nicer than what I was expecting him to suggest. I figured we’d end up at some dive bar run by fat women with underarm hair, but this place had dark wood and was playing Guero.

It’s easy to catch up with Lope like no time has past. We talked about the kind of girls who say no but mean yes, and came up with a tag: "she smiles when she says no." Looking around at a few of the foxy waitresses and ladies in the room, it was easy to see which ones smiled when they say no. We sat down at the table with the rest of the crew and Rick talked about a girl we know who’s living in Cleveland with her sister who has abortions. We creeped out Lope’s gay boss when we each asked about the same time "how many abortions is too many? Four?" I miss Lope.

Lope’s gay boss and his gay boss’ gay boyfriend wanted to get gay with each other, so they were very enthusiastic about Rick and I taking Lope out for a few hours while Lope’s other boss hung with the local socialist radio guy. I took those two fools to an old haunt called the Paradise Lounge. I have history with the Dise. I first drank there when I was 19 and living in the neighborhood... I’ve had new years eves there... I’ve drank with girlfriends there... I’ve stolen mugs there (they look mason jars with a handle added) – I stole one for Lope that night (they’re great for brewing tea). The Paradise is a great rock dive.

We had a smoke, bought some smokes and drank heavily... someone tossed on Fugazi’s Waiting Room,.. ironic, seeing as Lope and I were really into that particular Fugazi CD nine years ago. I like the Dise because it hasn’t changed at all: they’re still playing old hard rock and metal, the joint is full of young punks and the lost, as well as a healthy population of middle aged to ancient drunks. Some old drunk bellied up next to Lope and, Lope turned to me and asked me if I thought that I could kick that old man’s ass. I thought about it for a second. He was an old, frail man. I told him with full certainty that I could beat him to a coma.

I figured that it would take seven shots:

1 – first tag to the face... let him know that I’m in front of him.

2 – second tag to the face... a little harder this time. I want him to show a bit of a response and hit me back (piss me off), but I also want him to know that I’m just warming up.

3 – third tag to the face... much harder this time. This one should cut skin and release blood.

4 – fourth tag to the face... full on out, this one should fuck up his vision and balance.

5 – fifth tag to the face... this one should knock him back, and then down to the ground.

6, 7 – sixth and seventh shots to the head are just a reminder to not get up... like “stay” (tag #6) “down!” (tag #7)

Soon, our night was over. We were fucked up and super tired. We picked up Lope’s other boss and drove them to the worst KOA campsite I’ve ever seen... it was a dirt field with parked RV's (it's outside of Madison, off County V in DeForest, WI. don’t stay there).

I don’t know when I’ll see Lope again, but that’s part of the fun of our friendship, it’s unpredictable and always fun.

greenery

2005-04-08T13:18:00.000-05:00

First things first: I'm an extremely youthful (and young looking) single straight strapping 31 year old ass kicker. I work with a small pool of divorced 40 to 50-something women, and am now starting to catch hints of available old lady ass.

I can't say for certain that I want any of it. To be honest, they seem like older older women - like the older women that were friends with my mom when I was a kid. It's like my mom's friends are subtly coming on to me -- and I'm a kid -- and it kind of freaks me out.

I bring this up because this 45 year old designer just gave me a box of these rad pencils, patted my shoulder (letting her fingertips brush and linger) as she walked off with a smile (old girl), and took a comment from another old girl about how single I am.

A couple of these women have 20 year old daughters. Maybe I can work something out.

--

I talked to Rick about Bill and his disappearance from the Queens of the Stone Age show, and supposed arrest. It turns out that Bill told Rick that he was going to take a piss, and walked up to the back bar at the Vic. For some fuckin reason the bartender cut him off. Bill smarted off, because he wasn't drunk... and what the fuck?

Bill turned and accidently walked into some girl. A security guy told him to watch himself and kind of manhandled him. Bill told him to fuck off and pushed him away, which pissed off security... so four meatheads jumped him and dragged him outside and dumped him off onto some Chicago cops. The pigs then arrested him and took him to an area Police department and kept him in custody until 3:30 in the morning before releasing him on no charges. Fuckers.

--

I ran across the script for Star Wars Episode III: Revenge of the Sith online. Read it if you want to ruin the movie for yourself. The link is RIGHT THERE!! Read it if you want to fuck up the whole end of Star Wars experience! I bet you're scared. Pussy.

--

Quasimoto is the shit, and is going to explode this summer. Check out a new track from their forthcoming LP (out in May): "greenery"

Now go get lifted, fuckers.

crapshoot

2005-04-06T16:19:00.000-05:00

I love pearl jam. To me they're the Rolling Stones... they're U2... they're the last survivors of the grunge scene of the early 90's.

