Saturday, December 29, 2007

Mercedes Benz

There weren’t any nice glasses to drink out of so I sipped cheap whiskey out of a coffee mug. The whiskey was not only cheap, but it was stolen. They took it from a party that they had attended earlier in the week. They probably were drunk, hence the reason they stole the cheap stuff. Beggars can’t be choosers though, so I sipped my cheap, stolen whiskey from a coffee mug gratefully.

My seat was an old chair with patterned upholstery that I shared with a semi folded blanket and a stuffed monkey. The desk to my right was black and had emerald knobs on the drawers. It reminded me of Oz.

The record player blasted Janis Joplin. It seemed fitting.

“I’m glad you’re around more often.”

“Me too.”

Whiskey soothed my throat and I put my arm around the monkey.

There’s no place like home.

Tuesday, December 11, 2007

Water into Wine

I've read the stories of ordinary people living by faith, walking on water and healing others of their diseases, men and women changing the world through faith in something unseen.

Lord, I’m not so sure that I have the faith to even say you’re name anymore. The thought of water doesn’t make me want to walk across it, but maybe hold my head under for as long as it takes. And for the healing, I can’t even mend my broken heart, let alone a woman with an issue of blood.

Please change this water into wine so that I might have faith.
Make it so intoxicating that I forgot my transgressions.
Intoxicate me so that I might believe.
You should just take a drink so that you’ll forget all about me.

Friday, December 07, 2007

Talking with your mouth full.

Sam didn't like the ink blot tests. He didn't like all of the probing questions about his childhood either. His parents never beat him nor did anyone ever molest him. Even though he was a nosy kid he never even found his dad's Playboys stashed under the basement stairs.

Regardless of what everyone thought, Sam was a pretty normal kid. The only difference was how he saw truth, or actually the lack there of. Depending on the person and the extent of their delusions, lies or just plain bull shit, their words would manifest into tangible objects.

One day it might be jelly beans, the next it might be marbles. Unfortunately, some days it would be a bit grimmer as it might be ants, bees or even scorpions. Sam preferred the jelly beans.

His shrink talked and talked and talked. Sam listened to every word that came out of her mouth, but he never made eye contact. Even though she seemed sincere the obvious signs helped him determine that she was full of shit, because that's all he could see coming out of her mouth.

Through out her monologue the consistency of the fecal matter would change. Sometimes it would crumble out her jaws as though she just took a big bite and was chewing with her mouth open. Moments later it might squeeze out as if her head was a giant Play-Doh Fun Factory. And when she got heated about him not looking at her, explosive diarrhea splattered the walls.

Similar to seeing dead people, you could understand how this “gift” might traumatize an adolescent. Sam took it all in stride though, mainly because he was waiting for the day that he might meet someone who only had words come out of their mouth when they spoke.

Monday, November 26, 2007

Love at First Sight

The music had been pumping through the sound system all night. Michael Jackson songs from when he was black were a favorite of those whose ears would be ringing for days. Lay a dance track on top of it and people go ape shit, similar to the way they did when Michael Jackson wasn't white.

It had been a long week, so he welcomed this Friday night with open arms and a thirst for the good stuff. He drank his fair share of PBR, chased by a couple of High Life's after the tall boys ran out. Dancing wasn't his thing, but he liked watching. When he was a child he would laugh as his mother shimmied around the living room to the records that Michael Jackson had released when he still appeared to be from this planet. Those were good memories of not only his mother, but the supposed King of Pop.

The Georgia humidity had turned the place into a fucking sauna, but the people refused to succumb to the demands of the sweltering heat. They had to keep moving, dancing, pulsating and most importantly, forgetting about their lives outside this building. Leave your bull shit at the door. This was fucking Never Land.

One of the girls stood out from the rest. She wasn't dancing for anyone's attention. Her movement to the music was for herself. Fuck getting laid. This is where she found orgasmic pleasure.

It wasn't until he had finished up the last of his beer that he noticed her. Most men were drawn to her choice of apparel, but that's not what captivated him, it was her freedom. Standing by the door waiting for the song to end, his eyes could not be averted.

Like a sixth sense she felt someone watching her. She opened her eyes as the music escalated and zeroed in on her singular audience. Blushing because he had been caught, his body stammered, but his sole focus was intrigued, so she did what so many men wanted, put on a show.

Locking in on his eyes, every bend of the knee and swing of the hip became for his pleasure. With his lanky frame, sand paper face and messy hair that appeared to be trying to escape from underneath his mesh hat, he rarely was the adoration of a beautiful woman. "Fuck it!" he thought, he wasn't going to let this pass him by.

With his beams on high and bright he became enveloped for the last two and a half minutes of this fantasy. Subconsciously he named her Billie Jean or BJ or maybe it was just Sally, it didn't fucking matter. She was all he ever wanted in an object, a virgin bride or a cum receptacle, it was all the same to him, a big fucking hole with a pulse.

While his lust grew wilder and more manic, he imagined them alone violating one another, stretching things out and getting bloody. Their fluids running together blending into a shade reminiscent of a rotting orange in a trash can.

When the song concluded their sunken eyes penetrated each other's sockets, like two dykes ass-to-ass with a silicone dildo bridging the gap. He decided to make his move. "Now or never." he muttered under his breath. The floor seemed to be lit with each foot step that he took. Every forward motion shot doses of adrenaline and testosterone through him as if this experience was climactic for his whole body.

As he approached her, he extended his hand knowing that it would probably be the only thing that would be pointing at her tonight. She reached out to him. With their moment coming to a breaking point she briefly paused before making connection. Shrugging his shoulders, his mouth formed a smirked and she sighed.

He handed her a crumpled up dollar bill. She put it in her garter with the rest of the tips that she had made that night and made her way back to the stage.

Thursday, November 15, 2007

I am your father.

"Are you even listening to me?"

The Krispy Kreme like glaze that was covering his face instantly melts away.

"Huh? Yeah I'm listening."

"What was I just talking about then?" She says as she fidgets around eventually crossing her legs in the least provocative way as possible.


He rubs his eyes with the back of his hand.

"I'm sorry. I've just been distracted lately."

Downing the rest of her coffee as though it might ease some sort of pain, she stands to her feet and unleashes her insecurities.

"Well, I'm sorry that I bore you."

He shakes his head. "It's not like that."

"Another girl?"

"I wish."


"I'm out of here." She grabs her bag and heads towards the door, all the while giving him a look that could rival the Death Star's Super Laser.

He half way stands up to chase her down, but ends up just muttering to himself, "I didn't mean it like that."

The people in the shop are talking and laughing without a care in the world. All of his cares are focused on another world.

"Maybe it's not another world." He thinks to himself.

"Maybe I'm just crazy." He says under his breath.

"You know, you're not the first one to think that."

He rockets out of his seat. "Please not here!"

His eyes survey the room to see if anyone else heard.

"Don't worry they can't hear me. They're not listening."

He cautiously sits back down. "If they listened could they here you?"

"They could, but it would sound different to them."

"Why is that?"

The Voice begins to laugh.

"Everyone hears me differently and for starters, not everyone is as obsessed with Star Wars as you are."

Crossing his arms he reclines back. "Why do you think I'm obsessed with Star Wars?"

"Because you make me sound like James Earl Jones in your head."

Tuesday, November 13, 2007

Fat Head

Bill was fat.

He was so fat that he could actually eat off of his belly while he was standing up. The idea of being furniture-like had never crossed his mind before, but he was enjoying it. The coffee table was out by the dump a few days later.

Bill wasn't always fat. When he was younger he was very skinny with a metabolism that could compete with any Zimbabwean. Cross Country was his favorite sport in high school, along with basketball and swimming. Often times he thought about how he could swim like a dolphin back then, but now he was a whale.

One time he had a dream that he was at a swim meet and was trying to glide through the water like a dolphin in his new whale body, but he couldn't keep up. So he just waited for the other swimmers to come back the other direction. When they finally arrived 5.7 seconds later he opened up his big mouth like a whale would and he ate them all, every single one of them. And they were tasty!

