12.17.2004
12.15.2004
To quote Li'l Kim: Hey! Uhn uhn uhn uhn uhn uhn uhn uhn!
In case you couldn't glean from the precise emotions expressed in the above quote, allow me to translate: I just booked a Fuse promo (Fuse was to be MTV's nemesis until MTV bought them) in which I will be a "Goth". I can only assume they mean the music-genre-listener stereotype and not the style of architecture, although I am indeed versatile enough to play both...at the same time...AND I'm modest enough to admit it. FINALLY I have something to celebrate at Christmas, thanks Jesus!!
Actually, should I really be thanking Jesus? I mean, I feel like ever since I portrayed Satan, things have been going my way...and I really didn't read that Shark Week contract very closely. Fuck. Well, I guess I really am driving the bus to Hell. Hope you guys like Tiny Tim and me screaming.
Actually, should I really be thanking Jesus? I mean, I feel like ever since I portrayed Satan, things have been going my way...and I really didn't read that Shark Week contract very closely. Fuck. Well, I guess I really am driving the bus to Hell. Hope you guys like Tiny Tim and me screaming.
12.14.2004
Hey, yeah, that "Which Friends character are you?" quiz is pretty intellectual...
Moron.
You are mRNA. You're brilliant, full of important,
interesting information and you're a great
friend to the people you care about. You may
have sides to you that no one understands. But
while you understand more than most people,
you're only half-there most of the time.
Which Biological Molecule Are You?
You are mRNA. You're brilliant, full of important,
interesting information and you're a great
friend to the people you care about. You may
have sides to you that no one understands. But
while you understand more than most people,
you're only half-there most of the time.
Which Biological Molecule Are You?
12.03.2004
I'll Be Your Dogwalker
Working on a tune for the upcoming film "Tall Like Paul", here's what I have so far:
I'll be your dogwalker
if you let me
This isn't a metaphor I really mean it
I'll walk your poodle, chow or pit
And I won't use the dog to start a conversation
I'm not looking for love this is just my vocation
I'm a dogwalker
Whether the weather is snowing or the wind it is blowing
I will walk your dog
That's if the snow doesn't bug me and the dog doesn't tug me
I will walk your dog
(Just kidding, I'll do it anyway)
If you let me into your heart and house
I'll make sure the dog does not get out
and hit by a car
********************
That's what I'm working with at the moment. I have music for all this so far. Think bongos and a happy snappy cute tune that will make people think I'm not as tall as I am.
Also, keep January 22nd fucking open goddamn it. There's party to be had. For my Birthday (which God has so callously arranged to fall on a Tuesday this year) I am having those I consider lovesexy to Pizzeria Uno's (86th and Lex.) for food and drink and then to the pool hall (86th and Lex.) for pool and games and then to my home (not 86th and Lex.) for loud music and angry neighbors. And just so you don't get the wrong idea, here is a list of people who are not lovesexy, but are still invited, and the reason they are invited.
Katy Gentile
(for use as canvas- if drunk and bukaki- if really drunk)
-because although there wll be no drawing on people for her Birthday, I can assure you anyone that passes out at my party will be drawn on and recieve an extra helping of sodomy at the hands and bone of our local homeless man, Toothless Jose, who will gladly put his brown disease into anyone we ask him to. I will NOT be drinking Tequila at this party (for in depth reasoning click here), so no Tequila, please, thank you.
I'll be your dogwalker
if you let me
This isn't a metaphor I really mean it
I'll walk your poodle, chow or pit
And I won't use the dog to start a conversation
I'm not looking for love this is just my vocation
I'm a dogwalker
Whether the weather is snowing or the wind it is blowing
I will walk your dog
That's if the snow doesn't bug me and the dog doesn't tug me
I will walk your dog
(Just kidding, I'll do it anyway)
If you let me into your heart and house
I'll make sure the dog does not get out
and hit by a car
********************
That's what I'm working with at the moment. I have music for all this so far. Think bongos and a happy snappy cute tune that will make people think I'm not as tall as I am.
Also, keep January 22nd fucking open goddamn it. There's party to be had. For my Birthday (which God has so callously arranged to fall on a Tuesday this year) I am having those I consider lovesexy to Pizzeria Uno's (86th and Lex.) for food and drink and then to the pool hall (86th and Lex.) for pool and games and then to my home (not 86th and Lex.) for loud music and angry neighbors. And just so you don't get the wrong idea, here is a list of people who are not lovesexy, but are still invited, and the reason they are invited.
Katy Gentile
(for use as canvas- if drunk and bukaki- if really drunk)
-because although there wll be no drawing on people for her Birthday, I can assure you anyone that passes out at my party will be drawn on and recieve an extra helping of sodomy at the hands and bone of our local homeless man, Toothless Jose, who will gladly put his brown disease into anyone we ask him to. I will NOT be drinking Tequila at this party (for in depth reasoning click here), so no Tequila, please, thank you.
11.16.2004
10.08.2004
Je ne suis pas le fromage très grand, je suis le petit écolier
Oui, it's true. I have been "le fromage tres grand" for years until just recently when I was told by my agent that I am in fact "le petit ecolier". So we all know Nabisco (Lorna Doone, Oreo, etc.). Well the French version (as in the most common in France) is a company called Lu Biscuit (pronounced "BIS-qweet") or, for short, Lu. There is a brand of cookie they have called "Le Petit Ecolier" (which means "the little schoolboy"). They are a small shortbread rectangle with a portrait (in chocolate) of a little school boy on it. ANYWAY, about a week ago, I went to an audition where I played one of these cookies. Yes a talking French cookie with a thick French accent and lascivious manner and now...well, look at the subject.