I dug grunge. It was a potent mix of classic rock, hard rock, punk and metal... with a healthy dose of surf guitar and psychedelic.

Pearl Jam is still here and they keep putting out barely noticed, yet strong rock albums. They're just a tight rock band, and their live show is where the shit is at.

They've been writing new material and playing it live at small venues in Seattle. Check out an audience recording of crapshoot.

rawk.

queens of the stone age

2005-04-06T10:35:00.000-05:00

Last night I went to Queens of the Stone Age at the Vic in Chicago with that crazy girl Sarah, my pal Rick and his brother Bill. I knew it was going to be a night of aggression right away when Rick called me to tell me that traffic was all fucked up. When Rick and Bill made it over they were engaged in some sort of slap boxing, smiling with clenched teeth. More than once I was subtly invited to break Bill's jaw, but I wanted no part of it. I just wanted to go get Sarah and then hit the show.

Sarah is fucking hot. A couple weeks ago she was looking a bit tubby, but all that was weighing her down is mysteriously gone. I don't get it. She has a grand attitude as well. Before the show we met up at Sheffield's because it's a block from The Vic and because they've got a great beer garden and because the beer garden's got this super thick tree that has to be at least 150 years old... which is remarkable considering that it's located in the center of the northside of Chicago... a neighborhood that has been highly populated for 150 years. I think that that is remarkable... chew on that for a bit and get back to me... and it was like freakin 77 degrees last night. So we're drinking a couple of beers before the show and talking about Michael Jackson, and I said that he's dropping a few million on attorneys, so I figured that he'd get off. Bill cut me short and turned to Sarah and said "what gets you off?" That was pretty funny because Bill has some mental issues and he's super weird. Sarah took it great and said "I don't think I know you well enough to give you an answer." Bill's about 25 years old now and I've known him since he was 17. It took me about three years to figure out that he wasn't kidding and that he's fucked up for real.

We got to the show and the crowd was suprisingly sedate. Not that many women and not that many dudes who looked like they could kick my ass. That kind of disappointed me. When I go to a metal show I want to see a room of tattoo'd emotional disturbed fuck ups... not IT guys sipping a beer, sneaking looks at Sarah's body and giving me "please don't kill me" glances before turning away. Pussies!

The Vic is a great venue - built in the 1920's with a capacity of around 2,000. It's a grimy beer puddle of cigarette butts and one hitters that's perfect for a rock show.

The opening band sucked.

Queens rolled on around 9:45 and fucking rocked it. It was great to see a really good rock show. Midway through the set I noticed that Bill and Rick had strayed. I figured they'd moved down to the floor to jump into the pit. I didn't want to move because Sarah didn't want to go down on to the floor, and I was liking the view (Sarah's fine figure) from where we were at.

When the show ended Rick came over and said that he didn't know where Bill went and that we had to go back to Sheffield's because he left his bar tab open. We stepped outside and waited for the joint to clear. No Bill! Sarah told me a couple of times that Bill was freaking her out and that she didn't know that he was fucked up. I told her that it took me three years to figure out that he wasn't kidding. Rick did a loop and No Bill! We decided that Bill must've walked back to the bar. We went to the bar. No Bill! We had a couple drinks, and then walked Sarah home. We jumped the L and went back to my place. No Bill! Bill's car was still there but No Bill! Rick figured that he could be anywhere.

Rick crashed and I got him up at 6:30 to take the train back to the south side. After seven beers and about 38 cigarettes the night before I decided to kick my own ass and ride in on pista. I thought the sweat and exercise would cleanse me a bit. I was wrong, I still feel like a piece of shit. I got to work and checked my messages. Bill called my cell at 3:30 in the morning from a pay phone saying that he was in jail and needed a ride. I called Rick to get the story, but he was already on the road headed to Michigan.

That's fucked up.

nine inch nails live

2005-04-05T14:46:00.000-05:00

I've like nine inch nails since 1990 when my friend Aaron shoplifted a copy of pretty hate machine. Woah shit... I thought it rocked. Especially for a product of Cleveland.

Trent Reznor took it in a metal direction with the broken EP, and then fucked it all up with the downward spiral (what was it? metal? goth? industrial? noise?)... a record made at the site of Sharon Tate's massacre by the hands of the Manson Family. And one that still scares me. Five years of tinkering in the studio produced the fragile... a two disc masterpiece (in my opinion), that was widely discarded to the used CD bargain bin.

Well, anyways, the motherfucker is back with a new album and a new small venue tour!! Thanks to the internet, you too can catch some of these shows. Like this one.

kick ass.

get real paid

2005-04-04T13:30:00.000-05:00

Sorry about the lack of updates. I have been in mild recovery from my white trash experience of a couple weeks back.