When he woke up from this dream he didn't know whether it was a nightmare or not. Trying to make a decision on this matter, he went to the kitchen and made himself a tuna sandwich, which claimed to be dolphin free.

After much thought, Bill decided that it was not a nightmare, but actually a right of passage. He had evolved. He was no longer weak, he was strong. He once was lost, but now he had been found.


Sunday, November 04, 2007

The proof is in the pelvic thrust.

If we can't see eye to eye

Maybe we can see thigh to thigh.

Take the division in our heads

And make some friction in the bed.

Now I will and you won't

And the cycle will start again.

Thursday, October 25, 2007

Another Voice

“What are you doing?”

Hearing a random voice would startle most people, but he just sat up in bed in a very nonchalant manner.


“I said, “What are you doing”?” The voice sounded annoyed.

“Oh. Well, I’m just trying to get some sleep.”

“Ah, another lazy night in, eh? Seems like you’ve been wasting a lot of time lately.”

With reluctance to answer the question, he started glancing around the room to see if this was really happening.

“Well, I’ve been pretty busy lately and can’t afford to get sick. What’s it to you?”

A low growling sound could be heard coming from the walls.

“How dare you take a tone with me?”

The room felt thick as the voice intensified.

“Dude, I don’t even know who you are.”

“You know who I am!” The voice hissed.

“Well, you sure as hell aren’t that other voice that talks to me.”

“It’s funny you mention hell.” Chuckled the entity.

Wednesday, October 17, 2007

Before I speak, I have something important to say.

The alarm clock wakes me up, but I close my eyes and try to fall back asleep. Why can't I be this tired when it's time to go to bed? Instead of sleeping I spend the late minutes of the night and sometimes the wee hours of the morning staring at the ceiling.

Reading offers no solace because it all looks jumbled at 4am and I usually start seeing disturbing images in the words like an inkblot test. Maybe I'm Batman or Jack the Ripper or "Groucho" Marx.

The TV is usually only playing infomercials where that guy runs in place on his funny little contraption. He runs the way I would imagine a two legged gazelle would run. I wonder if he knows that his hair was never in style and that there's no real point to yelling at toned, spandex-wearing women who have come to the future from the 80's, maybe this commercial is just that old.

For some reason the radio station seems to be playing techno and I drift back to sleep. The club is dark and the women are all naked. Some girl in bondage approaches me, she proceeds to bend me over her knee and starts spanking me to the beat of the music. As I struggle to escape she keeps yelling at me to clean my room. Finally, I break free, but I'm naturally running in slow motion, maybe it's just the strobe lights or maybe I'm just doing the robot. When I look back to see if I'm being pursued, she's become my mother.

We embrace, she melts. Maybe Freud was right.

Monday, October 08, 2007

Life, Love and Seperation: a story told through haikus

I understand love
Maybe I should get married
To understand hate


Let us become one
Guilt trip and manipulate
Till death do us part


When I said “I do”
Forever was just a word
Not reality


Love at first sight? Eh.
Lust at first fuck? You know it!
Left at first chance? Yes!!!


Now it’s all over
No regrets come to my mind
But staying so long

Friday, October 05, 2007

Feel the Burn

I’ve been thinking a lot about pain lately. It’s come up in many conversations and it seems to be a current theme with a lot of people that I care about, but then again, when is it not? It’s fucking everywhere. We all have heartbreaking stories of loss. That seems to be all that pain really is in a sense, a loss of something. People die, get divorced, lose their jobs, cut ties, etc, etc, etc

My philosophy lately has been to face it, accept it, let it all in, let it consume you, but just for a while though. Everyone handles pain differently. I’m quite the extravert so I try and talk it out. If it’s really bad I do tend to go inside my shell. One of my friends laughs nervously when he’s discussing a painful situation. Others obviously cry and some just don’t face it at all. I kind of don’t blame them.

Pain builds character though, if we let it. It causes growth if that’s what we want, but it can also unfortunately define you, if you let it.

As hard as things can get sometimes, I never want to let myself be defined by pain and loss.

Thursday, September 27, 2007

Monday, September 17, 2007

It's lonely at the top.

She’s pretty. Her hair is long and blonde. Her body is perfect. Tits all day, legs forever, abs that you can climb and an ass that makes your mouth water! She’s the trophy that you won back in High School. She was the perk you got when you lettered in Varsity. They didn’t tell her to suck your cock, but she wanted to. She felt it was her responsibility. So you fucked that perfect body and you pulled that platinum hair. And that’s where it all started.

Your three story house sits on two acres with a chain link fence enclosing the backyard where the dog runs back and forth chasing birds and barking at children, creating a trail of dirt that is as wide as his body and as far as he can run. There’s a pool where she tans every summer and a basketball goal that reminds you that you’re not 18 anymore. Don’t forget about the trampoline and the tree house you built for the kids, but they’ve long outgrown it as they strive to letter just like daddy.

Your vehicle is mountainous and so is the monthly payment but it has power everything, a V8 engine and even heated leather interior. It’s maxed out with GPS, satellite radio, a MP3 player, flat panel screens, DVD players and a stereo system that makes you want to orgasm every time you hear Mick Jagger tell you that he can’t get no fucking satisfaction.

Your office is located in the corner of the building glaring at the city. You’ve lied, cheated and stolen to get to where you’re at. But you’re the best sales man they’ve got. You could sell a vibrator to a preacher’s wife on Sunday morning right after she took communion and recited the 23rd Psalm.

Who needs a vibrator though when you can just fuck?

And fucking is what you do best, whether it’s in the sack or by ass raping an oblivious client who’s going to feel the effects as soon as they get over the pillow talk, even with the freshest intern with the tightest body who thinks giving head is the way to the top. But this isn’t fucking High School anymore. You don’t promote every broad that sucks your cock and you’re not going to feel remorse for some moron who won’t read the fine fucking print.

Saturday, September 15, 2007

Head On

I wrote this little piece back in 2004. It was probably the first thing that I had ever written that had some creativity about it and wasn't just me rambling on. I've re-written it a little bit, but it's pretty much the same deal. Honestly, I never thought that I would still be consistently writing 3 years later.

Head on

It's a head on collision where both parties are at fault. Everyone’s crying while getting out their cell phones to call the police. No one is injured physically.

Mentally, emotionally and spiritually we're all out of our minds, but a feeling of peace washes over us as we realize that everyone is going to be alright.

You gain a deeper respect for this emotional vehicle once you've wrecked it. Should I repair it or total it out and let the insurance pick it up? But not even insurance will cover all of the repairs needed.

So many great memories were had in this automobile. Remember the first drive, after our first kiss? Your hair looked the way my heart felt that day, on fire. You were gorgeous, a classic beauty on par with the Marilyn Monroe’s and Audrey Hepburn’s, in your own little way of course.

I didn't need headlights that evening to see in the dark because our smiles we're beaming so bright, the other drivers had to wear sunglasses to keep from being blinded. It was the moment after an eclipse.

With all new cars, you keep the maintenance up pretty well for the first few months or so, while it still feels "new". What makes that new car smell go away? Is it the cigarettes and the fast food? Maybe I should vacuum the upholstery or detail the inside.

"I'll do it later." I remember thinking to myself.

Maybe I should've kept a check list, but does true love really require a checklist?

As we collided, I saw the fear in your eyes and the terror in your heart through the adjacent wind shields. Confused, I thought it was your reflection because at the split second I was reaching over to the passenger seat to protect you, but you weren’t there.

When did we get into separate cars?

Thursday, September 13, 2007

In One Accord

When the first man was created by the Cosmos a long, long time ago he was all alone, so they say. He had his own opinions, beliefs and the only recollection of anything that had ever happened. Since he was the only man alive, obviously his were the only opinions, beliefs and recollections of anything that had ever happened that actually counted. There was no one to disprove him, even if he was wrong. Life was good.