An interesting side note, on the side of the box of Le Petit Ecolier" there is the phrase "Whenever you need one there is always a luscious le petit ecolier to satisfy you". Well world, if you thought you were feeling satisfaction before...you are about to ingest the whole lovesexiness of the Paulitosphere. Open wide, you grimy dandelos for I shall be your little school boy and you will choke upon my girth.
An interesting side note, on the side of the box of Le Petit Ecolier" there is the phrase "Whenever you need one there is always a luscious le petit ecolier to satisfy you". Well world, if you thought you were feeling satisfaction before...you are about to ingest the whole lovesexiness of the Paulitosphere. Open wide, you grimy dandelos for I shall be your little school boy and you will choke upon my girth.
10.01.2004
9.30.2004
Gonna ram it ram it ram it ram it up your poop chute...
So I have extracted some jewels and put them in the "Memories" section. Do you remember the things I used to live with? If not you should check out the "Memories" section. Fucking shit.
Sex Nazis
A few years back, the Nazis, or as I like to call them "bad Germans", were running around persecuting and killing gays and gypsies and other biologically inferior groups. That was bad...at least for gays and gypsies and other human dirt that wasn't spawned from the sacred union of the Tiger and the Turtle. Anyhoo, once Mr. Moustache killed himself, there was a calm that, while it was pleasant, was sure to break someday. Well...that day has come. I have here two startling images being circulated by Neo Nazi factions now springing up all over modern day Germany.
Now, at first glance, these look like simple candy wrappers, but once you delve into the twisted, rotting brain case of the Neo Nazi figurehead (one Beverly Parkerschlitz) you begin to see that these are but the merest wisps of insane cotton in the Neo Nazi tapestry of malevolent megalomanical madness. Now, after almost four thousand years, their reign of terror has begun again. While the first Nazis, or Old School Nazis as I like to call them, persecuted those that were different in favor of the blond haired, blue eyed supermen they were trying to spread throughout the world, this time around they have learned from their mistakes and have "flipped the script" on us, one might say. By analyzing these pictures one understands that this time the Nazis are going for the opposite: a world SO tolerant and SO free that even fruits are encouraged to have sexual relations and form new types of fruit through their unholy sweet congress. Once they have blanketed the world with images like these: pigs and peppers, benches and peanut butter, sand and fax machines, blacks and whites, grapes and clams, bears and pasta, Madison and her own offspring, fish and chips (the American chips, not the British ones) the world will be defenseless against the Neo Nazis and ripe for the plucking. This is not the unstoppable killing machine we were once dealing with, no. This is megajuxtopostioning, ultramixology and uberkonfusion. The enemy no longer uses nerve gas and the entirely ugly and angry sounding German language; this time they are using silly string and made up languages like Pig Latin and Puerto Rican. Ladies and gentlemen, this is the dawning of a terrible new age. The Neo Nazi Age of Befuddlement. In the coming years we can expect to see a gay woman as the King of America, an albino as the Emperor of Africa, a pineapple as the President of Australia...we will see President Bush and Harry Potter impaled upon the same pike, Nigel, hip and under a hundred and fifty pounds, Will will marry a girl that is not only in the same hemisphere or continent, but in the same house as he, Prince will do a song with a tree and then eat it, Michael Jackson will masturbate on children and no one will notice, airplanes will become sentient and learn to swim, Tom Jones will soil himself and a small desert, groundhogs will carry razor wire...once these things and more have come to pass, we shall know that the Nazi Age of Befuddlement has engulfed us. After ten thousand years of darkness, confusion and defenestration, all of existence will pause for just one moment and a single blade of grass will turn into Owl Boy and then He shall lead us to a bright, clean place. Until that moment though, we can expect things to get much much worse. So good luck and remember that your genitals may bleed of their own accord. Keep your hands in your pockets or the pockets of someone near you.
Now, at first glance, these look like simple candy wrappers, but once you delve into the twisted, rotting brain case of the Neo Nazi figurehead (one Beverly Parkerschlitz) you begin to see that these are but the merest wisps of insane cotton in the Neo Nazi tapestry of malevolent megalomanical madness. Now, after almost four thousand years, their reign of terror has begun again. While the first Nazis, or Old School Nazis as I like to call them, persecuted those that were different in favor of the blond haired, blue eyed supermen they were trying to spread throughout the world, this time around they have learned from their mistakes and have "flipped the script" on us, one might say. By analyzing these pictures one understands that this time the Nazis are going for the opposite: a world SO tolerant and SO free that even fruits are encouraged to have sexual relations and form new types of fruit through their unholy sweet congress. Once they have blanketed the world with images like these: pigs and peppers, benches and peanut butter, sand and fax machines, blacks and whites, grapes and clams, bears and pasta, Madison and her own offspring, fish and chips (the American chips, not the British ones) the world will be defenseless against the Neo Nazis and ripe for the plucking. This is not the unstoppable killing machine we were once dealing with, no. This is megajuxtopostioning, ultramixology and uberkonfusion. The enemy no longer uses nerve gas and the entirely ugly and angry sounding German language; this time they are using silly string and made up languages like Pig Latin and Puerto Rican. Ladies and gentlemen, this is the dawning of a terrible new age. The Neo Nazi Age of Befuddlement. In the coming years we can expect to see a gay woman as the King of America, an albino as the Emperor of Africa, a pineapple as the President of Australia...we will see President Bush and Harry Potter impaled upon the same pike, Nigel, hip and under a hundred and fifty pounds, Will will marry a girl that is not only in the same hemisphere or continent, but in the same house as he, Prince will do a song with a tree and then eat it, Michael Jackson will masturbate on children and no one will notice, airplanes will become sentient and learn to swim, Tom Jones will soil himself and a small desert, groundhogs will carry razor wire...once these things and more have come to pass, we shall know that the Nazi Age of Befuddlement has engulfed us. After ten thousand years of darkness, confusion and defenestration, all of existence will pause for just one moment and a single blade of grass will turn into Owl Boy and then He shall lead us to a bright, clean place. Until that moment though, we can expect things to get much much worse. So good luck and remember that your genitals may bleed of their own accord. Keep your hands in your pockets or the pockets of someone near you.