So what's new? I saw Sin City on friday night... and holy shit, is it good. I don't think I've seen anything like it before. It is one of the most (potentially) offensive films I've ever seen, rivaling Natural Born Killers and Hard Boiled in the violence slash gore slash not for children category. It's basically a cartoon for adults. Go see it if Reservoir Dogs didn't make you wet yourself.

Saturday I was in Wisconsin to catch a ball game and see how much better than me my college friends are doing financially. I kick myself once a month when I get my paycheck. Why the hell did I think it would be a good idea to move to Chicago and bust my ass to find an opportunity to become an ad copywriter? What kind of insanity possesed me to think that this was a good career move? Why is it that seven years later I'm still getting my ass kicked over an ill advised and wholly ideological decision made when I was 24 - a year clouded by ganja?

Anyways, my friend Mark is about the goofiest fuck you could meet. He's a civilian Carrot Top. He went to eye doctor school after he couldn't get in to medical school, and now he's "DOCTOR Mark", drives a 05 Saab, just bought a Cape Cod house in a Milwaukee suburb, works nine to five (and doesn't work over-time), and is dating this super hot 23 year old named Carrie. She told me that mark took her to Breckenridge last week for a little ski weekend. Her eyes were sparkling and her smile was from ear to ear.

Question: why didn't I go to dental school? I mean, every stroke off that I see on a Harley is a dentist.

Johnnie Cochran's burning in hell

2005-04-01T10:14:00.000-06:00

en fuego

diss!!

2005-03-25T09:43:00.000-06:00

my favorite joke:

"Tell your mom to stop calling."

"I think that stripper really liked me!"

2005-03-21T17:05:00.000-06:00

This past week and weekend was a maelstrom of depravity. It started out easy going enough, but the devil is in the details. I'm giving my chemistry a rest for the next week... an opportunity to rest and replenish itself.

Easy:
Tuesday I was out until 12:30 at a fundraiser for battered women of Chicago. All proceeds help fund this local hiding spot.

Wednesday I was up smoking and drinking beer and playing cards until 1:30.

Thursday was a special night of me and that crazy girl Sarah avoiding the typical Chicago St Patrick's day riff raff for the dark confines of the Lincoln Tap Room and Lennox Lounge. At one point I walked back to the men's room and let a manic 23 year old girl cut ahead of me because the ladies room was locked. Three minutes later she approached me at the bar with Sarah and was grabbing at me and thanking me for my kindness. Sarah told me "I can't talk to people on cocaine." We drank a lot of vodka and toasted her graduation from beauty college. She mentioned that she'd spent the day hot waxing an overweight fag's back and chest for an upcoming "trip to Miami with friends." I'd spent the day tracking down a Chinese translation service. I was home by 3 a.m.

Hard:
Work was a bitch all day on Friday. I was so fuckin tired. I was useless. Friday night I had plans to meet up with my friend Matt and go to a party for a 27 year old girl I work with at a small place in Wicker Park. I got home around 5:30, and laid down around 6 p.m. I slept through the 8 p.m. alarm I'd set and woke up at 10:45 p.m. to my phone ringing. Matt had been trying to reach me since 9 p.m. He was at a bar, so he was alright, so I went back to sleep.

Easy:
I woke up around 9:30 a.m. on saturday and felt like a $1000 bill. The clarity! The energy! Full recharge. My friend Rick called me and drove his bike up to my place. Saturday was sunny/partly cloudy and 50 degrees (this is warm for March for Chicago). We started out with a smoke and a coffee. I kicked Rick's ass at a game of foosball. We discussed my idea for a cable access show called Foos the Boss.

Foos The Boss:
Shot with three cameras, the show chronicles "great unseen games in basements and single 31 year old's third story apartments." Each show consists of 30 minutes of intense foosball action and a weekly music pick (that will be mixed in to the final edit for full surround sound). Example: my first episode pick is Queens of the Stone Age: Rated R. Rick said that he'd have to go with Black Sabbath. All verbal intimidation and bad sportsmanship is recorded and encouraged.

What a winning idea.

Easy:
Rick and I rode bikes up to Evanston and around Northwestern University. Rick said that he knew a kid who went to Northwestern and became an asshole. I reminded Rick that because his friend had attended Northwestern, that he was now smarter than Rick, because he went to Northwestern. Rick agreed with that sound argument. I didn't see any good looking girls anywhere and all of the "men" looked like pussies. George Bush should draft the top 25% of each class of each of the Ivy league and elitest schools like Northwestern for his Iraq jerk off. He could justify it by calling for a need to "further cut the nation's next generation of intelligence to ensure the preservation of the Republican Party's re-electoral-ation."

Anyways, Rick and I rode back to my place, smoked, Rick lost at chess and then had to go home for his evening's plans. While he was loading his bike into the backseat of his car I got another idea for a cable access show. This one would involve watching people try to pack large objects into small spaces. There would be a timer in the lower right hand of the screen and no obscenities would be edited out.