The Cosmos then decided to mix it up a bit.

Shortly after this decision, woman showed up and naturally the shit hit the fan and they disagreed on everything that there was that could be disagreed on. Now there were two opinions, beliefs and recollections of anything that had ever happened, thus making two sides to every story. Since their opinions, beliefs and now two recollections of anything that had ever happened were equally disagreeable it caused for the Cosmos to convene and agree that their ultimately had to be three sides to every story; Man's, Woman's and what really happened or that which was really true.

Good grief, sighed the Cosmos.

Then man decided to reproduce. Once the exhausting process was complete it created an inevitable chain reaction of more people having conflicting opinions, beliefs and more recollections of anything that had ever happened.

The Cosmos were not prepared for this and started to reconsider it's little science project.

Time went on as it always does and some decided that the idea of three sides to every story was no longer true and there now needed to be multiple sides to every story, even if they were in agreement on the major points, but because some of the minor details were a bit fuzzy. These new beliefs obviously created a faction. The title of those who were more focused on the disagreement of minor details regarding "opinions" became known as Political and those equally in disagreement on minor details but were more hung up on "beliefs" were called Religious.

These two new groups had much potential but the Cosmos were never asked to convene, therefore pissing them off. Technically, there were still only three sides to every story, despite man's efforts to go at it alone and create their own systems. Since these systems were man-made, they naturally lacked harmony and once more the shit began to hit the fan.

Now usually when someone stopped believing in the idea of there being three sides to every story they were moved into one of the afore mentioned groups of Political or Religious by the man made system (the Cosmos could care less).

Until one day, someone began to question their own opinions, beliefs and recollections of anything that had ever happened regarding not only the minor details, but the major points as well. This self doubt naturally brought about sympathy for the opposing view point. “Maybe they were right?”

As this conflict in belief began to spread, the Cosmos were approached for guidance, once again, and rightly so.

The Cosmos accepted and convened and it's always a serious matter when the Cosmos convene because they can't be bothered with matters of small importance like conflicting opinions, beliefs and recollections of anything that had ever happened regarding only minor details. They then decided that this new group with much self doubt and sympathy for the opposing parties views on major points and minor details regarding opinions, beliefs and more recollections on anything that that had ever happened was good and would bring balance.

They also decided that the name of this new group would be those who "agree to disagree".

And the Cosmos rejoiced.

Tuesday, September 11, 2007

Get Rich Quick!!!

Yesterday, my day was spent sitting in a folding chair at a folding table waiting for people who were learning how to become rich come to my table and buy something that would help my company become rich which would in turn help me pay my rent. Not many people came to my table so I decided to write haiku's about corporate America which is where I spend about 1/3 of my life.

I'm so inspired.


Facade: Three Piece Suit
Neck Tie Is My Noose
Death Brings Sweet Relief


I have set my goal
Climb that corporate ladder
Bottom rung for life


Fucking Polo Shirt
Awful Khaki Pants
Job Requirements!


Meetings all morning
Paper work just grows higher
Cubicle bonfire!

Thursday, September 06, 2007

Barely Legal

It seems like a lot of life is focused around beverages, at least the social aspect of life. These aren’t just any beverages though they’re “Adult” beverages! The word “Adult” is funny.

Adult Beverages

Adult Movies

Adult Swim

I googled the word “Adult” to see what would come up. Thankfully, Wikipedia has taken over a lot of internet searches so it came up #1, but Adult Friend Finder was #2. Adult Swim managed to get the #3 spot. Good for those guys. It’s all porno after that though.

It’s kind of funny how it’s called “Adult” content or “Adult” movies, but the people watching them are mainly in to the adults that are barely legal.

I wonder if anyone ever googles the word “Adult” looking for porn, but gets distracted by the Adult Swim link and just starts watching episodes of Robot Chicken. That’d be more fulfilling in the long run. I wonder if anyone ever reads my blog, but gets distracted by the Adult Swim link and just starts watching episodes of Robot Chicken. That’d be more fulfilling in the long run.

Back to the beverages! It’s the same thing though, the ones who probably drink the most of the alcoholic adult beverages are those who are barely adults. They’re probably the same ones getting naked in those “Adult” videos.

What’s interesting to me is that most social settings are based around liquid that you put in your body, Coffee and Alcohol. I think coffee is my favorite beverage. I might just like it better than beer. Seriously though, you can drink it all day long and get in your car and not get into any trouble at a road block.

“Have you been drinking?”

“Yes sir!”

“Please step out of the car!”

“Just coffee man, just coffee.”

I can picture Mitch Hedberg saying that. Imagine being a cop and pulling Mitch over when he was still alive. That would probably would've been really entertaining. It sure would beat pulling Lindsay Lohan over. Unless, she was naked because you know, she’s barely legal.

Monday, September 03, 2007

Men at Work

“What kind of music do you like?”

I know what she’s going to say before the words even leave her lips.

“I like everything.”

How generic. Why do I even try to make conversation with these people?

“Of course, you do. Want to be a little more specific?”

She squirms. Why do people squirm when you ask them what they like to rock to?

I know the answer to this question, we all do it. I do it. We don’t want anyone to “dis” our collection, the music we truly connect with. Granted, if you connect with Michael Bolton you’ll probably be a little embarrassed and rightfully so. What I love is when people spout off bands they like because they think you’re going to think they’re awesome because they like “old” Creed and Puddle of Mud.

I’m at work though. I’ve listened to better music than most of these people since I was 16, so I feel superior.

“Ummm…I like David Crowder Band.”

Shit, It’s worse than I thought.

Every girl that has believed in Jesus in the last 5 years likes David fucking Crowder Band. I don’t even want to listen to the guy. Maybe I owe it to him though. I think I know what he’s doing. Christian girls are so unsuspecting.

“Every Christian girl likes David Crowder Band. I want to see a picture of this guy.”

“Ohh he’s really weird looking. “

Bob Dylan is weird looking, but I’m pretty sure he got more ass than a toilet seat.

Yeah the guy is pretty ugly, but he’s eccentric, but only in a Christian kind of way, but that’s all he needs. I’ve proved my point, at least to myself. He’s in it for the nookie and I’m waiting for a lightning bolt to strike me any time now.

The rest of my coworkers gather as we’re waiting for a company wide meeting.

As they all start listening to our conversation I decide to address them all in a "Sermon on the Mount" kind of way.

“You guys ever heard of David Bazan?

There’s a resounding “no”.

“He’s kind of a Christian, he's had a couple of bands, but he mainly plays solo these days. You guys probably wouldn’t like him though.” I act as though I'm starting to lose interest in the conversation and that's not too far from the truth.

“Why’s that?”

They fall in to the trap.

"Well, he likes church about as much as I do. He even has a song where he talks about the Holy Spirit trying to tell someone to shut the fuck up."

A couple chuckle, but most of their jaws are on the floor.

I know what she’s going to say before the words even leave her lips.

“He doesn’t sound like a Christian to me.”

“And that, is exactly why I like him.”

Tuesday, August 28, 2007

Three Poems

I decided to write some poems last night. The theme is Sex, Drugs and Rock n' Roll. They might be inappropriate for children, so hold off on reading A Mind Awake as bed time stories on this entry.


Pulling at her bra

Taking off my shirt

Moving pretty quick here

Probably going to hurt

Hands tight around her throat

Nails digging in my back

Seems to be enjoying her self

Though she’s fading to black

Waking up again

Penetrating her ass

Might be a bad idea

Until she starts to laugh


Drank a fifth of whiskey

Enjoyed a bottle of rum

Finished off the vodka

Wasn’t even close to done

White lines seem endless

Pills are scattered galore

Roll up another joint

Always ready for some more

Kidneys are starting to fail me

Thinking my liver just popped

On my way to rehab

Probably best if I stop

Rock n’ Roll

Listening to this music

Trying to decide

Was it really worth it

Committing suicide

Four chords straight to heaven

Drum solos till you die

Sounds so generic

Double platinum lies

It’s supposed to bring freedom

Place where we can go

Just paid $80

Sitting on the last row

Monday, August 27, 2007

There's no place like home.