9.24.2004
"Weary" defined
So I was out on an audition today and I decided to bring along Johnny Cash "The Man Comes Around" (his last album) with me because I couldn't remeber all the songs on it. He has a cover of "Bridge Over Troubled Water" with Fiona Apple. The first line is "when you're weary..."
To hear Cash say this word "weary" is to FEEL what that word means. Weary isn't, Oh geez, I've been up since 5am. When he says it, you feel every fucking second of his life. This man invented weary. Everyone was sad when Cash died, myself included, but to really HEAR him say the word weary, I felt better about him being dead. He's finally getting some rest. I imagine if someone could channel Cash and ask what he's feeling now or what he's thinking. I have an idea he would just sigh.
Aside from that song, there are a few other jewels on it. His cover of NIN's "Hurt" makes Trent Reznor sound like a five year old with a skinned knee and the last track, Cash and his whole family singing "We'll Meet Again" bring me to tears every time I hear it. There's a lot of other great stuff on it with only two or three REALLY country tracksm but hey that's why Jesus made track skipping buttons. So pick up Cash's "The Man Comes Around" if you are ever feeling too happy or think you've had a bad, tiring day or if you're just in need of some idea of what seventy one hard years on Earth feels like.
To hear Cash say this word "weary" is to FEEL what that word means. Weary isn't, Oh geez, I've been up since 5am. When he says it, you feel every fucking second of his life. This man invented weary. Everyone was sad when Cash died, myself included, but to really HEAR him say the word weary, I felt better about him being dead. He's finally getting some rest. I imagine if someone could channel Cash and ask what he's feeling now or what he's thinking. I have an idea he would just sigh.
Aside from that song, there are a few other jewels on it. His cover of NIN's "Hurt" makes Trent Reznor sound like a five year old with a skinned knee and the last track, Cash and his whole family singing "We'll Meet Again" bring me to tears every time I hear it. There's a lot of other great stuff on it with only two or three REALLY country tracksm but hey that's why Jesus made track skipping buttons. So pick up Cash's "The Man Comes Around" if you are ever feeling too happy or think you've had a bad, tiring day or if you're just in need of some idea of what seventy one hard years on Earth feels like.
8.25.2004
And now it's even sooner...
It’s 1:38 on 8/23
I think the “important thing” I mentioned earlier just happened. I just ate the best sandwich I’ve had in over ten years. Most of you have been to/ leered at in the deli on my corner. I have a “the usual” there. Pepper turkey, Munster cheese, lettuce, tomato and mayonnaise on a “hero” (a nine-inch white roll). It costs four dollars and is usually enough to stop me from bitching about being hungry. It’s a good sandwich. Not earth-shatteringly good, but good. Some days, very good. Some days not. Every once in a while I’ll get a roll that’s a little stale, some bitter lettuce or a bit of unripe tomato etc. nothing holocaustic and never anything squitterific. But today…oh my scrot and nipples…I had the mother of all sandwiches. It was like Doritos to a stoner, a cold beer to a sweaty redneck, erect black cock to Kaitlyn, Popeye’s biscuits to Jade, artsy vintage S&M clothes being given away by David Lynch, Dita Von Teese and Richard Kern to Christina…IT WAS LIKE EATING THE FECES OF GOD. And now it’s gone. In my tummy, soon to be poop clogging the toilet of my dunney hut. Sadly, this sandwich was a razor...and this razor was double-edged. One, by 4 PM I will have forgotten the bliss that was in my mouth and two, I know that I will never have a sandwich like that again. I should really kill myself now…whilst at the peak of happiness and not after I’ve had the first bite of my next sandwich…reminding me of how happy I was and will never be again.
That job does a number on me every time I go in. You should read the stuff I don’t post here. All plans for this weekend are canceled for me. Possibly the Kill Bill-a-thon will remain, but most likely not. Why? Oh ho, if I told you, then you’d know and then none of you would care…BWA HAH HAH HAH HAH HAH!!!! Now kill them Owl Boy, while they are pondering!!!
Also, Denise thanks again for the graphics. You rizzule the schizzool.