Hard:
Last October I spent an evening in the suburbs with a crew of exceptional high school graduates ("stop bragging"). Saturday night I made a return visit to Mike's house of drugs, porn and wrecked lives. This time it was an occasion to celebrate "Dom's birthday." Dom might be 35, but then again, he might be 42. Last time we saw Dom he was working as "a driver" (in this crew "a driver" drives strippers to bachelor parties, and is the guy holding the cash, usually a foot-long metal mag-lite flashlight, and on occasion, a concealed handgun), this time Dom is a roommate at the house and a plumber.

We met up at a huge bar for suburban trash that featured a dead-on Journey cover band. The night's party included a dozen Italian stereotypes and half a dozen off-duty strippers. The bar sucked, so everyone went over to Mike's house. My friend Dave (my connection to this scene) didn't want to stay, so he offered to come pick me up in the morning. I only get to visit hell and the lost souls that lurk there every so often, so I elected to stay.

Dave's friend Mike is the consumate host (think Larry Flint without the wheelchair or the money), and for some reason has taken a liking to me... pushing sluts in my direction (always the bottom tier of the the sluts present... the top tier are always busy receiving attention), offering me Cuban cigars, handing me chemicals for free, showing me the newest additions to his automatic weapon collection. I told him that I liked his FUBU velvet warm up suit and wanted one for myself. He told me to get him my measurments.

The first conversation I got into was with this super fuckin cute Italian girl named Angela. She was about 5'2", small and curved. She seemed articulate and had a good sense of humor. I was starting to wonder what she was doing amongst this scene of drugged whores and losers, until she started talking about how she was a stewardess and then mentioned that she was also a dancer. And then she told me that she was a lesbian, and that she had no interest in men.

OK, moving on...

The next girl that I got to talking to a bit was this super fucking hot 5'10" blonde with a penthouse figure and totally tight aerobicized body and naturally beautiful face named Jennifer. She was into me for real for about 20 minutes, but then the chemicals washed away whatever lingering attraction was there.

There's a cottage industry set up for lonely men wondering HOW to land a hot woman or a model or cocktail waitress or a stripper. Let me give away the secret right now (this will also work on anyone in the service industry): If you want a hot woman or a model or a cocktail waitress or a stripper hang out with you, you have to have cocaine. That's it.

One recurring thing I found with each beautiful trashy woman I talked to is that they all had some serious bad luck and bad shit going on in their lives. They had 10 year old kids with diabetes... they had 14 year old sons sneaking little girls into the house... they were still rocking hard at 8 a.m. with scumbag men grabbing their bodies, porn on the TV, and available chemicals on the dining room table.

Although I was publicly welcomed by the house's owner Mike, I still felt a need to keep alert regarding the other men wandering around on chemicals (and the fact that there were maybe a dozen guns in the house), there was a special alpha male/aggresion thing in the air, and I felt the need to keep an eye on a couple of them. One was a car salesman who had this cocaine faggot thing going on when he showed up at 2:30 with two just off duty strippers, but then began demonstrating flying roundhouse kicks and giving me the evil eye. Fucking weird.

By 8:30 I'd placed two calls to Dave to come pick me up. I had to get out of there, I was totally spent and growing depressed, the sun was out, the air was stinking and thick with smoke... it was the waiting station to hell. Jennifer (the hot tall blonde) asked me where I was going with my jacket on. I told her that I was going to go home in the city. She was bouncing from a recent bump. Smiled, and was whisked away by a coked up 30 year old car salesman who turned on a low grade techno disc and wanted to grind.

I got the fuck out of there.

the Bush administration produces news stories

2005-03-15T12:57:00.000-06:00

"The Bush administration, rejecting an opinion from the Government Accountability Office, said last week that it is legal for federal agencies to feed TV stations prepackaged news stories that do not disclose the government's role in producing them.

That message, in memos sent Friday to federal agency heads and general counsels, contradicts a Feb. 17 memo from Comptroller General David M. Walker. Walker wrote that such stories -- designed to resemble independently reported broadcast news stories so that TV stations can run them without editing -- violate provisions in annual appropriations laws that ban covert propaganda."

- The Washington Post

so, this is state-sponsored news that doesn't have to admit that it's propaganda, huh?

since when did the red states vote for red china media?

red states: good thinking.

--

my republican mother's response:

this is awful, isn't it. between the current gov't manufactoring it's own news and the media stars created by the moguls of ABC, NBC and CBS who are all left wing democrats, the average person has a very hard time getting unbiased news.