I’ve been thinking a lot about decisions lately, I guess that’s probably because I’ve been making a lot of them lately. Some of them have been good and some of them have probably been bad, but I guess what it really comes down to is whether they’re right or wrong. Believe it or not, some decisions that are good aren’t always right and vice versa, but that’s probably just a matter of philosophy or a person’s point of view.

The thing about decisions is that we make them based on dreams, fantasies and expectations of something that we think is better than what we currently have. So when you’re making decisions based on fantasies you can really get yourself into a lot of trouble. As we all seem to find out, fantasies are exactly that, fantasies. I’ve seen a lot of my friends make decisions based on a fantasy. They usually come back broken and beaten down. I don’t exclude myself from these ridiculous actions. Happens to the best of us though. We’re all trying to live the dream so to speak.

I think you’ve truly found the person you love when you close your eyes and the same person you see in the darkness is the same person who’s right in front of you in the light.

One time I read this story about how this guy wanted to marry this girl but he kept on having weird reservations about the whole thing. As he went deeper his main issue was really not about her, but it was the fact that she wasn’t 10 other women.

It seems kind of funny to me when people say “sweet dreams”. I mean, I know it’s just a kind gesture, but my dreams are rarely sweet. Maybe someone should say it to me more often. I don’t have bad dreams though, but they‘re never good. I don’t have nightmares, but then again, maybe I do and they just don’t scare me.

I never have sweet dreams.

When my life is out of control which is pretty much most of the time I dream about tornadoes. In my dream last night I was sitting in a house and tornadoes we’re swarming around, trees were being uprooted and people we’re getting sucked into it. I’m never afraid though because they never get me. They seem to dodge me as though I’m more powerful than the storm. That probably has some sort of significance that you don’t need a dream dictionary to tell you. It’s pretty obvious to me.

Some of my decisions have caused these tornadoes though, I’ve caused the upheaval and unfortunately some people have gotten sucked in, but at the end of the dream everybody seems to be ok and glad that’s it’s finally over. I look forward to that grand finale.

Maybe I’ll finally get sucked in and it will end it all. Maybe, It’ll take me to Oz. Anywhere is probably better than here right now.

Thursday, August 23, 2007





"How's it going?"


"Yeah…it's been a while."

"It has. How are you?"

"I'm ok."

"It's nice to talk to you again."

"I thought you might be mad."

"I know. I'm not though."

"But I haven't talked to you in a few months."

"Most haven't, but I never get mad."

"Man, that'd bum me out."

"It does sometimes, but then they come back."

"Do they usually feel bad about it?"

"The sincere ones do."

"I'm sincere."

"I know you are, but you don't have to feel bad about it."

"Thank you."

Tuesday, August 21, 2007

I'm addicted

You know what goes really good with coffee?

Good Reads!

A friend of mine invited me to this site back in April and I've never done anything with it until today. Posting all of the books that I can remember that I've read and checking out what other people have read and are reading is so addictive.

I have 22 books up and all but 1 have a simple review. I've posted all of these today.

If you like reading and what to join up feel free to add me as your friend.

Monday, August 20, 2007

"Neverland makes you forget..."

It comes to me.

It's there.

I see exactly how it would unfold.

I repeat it under my breath a dozen times. Surely, it will not be forgotten. My eyes shut and I drift away to a magical land of talking cars and flying rabbits where words do not exist in their proper form nor do I care.

I'm sure I'm not the only one, but I always try to read in my dreams and I can't seem to do it, it's just another way that I realize I'm truly dreaming. You can call me an illiterate dreamer, if you'd like.

I just now remembered that I forgot "it".

So now opposed to writing "it" I am now writing about its non-existence. An older and wiser friend once told me that "if you don't write it down, it doesn't exist". How true, old friend…

I wonder what "it" was.

Would it have ended up as something memorable or just another Word document that I move into the recycling bin? Sometimes I wish I had a type writer just so that I can act like a frustrated god that creates a mountainous range of paper that causes the waste basket to appear as a volcano erupting with bad ideas.

But with as much as I back space, delete and trash all together, the PC is probably my best bet. I'm yet to toss one of these out the window, but then again, I wouldn't put it past me.

"When I wanted to forget, it killed me to remember and when I wanted to remember, I had the good fortune to forget."

Tuesday, August 14, 2007

Can't Knock the Hustle

Two buckets of PBR later and I’m zoning out to some TV show that every guy in the place can’t seem to take their eyes off of. Since I don’t have cable I have to inquire about why people are stripping to music videos. Apparently it’s a new kind of game show. People making fools out of themselves on camera is always much more interesting when it’s muted.

And I thought “The Price is Right” was complicated.

After a dizzying conversation about strip clubs due to the intellectual content sliming us on the big screen he decides it would be a good idea for introductions.

“What’s your name man?”

“I’m Johnny.”

“Nice to meet you man. You can call me Vo…” He trails off. “or Floyd.”

A strange handshake involving palm smacking, finger juggling and eyebrow raising commences.

“It’s nice to meet you Floyd.”

“Or you can call me Vodka.”

Vodka? So that’s what he said.

I realize what he prefers, but if he would rather be called “Vodka” then why give me options? Refusing to call anyone an alcoholic beverage unless it’s Jack, Johnny, Jim or Jose, I continue.

“So what do you do Floyd?”

He shifts his weight and glances up at the ceiling before staring out over the bar and deciding to speak.

“I’m a hustler man… but it’s legal.”

What a coincidence, a con man at a poker game. He must not be very good though. This game was free to play. The only thing you can win here is gift certificates. Maybe he hustles for PBR. I noticed him eye balling my bucket.

“Some guys are hustla’s, but I’m a hustler.”

I have no idea what this means, but for some reason he feels the need to justify his line of work to a white boy who grew up in the suburbs of Kentucky. So I just keep nodding my head and saying “Ok.” like I understand what he’s talking about.

After he realizes, like our previous conversation about strip clubs that I have no idea what we’re talking about he walks off mumbling something about it being nice to meet me. I watch as my new found friend joins a new group of drunks and my eyes find their way back to amateurs dancing badly to old Britney Spear’s videos

Other than the time I witnessed a mugging and ran away, this is the only other moment in my life that I actually feel like I’m a part of a Jay-Z song.

“I got extensive hoes, with expensive clothes
and I sip wine, and spit vintage flows
but y'all don't know...”

Thursday, August 09, 2007

And so it goes...

Back in April when Kurt Vonnegut died every blogger ever, seriously, all of them, posted "Kurt Vonnegut died and life isn't worth living anymore" entries. After scanning over 60 or so of them I decided that I should go ahead and read Slaughterhouse Five.

Yeah, I'm surprised I had never read it either, but in all honesty I only really started reading about 8 years ago. Like most people I was never a big fan of reading the books that I was forced to read, not to mention I was an idiot, but after I got out of school I really started to enjoy reading. Anyway, I read Slaughterhouse Five and realized why everyone wrote "Kurt Vonnegut died and life isn't worth living anymore" entries.

So maybe I'm about 4 months short, but maybe this could be my "Kurt Vonnegut died and life isn't worth living anymore" entry. Or it could be the "I just finished reading A Man With out a Country and I don't want to be an American anymore because Kurt Vonnegut despised our current government etc" entry. I guess you can decide for yourself.

It seems to be in our human nature to only really appreciate something or someone until it's gone. That's pretty disgusting if you think about it. I remember when Johnny Cash died and lots of people came up to me and told me that they were sorry about my loss like he was my fucking grandfather or something. I feel like Johnny Cash was everyone's grandfather, but only if you wanted him to be. I feel the same way about Kurt Vonnegut.