I think the “important thing” I mentioned earlier just happened. I just ate the best sandwich I’ve had in over ten years. Most of you have been to/ leered at in the deli on my corner. I have a “the usual” there. Pepper turkey, Munster cheese, lettuce, tomato and mayonnaise on a “hero” (a nine-inch white roll). It costs four dollars and is usually enough to stop me from bitching about being hungry. It’s a good sandwich. Not earth-shatteringly good, but good. Some days, very good. Some days not. Every once in a while I’ll get a roll that’s a little stale, some bitter lettuce or a bit of unripe tomato etc. nothing holocaustic and never anything squitterific. But today…oh my scrot and nipples…I had the mother of all sandwiches. It was like Doritos to a stoner, a cold beer to a sweaty redneck, erect black cock to Kaitlyn, Popeye’s biscuits to Jade, artsy vintage S&M clothes being given away by David Lynch, Dita Von Teese and Richard Kern to Christina…IT WAS LIKE EATING THE FECES OF GOD. And now it’s gone. In my tummy, soon to be poop clogging the toilet of my dunney hut. Sadly, this sandwich was a razor...and this razor was double-edged. One, by 4 PM I will have forgotten the bliss that was in my mouth and two, I know that I will never have a sandwich like that again. I should really kill myself now…whilst at the peak of happiness and not after I’ve had the first bite of my next sandwich…reminding me of how happy I was and will never be again.
That job does a number on me every time I go in. You should read the stuff I don’t post here. All plans for this weekend are canceled for me. Possibly the Kill Bill-a-thon will remain, but most likely not. Why? Oh ho, if I told you, then you’d know and then none of you would care…BWA HAH HAH HAH HAH HAH!!!! Now kill them Owl Boy, while they are pondering!!!
Also, Denise thanks again for the graphics. You rizzule the schizzool.
8.23.2004
Neapolitan
It’s 7:23 on 8/23
Today is to be an important day. Maybe not for me, but it will be for someone.
It’s my friend Kristin’s Birthday, her first as a married woman. She is the first friend of mine that’s gotten hitched and the last time I talked to her (the day after the wedding) she was gloriously happy so I guess that’s a start. I really dislike weddings. I find them boring and quite depressing.
There are really only two types:
First, the kind where two people meet, fall in love and get married within six months or a year or something. Then after a few months, one gets tired of the other (Since there are really only two types of relationships. 1. The one where you like the other person more than they like you and 2. the one where the other person likes you more than you like them. Some people think that’s bullshit, but really stop and think about it. Even though the shifts might occur several times a day (or even several times in the course of a conversation), and be so minute it seems 50/50, but it never actually is. And soon it’s 51/49, then 54/46 and so on and so on until it’s clear who’s who in the dynamic.) and they either learn stuff about each other that drives them slowly (or quickly) apart, or there’s some huge cataclysmic event that explodes the flimsy-in-today’s-cynical-society bond of marriage. One cheats on the other or turns to drinking or drugs, or the pre-existing problems are intensified and magnified by the sudden insular closeness of the marriage and the drift begins.
The second type of marriage (says the man who has been married five times to three women, written two book on the subject and been lecturing about it for four years) is the kind that happens after years of the people getting to know one another, dating, living together, making surethe other person isn’t a nympho, a crackhead/dealer, boozer etc. They get married and discovered that they know everything about each other. No surprises (or one enormous terrible surprise, like finding a fair collection of semen-stained Polaroids of children crying). Then the cute quirks of the one person become teeny tiny little nuisances and, over time, grow into huge, glaring, atrocious anomalies. Then everything falls apart.
And sitting in that church during that long and meaningless-to-too-many-people ceremony I think, while mouthing some response to an invocation made by the priest (standsitstandsitstandsit), “I wonder who likes who more”, “I wonder how long they knew each other before they got married”, “I wonder if the bride has the groom’s kid inside her right now”, “I wonder if I actually just saw the maid of honor/best man wink/smirk at the bride/groom”.
The wedding I went to about a week or so ago, I found out, cost my uncle (father of the bride) $45,000. By the by, he is the proud father of eight children, four married, four to go (one next June). $45,000. That’s about 2,250 DVD’s. 3,000 plus CD’s. That’s 75 months of rent at my place…and it was spent in three days.
But back to the ceremony…It’s true that the bride and groom often look dazzling/dashing (unless they are an ugly/fat couple who will inevitable spawn ugly/fat offspring), but, while sitting in the we’re-doing-this-more-for-our-parents-than-for-us ceremony, it isn’t too hard to picture the groom getting a boozy blowjob from the stripper that was hired for the bachelor party, nor is it hard to picture the nervous-as-hell bride who had a few to drown the butterflies in her stomach collapsed on the elegant bathroom floor, her $7,000 snow-white dress covered in champagne, bile and partially digested hors d'oeuvres, nor is it hard to picture the bride and groom looking dismayed in bed when they find that marriage doesn’t make the orgasm any better. Then again, I’m sure that it’s super special for all the virgins out there…all five of them.
Seriously, by the time the everybody-is-zoned-out-until-they-hear-the-words-“I do” ceremony I am crying. Why? Because I’ve seen this relationship wither and die in my mind before they’ve even put the a-year-of-my-salary rings on and the fucking wedding becomes more depressing than a funeral! In many ways, a wedding is a lot like a funeral. An emotional funeral, if you will. Or a Funeral for the Future for two special people. Every cloud has a silver lining, except the one that stretches from here to the horizon, on which sits a graveyard with two headstones…in the shapes of hearts.