--

hmmm, ok. not based at all in reality, but republicans don't want to know the truth anyways. they have the ideology and the vision in their head, and anything that counters that (line of shit), should be discredited or rejected or declared some kind of goddamn left-wing democrat plot.

my response:

everybody loses.

who says that the talking heads at network are left wing democrats? seems to me that the hail storm against dan rather running the story on george w. bush deserting the national guard was a bit severe... especially considering that george w. bush deserted the national guard.

--

retort? silence.

Good God, I'm pregnant

2005-03-11T15:20:00.000-06:00

Every morning my hotmail account consists of 11 spam solicitations for lower mortgage (I rent), new credit card (I've got that covered), a larger manhood (I'm carrying around the equivalent of a baby's arm), 5 or 6 forwards or real messages from friends, and at least 3 forwards sent by my mother after 11 p.m. the night before.

They're never any good. They're either bashing the Clinton's (still? that's like sooo 1998), or republican moral superiority chest beating, or one of the countless thousand piece of shit chain forwards promising good fortune if you annoy 10 to 15 other friends by forwarding.

This is coming from a college graduate.

Anyways, she finally forwarded a good one. Here it is:

A college class was told they had to write a short
story in as few words as possible. The short story
had to contain the following three things:

(1) Religion (2) Sexuality (3) Mystery.

There was only one A+ paper in the entire
class. Below is the A+ short story:
----------------------------------------------------
Good God, I'm pregnant. I wonder who did it.

has-been expo coming to chicago

2005-03-07T16:31:00.000-06:00

I caught "Caddyshack" on HBO last night and recalled that Lacy Underall (Cindy Morgan) was the hottest woman I'd ever seen naked when I was 10 years old. Then she co-starred in "Tron" and I knew that I had to have her.

Today I did a google search found that Cindy Morgan is an old lady. However, she's also made a part time career out of being a has-been and occasionally makes appearances at expo-shows for has-beens.

As luck would have it there's a has-been expo coming to rosemont in April! http://www.hollywoodcollectorshow.com/Rose.htm No shit! And it only costs $10 to get in and stare at:

Scott Schwartz

Barbara Moore

Golden Globe Award Nominee Lorenzo Lamas

Tiffany

Saundra Taylor

Ed Lauter

Noel Neill

Lynda Cornell

Elvira

Brande Roderick

Dolores Del Monte (Miss March '54) (that was only FIFTY-ONE years ago)

unfortunately, Cindy Morgan won't be at this one, so I'll have to stalk her sometime later in the future.

oh yeah, if you want Ed Lauter (or any of the other "celebrity" autographs) it's gonna cost you.

Saturday April 16th, 2005 10AM - 5PM
Sunday April 17th, 2005 10AM - 4PM

it's only ten bucks! let's go!

Corey Feldman's 30th Birthday Party

2005-03-07T12:41:00.000-06:00

This last weekend I drove my sister and I up to wisconsin to have dinner with my parents and some uncles and aunts in Lake Geneva. Tolls in Illinois are now $.80 if you don't have the I-PASS. If you do have the I-PASS, it's $.40. I guess they want a committment.

Anyways, on the ride up you could barely hear the ipod on the shitty stereo speakers with the windows down from all the cigarette smoke, so we were forced to smoke and chat.

Oh yeah: sidenote, the saturn is living out its final days in my posession. I'm selling that hunk of plastic ASAP. I'm sick of the inconvenience and the random - for no real reason - $50 ticket I find under the wiperblade when I walk out to the car once every 10 days. Enough. Besides, I figure that with the 11 year old fiberglass car gone it'll be more difficult for a girl to gauge how poor I am. And I can finally get some. I've been catching myself looking at ugly girls on the L lately. It's becoming a problem.

So anyways, me and my sister were talking about Michael Jackson and Corey Feldman and my sister asked me to re-tell the story about the time I went to Corey Feldman's 30th birthday party in L.A. I guess it's worth writing about here.

In July '01 I flew out to L.A. to visit my friend Lope. Lope is one of my favorite people in the entire world. That motherfucker has lived le experience. He was second in his high school class, an eagle scout, when we were in college he was one of the best rowers on our crew, grew a massive strain of mushrooms, drove a mid-70's Lincoln Continental, and was such a goddamn good looking motherfucker that he got signed as a male model with Elite and dropped out of college to make more cash in six months than his father made that year. So I'm back at school studying worm phylums at 2 in the morning and Lope is fucking hot 19 year olds in Miami. Son of a bitch.

So, a couple years pass, Lope eventually returns to school and finishes his degree and then moves west. First to Phoenix, then to Los Angeles, getting an assistant's job in the publicity department at 20th Century Fox.

Immediately I benefitted from this because he started to send me free screener DVDs in packages of 20. I started to get them every other week. In total I think I got around 90. Cool shit too, like copies of Predator, X-Men, Aliens, Fight Club, and best of all, the Bruce Lee box set.