I was writing this story the other day that I never did anything with about my grandfather. It was describing our last conversation before he died. Despite the fact that my grandpa never did anything that great to affect my life other than conceive my father and come to my class's grandparents show n' tell day when I was in third grade, I still wish I could've got to know him a little better. The sad part is I could've.

Grandpa never wrote any songs or books that I know of, but I'm pretty sure he had volumes of them in his head. His death could definitely be chocked up as a loss though.

Talking about all of these old guys dying makes me wonder who the next person is that's going to croak and everyone is going to be sad about it and act like they idolized him or her the way they supposedly worshipped Johnny Cash and Kurt Vonnegut.

At the end of the day, the general public wouldn't have given a shit about Johnny Cash when he died if it wasn't for Rick Rubin and I think only bloggers and other dorks who read too much really felt the loss of Kurt Vonnegut, naturally.

I wonder what it's going to be like when Paris Hilton dies.

Wednesday, August 08, 2007

Army of One

I think I've convinced myself of a permanent conclusion. You can't convince anyone of anything. You might be able to get them thinking, but ultimately people are going to do what they want to do regardless of whether they're right or not, even if they think and know they're wrong. It's understandable, not everything is black and white. We want the pros to outweigh the cons. We all want to get laid.

With that said though, I'm resigning my position of ever trying to convince anyone of anything. Do I think Brittany Spears sucks? Why yes I do, will I try to convince you otherwise? No. Please understand, this isn't just limited to music. It goes for everything.

What it really comes down to with my thoughts on Brittany and any other matter is that at the end of the day, I don't really fucking care and I'm pretty sure you don't either.

We're all stubborn. We all know it all. None of us need any of us. We are all we'll ever need.

I'm just going to nod in agreement. Smile when I'm supposed to. Drink to whatever we're drinking to and forget that I ever said anything. Bottoms up!

Monday, August 06, 2007

Talking to hear my own voice.

Man, weird stuff going on lately. Can you believe that bridge collapsed? It’s not like it’s the first bridge to collapse ever, but that doesn’t happen everyday, at least not in the US. Maybe in Iraq or Afganistijkdhgjxfh or some place where they don’t know what the internet or peanut butter is. Fucking Minnesota! It’s sad the only thing they are known for is a bridge collapsing and the Mall of America, oh and trading away Kevin Garnett.

It’s like the end of the world there, not to mention their state drink is milk.

Seriously though, the guy who makes all these big decisions for your team use to play for the Boston Celtics and then he trades one of the best players in the league to the fucking Celtics for a bunch of shitty dudes and two guys who haven’t even been drafted yet. That sounds so much like a conspiracy that I bet Kevin McHale had something to do with that bridge collapse and the eventual destruction of Minnesota in its entirety.

He would be the perfect sleeper cell if you think about it. The NBA has turned into a bunch of thugs, why can’t the white dudes be terrorists. It would be very unsuspecting. I’m going to be paying close attention to Mark Price and Jeff Hornacek. They look like the same fucking person, not to mention you can see the terror in their eyes!

Amongst other things, my anxiety has been acting up a lot these past few days. For those who don’t have bad anxiety, it basically means I get crazy for no reason. You know heavy breathing, dizzy spells, teeth grinding, etc. All of this can happen for a variety of reasons. The silliest reasons as of late have been staff meetings and driving over bridges!!! I feel like I’m being robbed here. I was afraid of bridges way before it was cool to be afraid of bridges and now everyone is going to be afraid of driving over bridges. Minnesota, you're stealing my thunder.

I also don’t like flying on airplanes. It's nothing new, but I just don't like being high in the air without anything really supporting me. I’m actually feeling an anxiety attack coming on right now just because I’m thinking about it. You should've seen me watching Spider Man 3!

Ok, it subsided. I just started thinking happy thoughts, you know, like about the internet, peanut butter and the idea that Georgia's State drink is probably Kool-Aid.

Friday, August 03, 2007

Thief in the Night

Liquid splattered on his canvass with a grace that this world had never known and he was surprisingly quick, yet elegant. Such precision and detail; but if you blinked you might just miss something, possibly the one movement that brought it all together.

And he was so thorough; his technique and ability could be seen with each stroke of his instrument. He was a master, but not just of art, his mystique was undeniable.

Unfortunately, none could see the beauty in each of his endeavors, the final result always ending in masterpiece. Yet they were still plagued by worldly eyes to not see the gift that had been given to them. They didn’t even know his name. For if they did he would’ve been locked up and they wouldn’t have just thrown away the key, it would’ve been destroyed; and him shortly after.

The people coined a name for him, but that’s what happens when you’re a legend. The peons made him famous through their supposed hate, but it was actually disguised adoration. And even though they were the ones to make him famous, he only made himself known to but 5 of them.

They demand and you supply and once you’ve delivered, they will never forget you.

And that is exactly what he wanted, along with their livers.

Wednesday, August 01, 2007

Desperate times call for desperate measures.

Open your eyes.

Get out of bed.

Walk to the sink.

When you’re depressed you have to think out one step at a time. If you don’t you might just lose it, only to find yourself back in the real world 5 hours later crying in a corner wondering why you’re covered in your own shit and mumbling about dragons.

Pick up your tooth brush.

Paste it.

Look in the mirror.

My eyes seem to stay permanently blood shot these days and my 5 o’clock shadow has rapidly grown into a 3 day progression seemingly overnight. Then again, I could’ve been asleep for a week. I wonder if I still have a job. And where the fuck is my cat?

Brush teeth.

Turn on the shower.


I’ve learned to gauge the level of my depression by how frequently I can pound the pork. If go at it at least once a day, then I usually don’t contemplate ending it all. Twice in one day means I can leave the house and 5 or 6 times means I should leave the house. It only worries me when I don’t want to polish it off. This depresses me further. I remember that I don’t have a cat.

Get dressed.

Rub another one out.

Make yourself go to work.

I wonder if Ghandi ever jerked it.

Monday, July 23, 2007

Nature Calls

You could see it forming over the tree tops in the west. The funnel was so large that it appeared to be moving pretty slow, but that was because it blocked most of my view in its direction. I was heading northwest. This was going to be interesting.

Everyone started slowing down or even turning around because it seemed that we would be crossing paths in the very near future. It was coming quick.

Foolishly, I kept going.

“If it’s going to get me, it’s going to get me.” Not very wise last words or even that cool sounding. I start going through the rolodex in my head thinking of tough one liner’s and memorable last words.

Clint Eastwood comes to mind.

“We’ve all got it comin’, kid!”

I say it out loud. It makes me feel brave.

I roll down my windows. Bruce Willis speaks to me.

“Yippy Kiya Mother Fucker!!”

Cars start speeding past. And I thought I was leading this charge. Glancing in my rearview mirror I see cars in the air. Another storm has formed behind me. I turn on the radio. “Born to Run” is blaring. I pump my fist.

I’m going 55 mph, but it feels like light speed in the rain and turbulence. I see a collage of wind and debris ahead. This is how God vandalizes.

The darkness closes in on me. The countdown begins:




And we have lift off. My car is flying. I am Neil Armstrong. I’m going to the moon. I name my car Apollo 11.

I tell “The Boss” that I love him and I close my eyes.

“Everybody’s out on the run tonight but there’s no place left to hide.”

Monday, July 16, 2007


After I open the front door and flip the light switch on they all jump out and scream "Happy Birthday!" Most people probably get excited regarding this modern day honor, even if they don't like surprises. Cake, presents and a party usually ensue. Who doesn't like that?

Me, I don't like it.

When I hear those god-awful words, the only thing that comes to mind is some guy who went to school for way too long putting his cold, lubricated hand up my asshole to check for a lumpy mass of tumory goodness. At my last physical, my doctor made mention of needing to get my prostate checked every year after I turn 40. It's haunted me ever since. I'm only 26, but I'm terrified.