From somewhere else in my head:
At about 6:34 this morning I was dressing for work. Got everything on but my shoes. I put them on, tied them…then stopped. Untied one, tied it again. Untied it once more, retied it. Then I did the same with the other. I recommend all those who read this (that’s FOUR! Count ‘em FOUR people!!) to do this the next time you are putting on shoes and have a moment to appreciate it. You’re fingers seem to have tiny brains in each tip, that’s great. You’re feet and therefore your whole self feels more secure, that’s great too. And finally, you can look down at your tied shoes and KNOW that you have accomplished something. No mater how the day turns out from this point on, you have accomplished SOMETHING. Sweet, sweet sassisfakshun!
And from yet elsewhere:
The “party” on Saturday. So Kaitlyn, Lisa, Becca, Jen, Natalia, Jade, myself, Todd and his friends showed up over the course of the evening. In all honesty, the high point of the evening was going up to the roof. I was gung ho about the shindig then I wasn’t, then I thought no one would come because the weather was shitty, then a few hours before the event, I was stoked, but which each guest arrived a creeping numbness when had consumed me wholly by the end of the evening. I went to bed feeling dismantled and reassembled improperly.
I’m looking forward to tomorrow, the final season of Futurama comes out on DVD. Then, next Tuesday, the final season of Invader Zim comes out on DVD. Then, eh, I’m sure I’ll find some square peg.
*************************************************************
I made the last entry in the second book of my journal last night or the day before. I’ve been writing in it since seventh grade and I haven’t really written anything worth reading over all that time. I mean, yes I have this on-line journal, but seriously, like I’d ever put the real true feelings about people, places and things here. People who do that are looking for attention or trying to say or do something in a roundabout way. It’s not hard to buy a spiral notebook and confide in that.
Today is to be an important day. Maybe not for me, but it will be for someone.
It’s my friend Kristin’s Birthday, her first as a married woman. She is the first friend of mine that’s gotten hitched and the last time I talked to her (the day after the wedding) she was gloriously happy so I guess that’s a start. I really dislike weddings. I find them boring and quite depressing.
There are really only two types:
First, the kind where two people meet, fall in love and get married within six months or a year or something. Then after a few months, one gets tired of the other (Since there are really only two types of relationships. 1. The one where you like the other person more than they like you and 2. the one where the other person likes you more than you like them. Some people think that’s bullshit, but really stop and think about it. Even though the shifts might occur several times a day (or even several times in the course of a conversation), and be so minute it seems 50/50, but it never actually is. And soon it’s 51/49, then 54/46 and so on and so on until it’s clear who’s who in the dynamic.) and they either learn stuff about each other that drives them slowly (or quickly) apart, or there’s some huge cataclysmic event that explodes the flimsy-in-today’s-cynical-society bond of marriage. One cheats on the other or turns to drinking or drugs, or the pre-existing problems are intensified and magnified by the sudden insular closeness of the marriage and the drift begins.
The second type of marriage (says the man who has been married five times to three women, written two book on the subject and been lecturing about it for four years) is the kind that happens after years of the people getting to know one another, dating, living together, making surethe other person isn’t a nympho, a crackhead/dealer, boozer etc. They get married and discovered that they know everything about each other. No surprises (or one enormous terrible surprise, like finding a fair collection of semen-stained Polaroids of children crying). Then the cute quirks of the one person become teeny tiny little nuisances and, over time, grow into huge, glaring, atrocious anomalies. Then everything falls apart.
And sitting in that church during that long and meaningless-to-too-many-people ceremony I think, while mouthing some response to an invocation made by the priest (standsitstandsitstandsit), “I wonder who likes who more”, “I wonder how long they knew each other before they got married”, “I wonder if the bride has the groom’s kid inside her right now”, “I wonder if I actually just saw the maid of honor/best man wink/smirk at the bride/groom”.
The wedding I went to about a week or so ago, I found out, cost my uncle (father of the bride) $45,000. By the by, he is the proud father of eight children, four married, four to go (one next June). $45,000. That’s about 2,250 DVD’s. 3,000 plus CD’s. That’s 75 months of rent at my place…and it was spent in three days.
But back to the ceremony…It’s true that the bride and groom often look dazzling/dashing (unless they are an ugly/fat couple who will inevitable spawn ugly/fat offspring), but, while sitting in the we’re-doing-this-more-for-our-parents-than-for-us ceremony, it isn’t too hard to picture the groom getting a boozy blowjob from the stripper that was hired for the bachelor party, nor is it hard to picture the nervous-as-hell bride who had a few to drown the butterflies in her stomach collapsed on the elegant bathroom floor, her $7,000 snow-white dress covered in champagne, bile and partially digested hors d'oeuvres, nor is it hard to picture the bride and groom looking dismayed in bed when they find that marriage doesn’t make the orgasm any better. Then again, I’m sure that it’s super special for all the virgins out there…all five of them.
Seriously, by the time the everybody-is-zoned-out-until-they-hear-the-words-“I do” ceremony I am crying. Why? Because I’ve seen this relationship wither and die in my mind before they’ve even put the a-year-of-my-salary rings on and the fucking wedding becomes more depressing than a funeral! In many ways, a wedding is a lot like a funeral. An emotional funeral, if you will. Or a Funeral for the Future for two special people. Every cloud has a silver lining, except the one that stretches from here to the horizon, on which sits a graveyard with two headstones…in the shapes of hearts.