So, with me coming out, Lope started to look around to see what we could do over the visit. Corey Feldman used to do a lot of business with Fox, so his publicist would always shoot releases to the studio. Most of the studio considers him a child star wash up, so the open invite to his 30th birthday party at the Key Club was universally panned.

Lope knew that I'd "get it", so he got us on the list. I soon figured out that being "on the list" meant standing in line and watching fat sweating dudes pull up in long cars with hot 18 year olds and cut ahead of us. We finally got inside and looked around. I didn't see any celebrities at all. Not even Corey Haim. I bought Lope a drink. We drank Maker's Mark at $12 a drink. Holy shit!

Soon, Corey's band Truth Movement hit the stage (see, this was also a showcase for Corey's band) Corey is the shirtless front man. He's got the 5'8" body of a 15 year old and the face of a 40 year old weathered drug addict. Truth Movement is like the E-Street band minus the powerful front man. They're not bad, but Corey sucks balls. At one point the band started to play Michael Jackson's "Billie Jean", and Corey broke down to his Michael Jackson dance impersonation... the hat, the glove, the moonwalk... I looked around the crowd and saw smiles. It was straight up fucking weird.

Finally, Corey grabbed the mic and said "the house wants us to wrap it up so they can play their tech-no... but we still got a few songs left in us, so fuck the tech-no!" The band broke out another song, and kept playing until the guitarist could tell that the house had cut the power on his guitar, so he just walked off stage. Then the drummer noticed that his power was cut, but he kept playing. Finally, they cut the sound on Corey's mic, and it took him a couple seconds to figure that out, then they cut the lights, and he walked off stage.

Dissed on your birthday! Ho!

caddyshack

2005-03-07T10:22:00.000-06:00

I caught half of Caddyshack on HBO last night. Goddamn is that movie fuckin funny. It was better than I remembered. It was one of those movies that I saw a hundred times in the '80's after my parents got our first VCR. It had the first scene of tits on a hot girl that I recall seeing as a kid. And then the same girl appeared in Tron. Holy shit.

This actress, Cindy Morgan, was easily the muse for my first stiffie. This must have been my first mental evidence that I'm not gay. I suppose that little 10 year old fags can look at Cindy Morgan and appreciate her beauty, but not feel a real drive to want to get a piece of that. (that must be the division: wanting to horse around with either Lacey Underall or Tony.)

31 is the new 25

2005-03-02T17:03:00.000-06:00

yesterday I turned 31.

31 is different from 30 because when you turn 30 it's a milestone and you've turned the corner from twenty-something jagoff to adult.

when I turned 30 I went to Los Angeles and misbehaved for five days. oh young 30 year old!

for 31 I got drunk with some friends and played foosball and video games and chess and then went to a bar and smoked cigarettes and drank german beer. cutter gave me some super glue. I've been needing super glue.

it was a pretty good 31. now I just want to lose my virginity.

please, God! Pleeease?

Hunter S. Thompson memorials

2005-02-23T12:05:00.000-06:00

when a talent dies - one who sort of remained on the peripheral, a bit below the radar, occasionally popping up here and there - the accolades blast the frontline like rapid fire.

kind of like when John Ritter died.

the following entry is a collection of exerpts of some of the better memorials and rememberances of heir Doctor Gonzo...

Rolling Stone magazine:
In a recent piece for Rolling Stone on the 2004 presidential campaign, he called George Bush a "treacherous little freak." To Thompson -- who once threatened to run for the presidency himself and narrowly lost an election in 1970 for sheriff of the Aspen area, running on the Freak Power Party ticket -- politics was a blood sport, and American politicians, so prone to corruption, were only too deserving of contempt. Observing President Bush's poor performance in a debate with "my man" John Kerry, he wrote for the magazine, "I almost felt sorry for him, until I heard someone call him 'Mister President,' and then I felt ashamed."

--

Thompson's incorrigible behavior, his mumbling incoherence, his fishing hats, aviator frames and cigarette holders all made for a larger-than-life presence. He was a hardboiled writer of the old Hemingway school, terse and piercing, enamored of guns. Yet he will be forever associated with the counterculture of the hippie era for his ruthless dogging of the Nixon administration and his gleeful experimentation with psychedelic drugs, two subjects which he often wrote about in tandem.

--

The Associate Press:
Because the style of writing he invented — "gonzo journalism" — surely reached its peak with its creator and isn't likely to be duplicated in quite that way ever again.

Thompson was often linked with fellow writers Gay Talese and Tom Wolfe as part of a troika of literary titans who invented a reporting style in the 1960s that came to be known as the New Journalism. But Talese, for his part, never saw it that way, saying Monday that Thompson was an original.