The procedure is a lot like a surprise party though. I don't care how far in advance you know that it's going to take place, it's still more surprising than a bunch of people bum rushing you in jubilation of your birth.

Every birthday isn't a celebration of one more year of life for me anymore. It's turned into a count down of being one year closer to an annual fisting.

Wednesday, July 11, 2007

Come home, come home...

It's late. The weather is hot and muggy and I'm just trying to get home. A long straight road sits in front of me as I chase it down, only a few more hours left. The radio stations out in the country play exactly that. I scan on.

An old preacher comes through the scratchy reception. It sounds like a recording from the 30's and he seems really pissed off, but he keeps calling me "friend", so I keep listening. It's the same old same old, fire and brimstone, turn and burn, Jesus loves you and he just said "faggot". Can they even say that on the radio?

His words remind me of my childhood. "God hates sin, but loves the sinner." If God loves sinners then why do these preachers hate sinners? I never understood it.

And why do these guys always have to have southern accents?

Sometimes, if I listen closely I can still here them singing "Softly and Tenderly". The preacher screaming at the top of his lungs for the lost "souls" to come forward. Chorus after chorus he would shout all of the verses in the Good Book to coax the "heathens" forward. All of us kids sat on the back row passing notes and trying not to fall asleep while we poured sweat underneath our little suit and ties. Years later we realized that they turned the heat on in those summer months to create a hell-like scenario to scare us to the altar. They succeeded in creating the scenario, but I'm pretty sure it back fired on them, at least in my case.

Finally, after 8 choruses the preacher would dismiss us and let us go home. That's at least one thing we could thank God for, the cool air hitting our faces as we escaped that white-washed building. What was supposed to lead us to Heaven sure as hell felt a lot like purgatory, working off the sins we were yet to commit.

Thinking back there were never any visitors, only members at every service. The minister and traveling evangelist probably came in their pants if a visitor ever did show their face. They probably prayed that the lost would show up not so much that they could "save" them from the hell fire, but to give them one more opportunity to get another notch on their belts. Like fucking gun fighters, their weapon was more deadly than any killer though.

The "Word of God" is pretty fucking dangerous in the hands of ignorant men.

"Time is now fleeting, the moments are passing,
Passing from you and from me;
Shadows are gathering, deathbeds are coming,
Coming for you and for me."

Thursday, June 28, 2007

Going up...

“Going up Mr. Carroll?”

I smile and nod. “Going up Stanley.”

“9th floor?”

“You got it.”

When the door shuts, there’s a few seconds of silence before Stanley goes into his routine questions.

“Good day at the office Mr. Carroll?”

“It’s always a good day when I know I can go back tomorrow.”

Stanley chuckles.

The doors open and a couple of chatty bachelorettes dressed for a night on the town enter Stanley’s World.

“Good Evening Ladies.” Stanley says as he tips his hat.

The ladies barely acknowledge him with a glance and continue talking.

They remind me of hyenas. Their laughter is only between them and their conversation sounds of something average and predictable. I tune it out and they become white noise with measurements.

The louder of the two leads the way as they exit on the next floor, but before strutting down the hall like a runway model she makes sure to toss her hair and send me a piercing look, accompanied by a seductive wink. Her combo is seamless like she’s throwing a fireball, followed by a dragon punch to give her the KO in Street Fighter 2.

I’m not amused, nor do I play games anymore. But as I hold back and block, I contemplate a combo of my own, followed by a fatality, but like I said, no more games.

When we start moving again I notice Stanley is grinning and starting to laugh. I then realize that I’ve never seen Stanley not smiling.

“There’s not a thing in the world that can get you down, huh Stanley?”

The old attendant proceeds to look up at me with worn out eyes that manage to shine more life than most.

“Mr. Carroll, please excuse my language, but honestly, bitches ain’t shit.”

As I reach to give him a firm hand shake, for the words of wisdom, I utter the only thing that I could. “Stanley, you’re my hero.”

Monday, June 25, 2007

Letting bygones be bygones.

I think it’s true what they say, what we usually hate in other people is what we hate in ourselves. An old friend of mine used to say, “If you spot it you got it.” How true.

I hate my pride, not so much my indomitable spirit, but the cocky pride that gets me into a grand game of “one upmanship” with other prideful people. I know who they are and they know who I am, even if it’s only our first meeting. It’s pretty fucking obvious.

You’re taught to not give up an inch, because someone will always take a mile. “Do unto other as you would have them do unto you”, until they cross you. “Forgive and forget”, but never really forget.

People are (I am) selfish and in return I am (people are) selfish.

It’s a constant given.

Breaking that cycle is such a beautiful thing though. I toss the monkey wrench every once in a while, but it’s not enough. There’s such life in doing what others don’t expect you to do because it’s the right thing. Who does the right thing anymore, who ever did? Most people don’t. Returning a lost wallet is one thing, but owning up to your failures and relational mistakes is another.

Who sucks it up and admits they were wrong, even when the other party was just as wrong? Not many and the reason is because there’s lasting consequences to showing weakness. When people smell weakness they go after it. They take advantage of it and they exploit it regardless of whether it’s chosen weakness.

Setting an example that no one will follow can be grinding, but I honestly think it’s worth it. We all have to lay our head down at the end of the day and recollect our daily actions. We all know we’re wrong in the end, regardless of whether we admit it or not.

And oh sweet forgiveness, there’s nothing like forgiveness. Like a once broken bone that is now healed, it’s like true love that is no longer naïve. I long for forgiveness, to be on the receiving end of it and to deal it out like a black jack dealer.

There’s just something about mercy that is cosmic and no one can deny that.

Tuesday, June 19, 2007

The Pequod

Sarah Smith

Sarah Smith did not have a middle name. She didn’t rush to have it changed or deleted on her 18th birthday due to scorn or ridicule. Simply put, she just did not have one. As a child she would ask her parents why they chose not buffer the first and last with a verbal family heirloom or even a word that would keep the flow. They would always just reply by saying, “It just didn’t seem right.”

Sarah was an only child so she shared this burden only with herself and why was it a burden, because she was “big”. Big not as in tall, but as in “large” which translates to fat as she could not even do one pull up in gym class. Not to mention, she also was one of the shortest girls in her class.

Children will always be cruel, but when you are obese and your initials are S.S., they tend to be a little more particular. It was inevitable.

Monday, June 18, 2007

It's all in the name.

William Robert Smith

He was Mr. Smith to his co-workers, but his boss called him “Bob”. His parents called him William, but in his younger days, it was William Robert, but only when he was in trouble. Will was what his wife called him, but it was “Honey” when they were alone. Willie or “Smitty” is what his friends badgered him with and his nephews called him Uncle “Wilbo”, they were still very young.

His name was Bill “Bob” Smith when you shortened everything, and as conservative and as boring as he seemed, he had a deep appreciation for Madonna and Prince.

You were suppose to laugh.

I went and saw a comedian last night, actually my favorite comedian. Comedy would be a tough job, because it’s kind of like selling stuff. You are your product. If people don’t like you or the character you play on stage then you’re fucked. I imagine every new gig is like going on a first date with your dream girl. YOU WANT HER TO LIKE YOU, but she most likely isn’t going to like you.

I call it the Eager Beaver Syndrome. You’re so eager and obvious that you’ve lost all attraction or possible hilarity.

Probably what makes comedy so hard is the fact that you can’t truly practice until you’re on the stage. I’m sure comedians say their act in the mirror or to their friends for hours and hours before stepping on to the stage for the first time. Like a salesman making his first call, so is a comedic virgin standing in front of a crowd

Practice makes perfect though. I guess.

You have to feel bad for some of them though. Yeah, they might be a nice guy, but they don’t have what you’re looking for, you already have ten of what they’re selling or their product is obsolete.

I bet that’s not a very funny punch line for them.

Friday, June 15, 2007

Ice Station Zebra

It’s bed time.