From somewhere else in my head:
At about 6:34 this morning I was dressing for work. Got everything on but my shoes. I put them on, tied them…then stopped. Untied one, tied it again. Untied it once more, retied it. Then I did the same with the other. I recommend all those who read this (that’s FOUR! Count ‘em FOUR people!!) to do this the next time you are putting on shoes and have a moment to appreciate it. You’re fingers seem to have tiny brains in each tip, that’s great. You’re feet and therefore your whole self feels more secure, that’s great too. And finally, you can look down at your tied shoes and KNOW that you have accomplished something. No mater how the day turns out from this point on, you have accomplished SOMETHING. Sweet, sweet sassisfakshun!
And from yet elsewhere:
The “party” on Saturday. So Kaitlyn, Lisa, Becca, Jen, Natalia, Jade, myself, Todd and his friends showed up over the course of the evening. In all honesty, the high point of the evening was going up to the roof. I was gung ho about the shindig then I wasn’t, then I thought no one would come because the weather was shitty, then a few hours before the event, I was stoked, but which each guest arrived a creeping numbness when had consumed me wholly by the end of the evening. I went to bed feeling dismantled and reassembled improperly.
I’m looking forward to tomorrow, the final season of Futurama comes out on DVD. Then, next Tuesday, the final season of Invader Zim comes out on DVD. Then, eh, I’m sure I’ll find some square peg.
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I made the last entry in the second book of my journal last night or the day before. I’ve been writing in it since seventh grade and I haven’t really written anything worth reading over all that time. I mean, yes I have this on-line journal, but seriously, like I’d ever put the real true feelings about people, places and things here. People who do that are looking for attention or trying to say or do something in a roundabout way. It’s not hard to buy a spiral notebook and confide in that.
8.20.2004
Welcome to the Machine
Here’s a(nother) glimpse of my inner churnings and bubblings…
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It’s 12:33 AM 8/19/04
There’s this security guard here, Arrington (or maybe Herrington) and he is FURIOUS.
The phone rings: “Man, what the fuck!!”, there is a knock at the door, “Shit, what the fuck!?”, Somebody asks him to hand them something, “Nigga, what the fuck?!”
Also, his back hurts. How do I know? I’m NOT…a doctor (but I am a real Worm….) But Mr. Arrington has this subtle manner in which he expresses himself.
Someone says, “What’s up?” “Man, my fuckin’ back hurse!!”, the same phone rings again, “Shit, my fuckin’ back hurse!!”, a panel starts beeping, “Nigga, my fuckin’ back hurse!!
Has he seen a doctor? No. Why? Because “if I see a doctor, they’ll take one look at it and give me muscle relaxants (Note: He did say “muscle relaxers”, but I respect the English language, even if we did turn “aluminium” into “aluminum”, “colour” into “color”, “night” into “nite" etc. It’s better than turning “hurts” into “hurse”, “You’d better leave that shit there” into “Ya bedda led dem shiz dare” and “Hey, what’s up?” into “Gloopy goopy glurp?” and so on… ).” Why hasn’t he gotten muscle relaxants? Because then he’ll have to see a doctor. He’s like a whiny broken record trapped in a Mobius strip. And I am in his orbit. It is pretty interesting though; big, burly black man puling like a bitch with cramps. I can only hope that his continued refusal to go to a doctor and get something to shut him up will result in his spinal cord snapping and him losing all use of his big, burly black cizzock. That’ll fix his wagon.
It’s 3:24 AM, 8/19/04
Walking back to the Hospital from my home, I was assaulted by thousands of crickets and the overwhelming scent of Nature. Walking between the black expanse of Central Park and the chthonic-lit castle-like Hospital is always strange and sometimes I sense a genuine presence behind me. Thinking about all the bad deaths this place has seen some post human unrest is to be expected. About a week of so ago, I accidentally heard a patients dying. A code was called late one night on the 6th floor of the Hospital building. The proper authorities were called to assist. A few minutes after the call, a light on my board went on and I asked if the resident needed assistance. I heard some strange noises , but no response. I asked again. More strange noises. Nothing but noises. I asked a third time and heard and angry young male voice yell “No! No assistance! Nothing-“ then the light went out. I wrote down the time in the log and double checked the room number. A moment later, we received the call that the code patient had died. I noted the time of death and the room number and realized that the room I had just heard from was the room in which, according to the doctor’s notes, the patient had just died. The button to call for assistance was hit by the attending doctor by accident allowing me to hear the last efforts of the doctors to save the patient and the patient’s last efforts to live. I was thinking about this as I walked back to the Hospital at 3ish in the morning. Directly in front of the entrance is a rock garden with a statue of the Virgin Mary. Swallowed up by the insectile soundscape, looking at the light of a Lovecraft monster on the Madonna, thinking about what I had witnessed a recently, I was unable to suppress a shudder. Did Jesus ever think that centuries after his death, statues of his mother would creep me out? Why the hell not? Hm.
5:53 AM
Huge major update!! Mr. Arrington just made a phone call to someone. In a nutshell he asked this person (whom he called at 5:51 in the morning) for some “little yellow pills, I don’t know the name” for his “twisted back.” He’s asking this mysterious drug-wielding stranger so he doesn’t have to “get a subscription.” I can only assume he meant “prescription.”