While all three writers took an eye for description and detail to new heights, only Thompson immersed himself so thoroughly — and often so outrageously — into his stories, Talese told The Associated Press.

"I will miss him as a man who was amusing while he was also insightful," the author of "Honor Thy Father" said by phone from his New York City apartment. "He was amusing and also maybe wretchedly out of step with the current morality. At this time of political correctness, he was never politically correct, and that is what I'll miss the most about him."

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"We had two bags of grass, 75 pellets of mescaline, five sheets of high-powered blotter acid, a salt shaker half full of cocaine and a whole galaxy of multicolored uppers, downers, screamers, laughers," he wrote.

Whether he actually prepared for his assignments with that kind of indulgence, Talese said he didn't know.

"You never know what these people do," the author said. "They know what is entertaining about their material, and sometimes what is not true about their life becomes part of their persona."

What is known is that authorities who raided Thompson's rural Colorado home in 1990 found LSD, cocaine, marijuana and dynamite there. He beat the charges, however, when the search was ruled illegal.

His home was often described as a "heavily fortified compound," although Thompson, who would sometimes take high-powered firearms into his back yard for target practice, acknowledged in a 2003 interview that that was an exaggeration.

"I think the only fortification might be my reputation," he told Salon magazine. "If people believe they're going to be shot, they might stay away."

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L.A. Times interviews friends in Woody Creek, CO.:
Thompson lived in a secluded compound along a rural highway a mile or so from the tavern. Friends said he liked to pass the time firing automatic weapons, writing and drinking heavily. He typically woke at 5 p.m., wrote through the night and slept all day.

His death seems to have winded Woody Creek, a wealthy enclave eight miles northwest of Aspen. For some, Thompson was beyond eccentric — he was an enigma. He could be rude and nasty, then turn on a dime and be sweet and lovable.

"Everyone sort of adopted him and accepted him as he was," said Mary Harris, owner of the Woody Creek Tavern. "I used to live next door to him. I'd hear gunshots coming from his backyard. We used to hang out. He liked to come in when we closed. He could be a bully or your best friend."

"I knew Hunter for 25 years, and I think some of what he did was an act," said Joel Lapin, drinking a beer at the tavern. "He was an extremely intelligent man. He would walk around town with a drink in his hand, but it was his persona, like Groucho Marx with the cigar. He once showed up at the golf course with a shotgun. He was actually no more outrageous with firearms than any of the rest of us here."

Those who knew him often found his rambling style of conversation unintelligible.

"I never knew what he was talking about," said Don Collins, a 50-year-old plumber sitting at the bar. "You would hear this mumbling and then loud interjections. He could have been saying anything. Maybe he was telling me, 'Get out of my house or I'll shoot you!' "

Groupies liked to drop in or call Thompson at the bar. He didn't respond well to invasions of privacy and didn't talk much to strangers, his friends said.

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The Wall Street Journal Tom Wolfe on HST:
Hunter S. Thompson was one of those rare writers who come as advertised. The Addams-family eyebrows in Stephen King's book jacket photos combined with the heeby-jeeby horrors of his stories always made me think of Dracula. When I finally met Mr. King, he was in Miami playing, along with Amy Tan, in a jook-house band called the Remainders. He was Sunshine itself, a laugh and a half, the very picture of innocent fun, a Count Dracula who in real life was Peter Pan. Carl Hiaasen, the genius who has written such zany antic novels as "Striptease," "Sick Puppy," and "Skinny Dip" is in person as intelligent, thoughtful, sober, courteous, even courtly, a Southern gentleman as you could ask for (and I ask for them all the time and never find them). But the gonzo--Hunter's coinage--madness of Hunter Thompson's "Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas" (1971) and his Rolling Stone classics such as "The Kentucky Derby is Decadent and Depraved" (1970) was what you got in the flesh too. You didn't have lunch or dinner with Hunter Thompson. You attended an event at mealtime.

I had never met Hunter when the book that established him as a literary figure, "The Hell's Angels, a Strange and Terrible Saga," was published in 1967. It was brilliant investigative journalism of the hazardous sort, written in a style and a voice no one had ever seen or heard before. The book revealed that he had been present at a party for the Hell's Angels given by Ken Kesey and his hippie--at the time the term was not "hippie' but "acid-head"--commune, the Merry Pranksters. The party would be a key scene in a book I was writing, (The Electric Kool-Aid Acid Test). I cold-called Hunter in California, and he generously gave me not only his recollections but also the audiotapes he had recorded at that first famous alliance of the hippies and "outlaw" motorcycle gangs, a strange and terrible saga in itself, culminating in the Rolling Stones band hiring the Angels as security guards for a concert in Altamont, Calif., and the "security guards" beating a spectator to death with pool cues.

