Cats and Dogs
16 MayThe people with their dogs. What if I had a dog. I like to think I would be out walking it all the time; it would have gotten me out more, and perhaps I would have net a nice young woman out with her dog. You know, out in the park, the dogs are frolicking, you get to talking… and then, you know, she comes over to your apartment, the dog recognizes her; she fucks you. They say this kind of shit happens.
But really, my cat is the exact right amount of pet for my lifestyle. He has his own life. It would be immeasurably cruel to have a dog, go to work for eleven hours per day; sometimes do drinks after, you come home and the dog has been trapped in 400 square feet of poorly ventilated carpeted space with only the smells of garbage under the kitchen sink to amuse him. The dog’s whole life is waiting for the moment you get home. You get home and it’s just looking at you all expectantly, like, please focus one hundred per cent of your attention on me. Please spend every waking second not otherwise occupied, throwing a tennis ball again and again. Continue reading
In My Dreams, I Am Kenny Rogers, 1972
15 May
Just popped a couple ‘ludes and took down a shot of Wild Turkey; tore off a piece of fresh backwoods poon like only Kenny Rogers knows how. Stepping onstage with the First Edition behind me, about to level the place when I tell ’em “don’t take your love to town.”
Good Looking People
15 MayJust talked to my neighbor. He’s a good looking dude. This makes me hate him. The way the poor hate the rich, you know.
Because fuck all other shit– fuck being tall, fuck being in shape, fuck being funny, fuck being smart. Nothing matters as much as being good looking. Or at least, nothing else can give you that visceral reaction. That gut, hormonal, hindbrain reaction. Everything the rest of us are doing, with our fastidiously working out and tanning and our jobs and money and funny stories and whateverthefuck– everything else is just man trying to build something that can only be built by God. Like trying to reverse engineer a unicorn. They did it, you know; they grafted one goat horn onto the forehead of an unfortunate white circus horse, but the result is this hideous unholy thing. Even making the effort is gross.
And you can date attractive people, even if you are not one of the one percent of those accidentally blessed with perfect symmetry, a small nose, and an appropriately-sized chin, but you are never going to make them feel the same way, that same instant, unanticipated rush that you get from catching a glimpse of an extremely good-looking person. That first instant of giving someone jelly-legs is worth infinitely more than all our lifetimes of work.
Diary 2/24/12: Nikol’s Living Will
14 MayNothing funny about this motherfucking shit: I am going to be the executor of Nikol’s living will. Because she is going to die. Maybe not today, maybe not tomorrow. But soon, and for the rest of her life.
She has no hair now and no eyebrows, and pukes so much that her stomach and/or esophagus is ulcerated and she vomits fountains of blood. I saw some on the toilet seat. We both remarked that it was good that it wasn’t black blood. Because… why is it again? Because black blood means that it’s internal bleeding. That the blood has somehow seeped between organs and sat there and blackened. If you are puking black blood, you are really in trouble. Where the fuck did we learn that, HOUSE MD?
Whatever– my view is regardless of the color blood you are shitting or puking, you are well and truly fucked and thinking the red blood is so great is merely hair-splitting.
She is going to die and when that is real close to happening she wants me to pull the plug if necessary. She has no relatives she trusts to pull this off without chickening out, and since she’s a product of the foster care system there is no one who takes legal precedent. So when her brain has liquified, I’m to give the order: cease all resuscitation efforts or whatever the fuck. Then I’m gonna sit there and hold her hand until the machine goes BEEEEEEEEEEEPPPPPPPP.
Car Alarm
14 MayCan your god damn motherfucking car alarm be off now please. Can you just get up– can you pause what you’re doing, get up, walk out to your motherfucking car, and just turn off the car alarm. Preferably you will reach into the innards of the car and remove the alarm physically and then toss it into the heart of a volcano, or catapult it into deep space.
Because no one, not once, ever, has heard a car alarm going off and though “Oh my god- someone’s car is being stolen! I’d better call the police and help!” Not once have you ever thought this. And you were right, it never was. When was the last time you heard a car alarm going off and it was an actual attempted theft of a car. It is ALWAYS a false positive. What if other things were like this. What if an AIDS test– always just said you had AIDS. What if your smoke detector was just constantly going off. When there was a real fire, you would die. Which I hope actually happens to you, whoever is parked outside my office with the car alarm going off. I hope you die in an AIDS fire.
Just a Reminder: Chuck Berry Used to Secretly Film Chicks on the Toilet
13 MayOr tape them, rather. This was in the 80’s, before the internet, obviously. But after video cameras had become somewhat widespread; it wasn’t quite a situation where Bob Crane and Willem Dafoe had to pay 75 grand for some cutting edge rig they only had access to because of their television backgrounds. Chuck would get one of those unwieldy Beta cams, stick it behind a hole in his bathroom wall, and then tape chicks peeing and taking shits at his home and/or catfish restaurant. Not clear if he had it set to some kind of trigger so it would only film when someone was in the can or if he just had them constantly running like those night cameras they put by cisterns where snow leopards drink. And if it’s the latter whether he had a guy just constantly fast forwarding through hours and hours of tape to cut together a “best of” reel of chicks pissing to present to chuck. Which, I want that job.
Opt Out
12 MayI need to get a new job. And the sole criterion I am going to employ, rather than salary, potential for growth, intellectual fulfillment or any of that bullshit is whether girls work there.
Because that’s the only thing that matters. If you are where the pussy is, life is great. If you are not where the pussy is, life is horrible. And friends, I am emphatically NOT where the fucking pussy is. For how little I am exposed to women, it is a god damn miracle that I ever get laid at all. I must be a world record holder for opportunity/ pussy ratio. Like a one-legged marathon runner. Lots of guys get laid a lot more than me, but I am pulling a pretty god damn respectable time for hopping along with a fucking stump.
The problem is, the way our society is built– what you need to do to be “successful,” to be “prosperous–” the fruit is hanging so high that getting to the respectable middle consumes your whole life. And it starts about forty five minutes after you come out of the womb. You need to work your ass off in high school and get into a good college. People talk about grade point average and SAT’s, you know– as though I worked hard, did well in school and killed that standardized test, now i’m going to get into a good college. Bullshit. All that stuff, those years of labor, homework and toil at the one time in your life when you have social and sexual access to fourteeen year old girls– all that just gets you to zero. All that gets you to the point where you won’t be instantly eliminated from the first round of applicant pool. Continue reading
Diary: Noise Pollution
11 MayGood morning.
Out in the park. Naturally there is some kind of gas powered machine being used to loudly mow down brush. Every fucking day with this shit. God fucking forbid they do it between the hours of nine and five on a weekday, when every productive member of society is somewhere else. No, they MUST do it at 8AM, in my approximately 40 minutes of time to myself.
And if it’s not the city clearing brush that will force coyotes, rattlesnakes and scorpions into people’s yards to mangle their pets, it’s a guy working out of his home wood shop and running a whining, keening lathe that he hasn’t adequately lubed for his woodworking project, which, fine, good– it’s cool that he’s into woodworking. That sounds like a fun rewarding hobby where you actually get tangible fruits for your labors, and must be a balm for the soul in this era of work for nothing. Work to avoid getting yelled at.
But still. This guy is retired. Between nine and five on a weekday he is jerking off and reading woodworking magazines, and then Saturday 8AM rolls around and it’s time to fire up rickety screechy lathes, routers, sanders and jigsaws. It’s time to make a thousand foot radius around his garage sound like a pack of dinosaurs were undergoing sexual torture. Continue reading
New Book
delicioustacos 