On an unrelated topic: I loathe those Wendy’s commercials with that fat fucking bastard. The TV commercials are bad but the radio spots are exponentially worse.
“The Bart, the.”
“Well, no one who speaks German could be evil.”
Are you still with me?
8/20/04 3:24 AM
It’s like I’m surrounded by three stupid parrots. Bilingual parrots that can’t speak any language correctly. And it strikes me: How can the nerve center of a huge health center in New York City have such inarticulate morons working here? What if there’s some huge disaster and someone needs a clear voice? Lives could be at stake because these people are too lazy to pronounce all twenty-six letters of the alphabet. THERE’S ONLY 26!! I was expected to know the capitals of all fifty states in fourth grade and I did a damn good job for someone who doesn’t use combinations of them to form words every single day! It’s like a stupid tumor killing my brain. Fortitude friend, fortitude…
So I get’s off work at 7 am as usual. I am awake at 11:40. Why? Did I set an alarm? Is there a dog in my bed? Is Jade confused and horny? No, no and maybe one or the other. Actually, there is a dragon farting right outside my window. Upon further investigation, it is a huge fucking crane carrying things from a flatbed on the ground to the roof. I started typing this stuff to wait for it to go away and now it is gone. I just wanted to let you all know that no matter where you live; nothing, NOTHING is worse than waking up to a dragon farting and then changing itself into a crane and lifting things up to my roof. Except living in Jersey. Now it is gone and I am going to back to sleep back to again. To back to.
But first, at 5:11 or so this morning, my phone rings and it’s Alan. From 5:11 to 6:30ish or so I talked with him about life, love, Jennifer Eccels, the price of teabagging in Chinese whorehouses, how “girth” in the new “width”, the Coriolis Effect and its effect on Jade, the same effect that it has on coconuts and some many things that might or night not have actually been discussed. Either way, it was one of the most surreal conversations I have ever held, mostly due to sleep deprivation but who knows for sure? If you do, please send a self-addressed stamped envelope to:
8.16.2004
I said hip hop a hippie a hippie to the hip hip hoppa you don't stop....
You never stop. Ever. This was a long weekend. A very long weekend. Lots of food. Too much food. Too much family. Christina hates Catholicism; I GET IT. Working late shift this week. Need to buy DVD's to watch. Bored. Need...something. Grape soda? Maybe. Will finish "Kickin'" video this week. Maybe. Four shots left/ Denise...where you at with the book thing? Going to drink grape soda. So I just found out today that TMBG is having TWO shows at Irving Plaza on October first (Friday) and second (Saturday). I was going to a Lovecraft thing at the Knitting Factory, but sorry H.P. you're dead, TMBG are alive...and Kickin' hahahahahahahahahahahahahahhahaha ahh ah shsdd ashf khflkhaliwerfrfuurf qlwkejrh wekrjh w hvvhvhhvh v v 8 8 8 7 8 7 h hdsdsidf dsf dsfhaberdasher
8.12.2004
7.28.2004
Feelin' mopey?
Of course you are! Your life sucks and you know it (Note: If you are pretending you don't know it, everything follwing is twelve times more sad)! You're stuck in a dead-end job with dead-end co-workers and when you're done wasting ANOTHER 8 HOURS OF YOUR ALREADY SAD LIFE, you go to some dive where other soulless zombies like you congregate to try and drink away the sadness and pain of your everyday lives! Then you go home to your overpriced and under lit shithole of an apartment where you try not to openly hate your likewise dead-end roommates that make you want to KILL YOURSELF!!! BUT THERE IS A SOLUTION!!! And it's right here... http://www.trevorvanmeter.com/flyguy/ You'll thank me in the morning if you aren't dead yet.
Also, the TMBG show is Friday at 7:30 at the Prospect Park Bandshell in Brooklyn, NY. You take the Q train from 14th street to Prospect Park. Doors are at 6:30 and although the show is free, there is a suggested donation that you don't have to pay. Bring a blanket and a lunch and show up early to spend some tme with the tallest and most Australian people you know! Religion will NOT be discussed. See you all there except for Kaitlyn and Jen who are hosebeasts.
Also, the TMBG show is Friday at 7:30 at the Prospect Park Bandshell in Brooklyn, NY. You take the Q train from 14th street to Prospect Park. Doors are at 6:30 and although the show is free, there is a suggested donation that you don't have to pay. Bring a blanket and a lunch and show up early to spend some tme with the tallest and most Australian people you know! Religion will NOT be discussed. See you all there except for Kaitlyn and Jen who are hosebeasts.
7.24.2004
Sokol Auditorium...Auditorium, Sokol Auditorium...Auditorium...PARTY INTHE NIGHTTIME!!!
Yeah, so tonight should rock. I called B.J. for the rules and guidelines for Fotch. Oh yes, Fotch. As fun to say as it is to play...
The plans that were rough have begun to show edges...namely:
1. A movie (most likely Kevin Smith in order to play a Kevin Smith Drinking Game)
2. Fotch.
3. Psychedelic light show.
Also, looks like me and 7 girls: Natalia, Jen, Ang, Jade, Lisa, Kaitlyn, Christina (9 if Jill and Beccah wear their ovaries on the outside and show up). Seriously, if I knew any straight guys that were in town I would invite them but all I got is Alan (in D.C.), Todd (in some abandoned TB hospital), Mike and GC (drunk already and in Brooklyn), Twevor (kind of a downer and shy to boot) and then there's Phil, Will and B.J., some of the most attractive, undersexed, hairy, swarthy, well-endowed, manliest men I know who are scattered all over the fucking globe. Meh, could be worse, all the girls coming over could be as mofugly as Kaitlyn. Count my blessings EVERY DAY.