By way of a thank you for his help, I invited Hunter to lunch the next time he was in New York. It was one bright spring day in 1969. He proved to be one of those tall, rawboned, rangy young men with alarmingly bright eyes, who more than any other sort of human, in my experience, are prone to manic explosions. Hunter didn't so much have a conversation with you as speak in explosive salvos of words on a related subject.

We were walking along West 46th Street toward a restaurant, The Brazilian Coffee House, when we passed Goldberg Marine Supply. Hunter stopped, ducked into the store and emerged holding a tiny brown paper bag. A sixth sense, probably activated by the alarming eyes and the six-inch rise and fall of his Adam's apple, told me not to ask what was inside. In the restaurant he kept it on top of the table as we ate. Finally, the fool in me became so curious, he had to go and ask, "What's in the bag, Hunter?"

"I've got something in there that would clear out this restaurant in 20 seconds," said Hunter. He began opening the bag. His eyes had rheostated up to 300 watts. "No, never mind," I said. "I believe you! Show me later!" From the bag he produced what looked like a small travel-size can of shaving foam, uncapped the top and pressed down on it. There ensued the most violently brain-piercing sound I had ever heard. It didn't clear out The Brazilian Coffee House. It froze it. The place became so quiet, you could hear an old-fashioned timer clock ticking in the kitchen. Chunks of churasco gaucho remained impaled on forks in mid-air. A bartender mixing a sidecar became a statue holding a shaker with both hands just below his chin. Hunter was slipping the little can back into the paper bag. It was a marine distress signaling device, audible for 20 miles over water.

The next time I saw Hunter was in June of 1976 at the Aspen Design Conference in Aspen, Colo. By now Hunter had bought a large farm near Aspen where he seemed to raise mainly vicious dogs and deadly weapons, such as the .357 magnum. He publicized them constantly as a warning to those, Hell's Angels presumably, who had been sending him death threats. I invited him to dinner at a swell restaurant in Aspen and a performance at the Big Tent, where the conference was held. My soon-to-be wife, Sheila, and I gave the waitress our dinner orders. Hunter ordered two banana daiquiris and two banana splits. Once he had finished them off, he summoned the waitress, looped his forefinger in the air and said, "Do it again." Without a moment's hesitation he downed his third and fourth banana daiquiris and his third and fourth banana splits, and departed with a glass of Wild Turkey bourbon in his hand.

When we reached the tent, the flap-keepers refused to let him enter with the whiskey. A loud argument broke out. I whispered to Hunter. "Just give me the glass and I'll hold under my jacket and give it back to you inside." That didn't interest him in the slightest. What I failed to realize was that it was not about getting into the tent or drinking whiskey. It was the grand finale of an event, a happening aimed at turning the conventional order of things upside down. By and by we were all ejected from the premises, and Hunter couldn't have been happier. The curtain came down for the evening.

In Hunter's scheme of things, there were curtains .. . and there were curtains. In the summer of 1988 I happened to be at the Edinburgh Festival in Scotland one afternoon when an agitated but otherwise dignified, silver-haired old Scotsman came up to me and said, "I understand you're a friend of the American writer Hunter Thompson."

I said yes.

"By God--your Mr. Thompson is supposed to deliver a lecture at the Festival this evening--and I've just received a telephone call from him saying he's in Kennedy Airport and has run into an old friend. What's wrong with this man? He's run into an old friend? There's no possible way he can get here by this evening!"

"Sir," I said, "when you book Hunter Thompson for a lecture, you have to realize it's not actually going to be a lecture. It's an event--and I'm afraid you've just had yours."

Hunter's life, like his work, was one long barbaric yawp, to use Whitman's term, of the drug-fueled freedom from and mockery of all conventional proprieties that began in the 1960s. In that enterprise Hunter was something entirely new, something unique in our literary history. When I included an excerpt from "The Hell's Angels" in a 1973 anthology called "The New Journalism," he said he wasn't part of anybody's group. He wrote "gonzo." He was sui generis. And that he was.

Yet he was also part of a century-old tradition in American letters, the tradition of Mark Twain, Artemus Ward and Petroleum V. Nasby, comic writers who mined the human comedy of a new chapter in the history of the West, namely, the American story, and wrote in a form that was part journalism and part personal memoir admixed with powers of wild invention, and wilder rhetoric inspired by the bizarre exuberance of a young civilization. No one categorization covers this new form unless it is Hunter Thompson's own word, gonzo. If so, in the 19th century Mark Twain was king of all the gonzo-writers. In the 20th century it was Hunter Thompson, whom I would nominate as the century's greatest comic writer in the English language.

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On HST's final rest:

If one of Hunter S. Thompson's last wishes comes true, the body of the late maverick journalist will be cremated this week and his ashes blasted from a cannon across his sprawling ranch in Woody Creek, CO.