Lock the door, unlock the door, lock the door, unlock the door, lock the door, unlock the door, “Just lock the god damn door.”

It’s bed time.

It’s 12:58 am. The alarm is set to 7:00 am. It’s 12:58 am. The alarm is set to 7:00 am. It’s 12:58 am. The alarm is set to 7:00 am. 12:59 am. Fuck.

It’s bed time.

Pull the covers back, flip the pillow over, flip it again. One more time.

“Goodnight…Goodnight...Goodnight…Goo….” He covered his mouth with both hands and tried to hold his breath. The words were muffled, but they still came out seven more times.

Laying in bed counting the tiles on the ceiling of his bedroom in groups of four he contemplated his end. It wasn’t even about being embarrassed about his condition anymore. The fact that he couldn’t control it was what irritated him so much. Therefore, he wanted to speed up the inevitable.

“Hanging myself seems too dramatic,” He thought to himself “and a knife would be too painful and bloody, not to mention dirty.” The thought of a blood covered knife staining his carpet made him want to get out of bed and wash his hands. He fought the urge.

“I could put down plastic?” He mumbled in the dark room.

It’s bed time.

As he started to doze, an idea shot through him before he could make his final descent.

“A gun in my mouth would be quick.” That seemed like a good idea. He decided to run through it in his head, since that’s where the bullet would be going.

“Load the gun. Put it in my mouth.” He stopped. “Well, …would I put it in my mouth first or cock it first? I’ll cock it first.”

Closing his eyes he started visualizing, but when he did he made a mistake that would keep him from the death of his choice.

Cock the gun. Un-cock the gun. Cock the gun. Un-cock the gun. Cock the gun. Un-cock the gun.

“This isn’t going to work.”

He stared blankly at the ceiling again for what seemed like hours.

“Hmm…interesting 48 blocks with 4 tiles in each. 192 tiles.”

It’s bed time.

Tuesday, June 12, 2007

Basic Math

This place is a daily implosion. It’s an all-consuming vacuum; a corporate black hole if you will. Grey cubes line the walls. White noise controls the masses. Middle managers pretend to work at their computers while I don’t hide my lack of focus on all fronts. I am neither here nor there. Nothing really exists here.

Nothingness is almost as boring as watching John Stockton highlight videos on YouTube. With nothing you know what’s going to happen, but it’s never any different. It’s a Stockton to Malone pick and roll that you know is coming, but there’s nothing you can do to stop it and again, it’s boring. It’s a non-eventful chain reaction of the inevitable.


Sunday, June 10, 2007

Only the lonely

My apartment is hot and muggy. It’s not a problem without a solution, but when it comes to utilities I’m kind of a penny pincher. It’s like I have this monthly contest with myself to see how cheap my bills can be, this coming from a guy who will blow $100 in one night playing Texas Hold Em’. I have strange justifications for my hobbies and bad habits. Let’s not discuss that right now though.

Lately, I’ve been thinking about how much I haven’t been thinking about death, lately.

I’ll de driving down the street or sitting on “the john” and think “Wow, I’ve only thought about having a heart attack once today, opposed to 3 times an hour. Good Job!” When I have those thoughts I keep it brief, because I don’t want to jinx it, you know?

Honestly, my positive thought process has probably been due to the fact that I quit smoking about six months ago, for the third time. It’s sad that I’ve started smoking again after quitting two previous times already, but on a positive note at least there was a 6 month break, right? When I don’t smoke, my chest doesn’t hurt and my immune system doesn’t go to shit and when my chest doesn’t hurt and I’m not sick every three days, I don’t think about dying all of the time. So not smoking not only makes me healthier in body, but also in mind.

Who needs a cigarette?

Being alone use to really bother me. When I say alone, that doesn’t necessarily mean without a significant other, but just being by myself in general. About 5-6 years ago I always needed to be hanging out or at least I always wanted to hang out. You wouldn’t hear me crying myself to sleep if I was alone. It was based more off of boredom. The older I get though, the more I find myself alone. Maybe I’m just boring now. My cat doesn't seem to think so.

My Dad told me the other day that he hasn’t been to the movies in a long time. In fact the last time he went to a movie theatre was with me. After figuring out what movie we saw I realized that it came out in ’03. I started listing out all of the films that he needs to see. He told me he didn’t like going to the movies really, but after further discussion he said he really just didn’t like going alone. I told him I liked going to the movies alone. Then again I wasn’t married for 27 years.

We all went to the movies the next day and I went to the movies a few days later, alone.

Wednesday, June 06, 2007

Sex, Drugs and Rock n' Roll: from A to Z

This wasn’t the first time he had masturbated while listening to Bob Dylan. He actually had a whole section of his record collection devoted to self gratification through lubrication. Along with Dylan there was Cash, “The Boss”, B.B. King, Tom Petty and Elvis Costello. You would’ve thought that there would be some female artists in the mix, but he had his reasons.

Only ugly musicians could be playing while he did the deed because he felt like attractive artists wouldn’t understand. Listening to Madonna while “ringing the bell” only made him feel in adequate, but when Dylan played “Corrina, Corrina” it was easy for him to get aroused.

This particular afternoon he couldn’t even get it up to Petty’s “Free Falling” while smoking a joint. He didn’t keep any magazines or even remotely sexy movies in his house because he was too embarrassed to purchase them. Yet, it didn’t phase him to buy a bag of weed or even Ted Nugent’s complete discography on vinyl. Horny and frustrated he attempted something that he had only thought about, drawing his own women.

Being an English teacher drawing was as foreign to him as speaking Spanish. “How hard could this be though.” He thought to himself. So he went with what he knew. The Alphabet.

Using letters proved to be a pretty helpful tool for forming his sex Goddess that would help him go the distance.

A “B” on it’s side looked like breast and a “Y” or a “V” placed slightly below it almost looked like a vagina. He enclosed her jewels with varying O’s for her body and head and he used L’s for her limbs. Though she mainly resembled a snow man with genitals, he worked diligently until he felt satisfied that he could be satisfied. Similar to the past women in his life she didn’t appear sexy, but at least he could spell her out.

Tuesday, June 05, 2007

Twin Towers

She was tall, but he had her covered. This was the first time in a long time that she had a relationship with a man taller than her and she was delighted. So was he. He didn’t want to be one of those guys whose girlfriend towered over him. He wasn’t as secure as Tom Cruise.

To say her face was that of an angel would be cliché’, more so of a seductive temptress, Cleopatra if you will. To describe her breasts would be to witness a miracle within a natural disaster. A hurricane, an earthquake and fire from the sky destroy California while a virgin gives birth to quintuplets under the Hollywood sign while every radio station on the west coast plays Slayer’s “Raining Blood” simultaneously.

Her legs were long, but what was more peculiar was the length of her torso. It went on forever. It seemed like he was going down a slide backwards on his stomach at recess, except he wasn’t going to land on some foam pad at the bottom. The bottom was bliss. It was uncharted territory, his own personal Louisiana Purchase.

"Hi-yo Silver, away!”

Tuesday, May 29, 2007


The sun was blinding and the way the clouds were circled overheard it appeared like a light at the end of the tunnel. But I could tell this wasn't a supernatural experience due to the squawking 5 year old splashing around on his dragon shaped flotation device, ruining this spiritual moment. The kid would be considered holy communion for a dragon if they still existed.

For being the apartment's community pool, the water was as clear as the conscious of a newly "saved" convert who just had all of his sins forgiven by the power of Benny Hinn.

As I baptized myself in the lukewarm water, all of my transgressions were washed down the drain never to be seen again. If you dragged the concrete pond you'd probably find more skeletons lying on the bottom than most people have hiding in their closet, it was a cleansing ground of sorts.

Redeeming their minds through Holy literature - People Magazine and US Weekly sprinkled truth and enlightenment on the congregation as they were encouraged by the life styles of their role models. The followers bathed in the great white light from above, mesmerized by it's power to alter their outer appearance by purifying pasty skin and farmer tans.