The plans that were rough have begun to show edges...namely:
1. A movie (most likely Kevin Smith in order to play a Kevin Smith Drinking Game)
2. Fotch.
3. Psychedelic light show.
Also, looks like me and 7 girls: Natalia, Jen, Ang, Jade, Lisa, Kaitlyn, Christina (9 if Jill and Beccah wear their ovaries on the outside and show up). Seriously, if I knew any straight guys that were in town I would invite them but all I got is Alan (in D.C.), Todd (in some abandoned TB hospital), Mike and GC (drunk already and in Brooklyn), Twevor (kind of a downer and shy to boot) and then there's Phil, Will and B.J., some of the most attractive, undersexed, hairy, swarthy, well-endowed, manliest men I know who are scattered all over the fucking globe. Meh, could be worse, all the girls coming over could be as mofugly as Kaitlyn. Count my blessings EVERY DAY.
7.22.2004
I took Denny's quiz and failed. Tried to write my own and stopped after two mediocre questions. Had an EXCELLENT and undisturbed 8 hour sleep after I returned from work this morning. Happy dreams about some party in a large house. Lost of rooms, and a general feeling of happiness and good. Portable DVD player works like a charm for speeding the hours away at work. Looking around at the people I call friends recently I feel there is a lot of sad in the air and I wonder what in the hell is going on with the Great Magnet? Where is he pulling my friends and family? To what end. But one must not question its will. Speaking of Will, he is ending his tour in Tiny Land and will soon be returning to France then America (Magnet willing), maybe he'll move here? Hopefully yes. Now, I am waiting for the webmaster person from the TMBG live show download site to add some shows to my list. Can’t wait for the 30th. Going to rrrrrrrock.
7.20.2004
Yes, my Gate Keeper
Soooooo......I'm plotting out a shot list for a video I'll be shooting with Chris and Jade for the TMBG song "It's Kickin' In". It will be very literal. In it, I will be wearing a suit, Jade will freak out and Christina will be disaffected. We will be scouting out YOUR homes and props for locations and stuff so be prepared. You'll get a credit in the vid and a hug...a naked one...from me. We'll need a nice bed (Christina Andrews...mmmmmyes?), some nice bookshelves (New York Public Library...mmmmmyes?), some blank spaces (Fordham University Studios...mmmmmmyes?), a classy resturant...hm, I was think of my roof for some reason, but then again, it is 2:41 AM. It will be done on Super 8 with some post production done on Pro Tools so it looks like the Canadian Comtemptist, Ross will be contacted. Should be fun and, if I don;t get distracted and forget about it, actually created. You know when I think of all the great ideas that I actually fleshed out somewhat and then just stopped, I feel a stab of anger and acid reflux in my guts. Firehead, my web site (which will have a new video ANY DAY NOW), my career as the Tallest Man in the World (I stopped well beneath the required height...) and a whole bunch of stuff that hasn't been touched in so long I've totally forgotten about it...man, to quote Ian Dury, what a waste.
And now, a note on Pepcid AC and Immondeum AD. First,, for those that don't know, Pepcid AC (Acid Control) is a medicine you can obtain over the counter that eliminated acid reflux and heartburn (which is actually acid reflux) by absorbing the excess stomach acid from your stomach and Immodeum (although I am spelling it wrong) AD (Anti-Diarrhea) is a medicine that can also be obtained over the counter that stops diarrhea and all shit for that matter from exiting your anus. For the record, they both work and pretty well, but they both have side effects that are closely linked... Pepcid reduces stomach acid which in turn means your food takes longer to digest and therefore longer to excrete and Immodeum (I don't know how exactly) stops you from shitting for a while, sometimes a few days even. Long story short, if you took both Pepcid and Immodeum, you wouldn't shite for about a week or so and when you did you would destroy the toilit. I've never tried this, but I have taken one or the other at one time or another and linking the side effects would be hilariously terrible. Good night.
And now, a note on Pepcid AC and Immondeum AD. First,, for those that don't know, Pepcid AC (Acid Control) is a medicine you can obtain over the counter that eliminated acid reflux and heartburn (which is actually acid reflux) by absorbing the excess stomach acid from your stomach and Immodeum (although I am spelling it wrong) AD (Anti-Diarrhea) is a medicine that can also be obtained over the counter that stops diarrhea and all shit for that matter from exiting your anus. For the record, they both work and pretty well, but they both have side effects that are closely linked... Pepcid reduces stomach acid which in turn means your food takes longer to digest and therefore longer to excrete and Immodeum (I don't know how exactly) stops you from shitting for a while, sometimes a few days even. Long story short, if you took both Pepcid and Immodeum, you wouldn't shite for about a week or so and when you did you would destroy the toilit. I've never tried this, but I have taken one or the other at one time or another and linking the side effects would be hilariously terrible. Good night.
7.19.2004
Journal update!!!
UPDATE UPDATE!!! UPDATEY POO!! FERT! NUFF! TEAT! I think I'm going to get a portbale DVD player. The new TMBG album and EP are spectacular if not a tad on the short side. Life is good. Let's rocket.
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