Our lawn chairs become altars to the Almighty and we, the sacrifice, as we patiently waited for our flesh to burn.

Monday, May 28, 2007

I keep hearing things.

It's been a hectic week, a lot going on. I haven't had a post drought like this in quite some time now. Anyway, I wrote a weird little story.

Read at your own risk!


After he slammed his bedroom door he started doing what he did best when he was ticked off; pacing. The carpet was worn like the path along the fence in his backyard that his dog would run back and forth on when he was barking at the neighbor’s kids playing in their backyard. He sat on his bed and closed his eyes and thought to himself, “What the fuck is your problem?”

"The expectations that you have placed on yourself is your problem. Who do you think you are, Jesus Christ? Relax."

That sounded like good advice to him, but he had never thought of it before. Where did that came from? Closing his eyes once more he asked himself another question; “What will make you happy?”

And there was silence.


As he laid back on his bed he opened his eyes and stared at the ceiling. It was covered in glow in the dark stars that he had put up years earlier. He rarely paid any attention to the them, but today he just let his imagination go and pictured himself flying amongst them like an astronaut or even better, an alien. It didn’t matter to him. He just wanted to be abducted.

In his daze he started nodding off to sleep when he heard a voice. “You know what makes you happy.”

He shot up out of bed like a bottle rocket on the 4th of July. “Whoa…”

“That definitely wasn’t me.” He said aloud.

Closing his eyes once again he uttered words through his mind, ”Anyone there?”

“I Am.” Boomed a quiet voice from within.

“Who are you?”

“You know who I am” The voice said.

“I do? Then why haven’t I ever heard you before?”

“You’ve heard me before, you just never realized it until now.”

The voice seemed to be getting closer.

"So even though we've never met and I've never heard you before, you say I do know you, I have heard you and I already know the answer to the question I already asked you? That doesn't make sense."

"It never does." Replied the voice.

“Are you inside me? He asked.

“Kind of. I’m actually all around you. I’m everywhere.”

“Are you the Force?”

The voice laughed. “No, but there are similarities.”

“I thought Star Wars was only made up.”

“Where do you think George got the idea?”

“Holy shit! You know George Lucas?”

“Yes I do, very well actually and he owes me royalties.”

He could tell the voice had a sense of humor and maybe even a light saber.

Sunday, May 20, 2007

This seems oddly prophetic.

Rolling with the punches comes easy for someone who’s always been picked on, not only do you have to roll, but sometimes you have to dodge, block and even run away or in a lot of cases run to it.

Sometimes the punches don’t roll, they hit you square in the jaw. Black eyes and bloody noses paint that canvass. Once the initial shock is gone you realize it’s not that bad and the more it occurs the less it stings. It gets to a point when you can walk right through them. You see them coming and you take it like a fucking man.

Overcoming is never easy though, but isn’t that what life is, overcoming those situations that fucking hold you back, the fights that try to take you down? If you learn anything in life, it’s that you have to not only choose your battles, but you have to fight them wisely.

Sometimes your aggressor has a familiar face.

You learn to relax though. Panic appears to be non-existent when you clench your fists and defend yourself. The first punch always hurts, it catches you off guard as much as it does your target.

“He’s supposed to stay down, not fight back.”

That‘s what they think, but you learn to prove them wrong.

Life is like a bully, it will usually shrink back when you throw the second punch.

If it doesn’t?

Throw a fucking combo.

Let em’ know that you got their number.

Get to it!

Thursday, May 17, 2007

My haikus are X-Rated!

How unfortunate
The sun is so bright today
I have been cubed

Who doesn’t love porn?
Ass to ass, interracial
Everybody wins!

He was old and died
Many mourned, others rejoiced
He had his own toy

My days are numbered
Like I really fucking care
Let’s fucking party!

People talk a lot
I think we should listen more
Please shut the fuck up!

Batman is a drunk
Superman thinks he is God
Wonder Woman: Slut

God created man
Man created computers
Add me on Myspace!

Wednesday, May 16, 2007

Abnormal Voyeur Paranoia

It was just one of those kind of evenings, something was slightly off but you couldn't pin point it. It was that same kind of feeling he got when he found out Macaulay Culkin and Michael Jackson had sleepovers, creepy.

Lurking shadows seemed to be stalking him like prey and every indistinguishable noise was translated into the sound of foot steps trailing behind, waiting for him to stop or make a sudden move.

He was being watched from everywhere, but not anywhere specific. If he looked over his shoulder to see what was behind him it was already in front of him. If he hurried his pace it was just going to close in on him that much faster. The lights kept dimming.

It was like driving down a lonely dirt road. You don't see any headlights, but someone is following you or maybe they're already sitting in your backseat, smiling. Waiting for you to notice them.

Don't look in the rearview mirror. Keep driving. Run to the door. Don't look back.

Lock it. Bolt it. Chain it. Barricade it.

He turned off the lights.

On second thought, he turned them back on.

Still not alone.

"Did the knob just turn? Are the windows locked? What was that noise? Am I fucking crazy?"

He couldn't shake the feeling of someone hiding in the closet or maybe under the bed, breathing heavily outside the door as he turned the porch light on, maybe watching though the curtain while he was taking a shower.

Sometimes, there just aren't enough doors to lock and blankets to hide under.

Monday, May 14, 2007

Serial Elitism

I’ve always been capable of being an asshole and when I say asshole I mean fucker and by fucker I mean one of two things:

1. A Jerk


2. An Elitist

But I just can’t cut it. I always feel bad about being a jerk, ask anyone whose ever crossed me. I usually by them a beer after a truly heart-felt apology. It happened last week.

And I really can’t bring myself to care enough about possessions and popularity to be an elitist.

Elitism seems like an advanced justification of personal consumerism. All of this expensive shit has been bought and instead of allowing yourself to feel guilty about blowing so much cash the decision is made to make others feel bad because they‘ve maintained their sense of responsibility.

Gizmos and gadgets, discographies of bands you’ve never heard of, books no one reads for enjoyment or education and clothes that look like they’re from the future, but only according to “Back to the Future II”.

When considering elitism as a way of life, a few problems arise for me, I still listen to Weezer’s Blue album at least once a week and wear shoes that are barely a step up from Velcro. Not to mention I really don’t care for Bret Easton Ellis‘s writing. I enjoyed American Pyscho, but more so on the silver screen and could care less about reading 300 pages of narration from an elitist murderous scum bag’s point of view, even if he is fictitious and that was the point.

Plus, I‘ve never really like Phil Collins.

Patrick Bateman: There is a moment of sheer panic when I realize that Paul's apartment overlooks the park... and is obviously more expensive than mine.

Friday, May 11, 2007

I talk a good game.

“I’m sorry I’m talking about religion.”

I acted like I hadn’t heard what she was talking about, so I lean in from the other side of the hall to say “Excuse me?”

“Oh, I was just saying I’m sorry for talking about religion. It’s just that I went to church today for the first time.”

Shrugging my shoulders seems like a good idea.

I’m just glad that she didn’t say anything about me eaves dropping on her conversation. So that’s what I planned on doing as long as I could.

“Church on a Wednesday?”

“Yeah, it was my first time ever.”

I think about sex.

I nod. “It’s OK. I’ve never been either.”

Lying makes me feel like a Christian again as well as thinking about sex.

She keeps talking to her friend who seems not so interested in her topic of conversation. As he towers over her, he’s obviously more intrigued by her mountainous range. Carmel, maybe Sinai?

Moses was given the Ten Commandments on a mountain and King David, a man after God's own heart, broke all of them by being distracted by the same humane mounds that this random bar fly seems to be swarming around.

We all succumb to the flesh.

The old right wing religious zealot inside of me has been contained. There is no desire to “witness” to this girl or try to lead her down the path to the Lord.

Then again, I’ll always be interested in hearing the thoughts of those regarding the Way, the Truth and the Life, especially if it can get me laid.