Wish I hadn't accidentally erased that Word document called "great titles"

It's late and I don't have time to do much but ask a few questions I had today and yesterday.

Are 93-year old kids going to sue? I've been listening to Christmas music - all day, every day - for about 2 weeks, and today is the 2nd day of December. There is a song that extends a Christmas wish to "kids from one to ninety-two" that I have heard 40 times a year, every year since I had ears. What about the kids who have yet to pass that miraculous milestone of being alive for one year? Are they being actively excluded, or is it just their bad luck that including their particular age would detract from the song?

It's like when a bee flies in your car window and lands down by your feet and you can't see it and you're wondering if it's going to crawl up your leg

Last week a guy sold me a unicorn egg, and then laughed at me and called me a mean name. Well, the joke's on him, because it just hatched and I'm pretty sure my unicorn is on its way to poke that guy's eyes out.


On a serious note, though... we are fast approaching another new year, and I've been thinking about my New Year's resolution, which has been the same for a lot of years now - in essence, "Shut My Pie Hole." I mean, there are probably a few reasons why I feel I constantly have to be running my goddamn mouth - sometimes I just talk because I'm nervous, and I don't stop. And the more I talk, the less sense I make. I can actually see the point of what I was saying slip away, retreating and finally disappearing, and still my mouth moves. Also (and this has been pointed out to me a lot over the years) I always have to try and sound smart. I've always hoped that playing trivia nationwide against a bunch of other trivial people would be a good outlet for that crap so I could just have normal conversations with people. But no: regardless of what topic you bring up, there is probably some obscure piece of pointless information that nobody gives a rip about, and yet I am compelled to share it with you. Sometimes I bore myself with my talking, which is incredible, because I am NEVER bored. You know that saying, which goes something like "Better to remain silent and thought a fool than to speak and remove all doubt?" I think that's a very clever saying, except that it was invented because of people like me. How depressing.
So if by chance we spend this New Year's eve together, please remember to join me in a toast to Health, Happiness and Shutting the Hell Up!

M

P.S. - I really wanted to share this with you.

In The Morning

In the morning I’ll still be here even though you’ll be ashamed
And I’ll make you toast and clean up most of the problems I was blamed
For causing even though I think you know it was your ex who came in drunk
Who would’ve thunk so many words can rhyme with bunk and sunk and punk
And so I roast the bread and toast the dead or should it be the other way around
And have you found the precious earrings that fell out when you were on the ground
So you’re awake and at the table and you see me in your stable
So surprised that I was able to make a meal from the contents of your fridge
And though I’ve cheated just a smidge by walking down the street to by some meat
And cheese and eggs and milk and a fucking frying pan
You start to wonder if I’m a man who can make some sense of your future tense
Which has up to now been acknowledged in the past and I think, am I the last
Decent guy to ever walk through this train wreck’s door?
I sure hope so because she’s just what I need and I should ask for nothing more.

The Summertime Music Throwdown!

Hey gang! Three cheers for summer being ripped up and thrown away for a few months!
Hip!
Hip!
Hooray!!

So summer's almost over, but today it was a hundred and some-odd degrees coming back from the dentist and I was thinking about some of the summer songs that I like. They were:

Summer Breeze - Seals & Crofts
Suddenly Last Summer - The Motels
Cruel Summer - Bananarama

So then when I got home I thought of some other summer songs, and even pulled some cds down to check for summer songs I might have forgotten. Came up with:

Summer Nights - Grease soundtrack
That Summer - Garth Brooks
Boys of Summer - Don Henley (The Ataris did a popular cover a few years ago)
Summer in the City - the Lovin' Spoonful

So then I decided to search Youtube for other songs I had heard but couldn't remember and came up with some gems:

Summer Girls - LFO
All Summer Long - Kid Rock
In the Summertime - Mungo Jerry
Summer of '69 - Bryan Adams

I'm going to post a few videos... What's your favorite summer song?



Now let's take a second... there may have never been a song, ever, EVER, worse than this. Listen to the verses. Jon Stewart would call this a Moment of Zen. None of the verses even have anything to do with summer.
"Billy Shakespeare wrote a bunch of sonnets." Word.





"Blowin' through the jasmine in my mind..." 'Nuff said.


Now, I wanted to put a third video up but I don't know who deserves the honors. There's a Lego version of Summer Nights (from Grease) but I think I like the real peoples better. Who wants to play? There's a pretty good chance that this post will have no comments, like usual, but it would also be fun if people posted some fucking summer videos to entertain me! Right? And entertain you! And themselves! It's all a lot of fun. If you use Youtube, you just copy the "embed" line (if you're legally allowed to!) and then paste that in your comment. WHAM! It's a video! And NO Rick Astley videos! Okay, one.

Walking And

And then it happens one day that you’re walking
and talking to just yourself
and you’re certainly not doing it for your health
and you look around and don’t know where you are
and someone stops and asks if you need a ride
and no station offers the same kind of contemplation
and you say “no, I’m really just looking for a destination
but thanks” and you can tell by the look on his face
that no matter how you both arrived at this place
he’s just realized the only difference between him and you
is that he’s in a car.

Okay, Enough With The Poetry Already

Yesterday I accidentally ran over my neighbor's dog, and the dog says "Hey Matt, watch where you're running, jackass!" I didn't even know that dog knew my name.

Tonight I made dip by putting Funyuns, mayonnaise and some other stuff in the blender. I was using the blender for my goldfish bowl at the time so I guess there's a little fish in it too. And a bigger fish. Oh, and a treasure chest.

Days That End In Why

And then you wake up on your lonely floor
One shoe on, one under your ear
And you’re not sure if the road maps on the door
Can tell you how you got here

And you go to a bar where loud men discuss
Sports scores that shouldn’t but somehow
Do involve cussing
That started decades ago.

And the next bar raises men
That also cuss, and shout outright
About which light beer is best and then
You pick a side just to even the fight

And the next bar is actually a winery
And you know you’re going too far
And though you’re in your finest finery
You’re still a little out of place

And at the next place they’re nineteen, maybe twenty
And after one song on the jukebox
You can see that there are plenty
That want you to leave so you think about it

And then they make you and you’re glad
You took a cab here because the good places
Should be open soon and Why are you feeling sad
When you could be having more fun with her?

Popcorn

Yuck - If you haven't read the beginning of the story I posted last week, don't bother. It's really not good. Ungood, even. And I had such high hopes for it. Maybe I'll take another stab at it this week. Or two stabs. Or maybe I'll just run it right through the heart and put it out of its misery.

New Pic, No New News.

So I don't know if I've mentioned how much I like James' 'Laid' album, but I really do. And I'm having a hard time figuring out some of the song titles. I have one of those old-fashioned cd players in my car that doesn't list song titles, only track numbers - and that's really where I listen to most music. Gotta fill those two hours a day with something, eh?

Another thing I liked this week was the movie "Wristcutters: A Love Story." I totally dug it. I think the main actor is going to be the next John Malkovich, in that you've seen him in lots of movies but you can't name any of them. This is also my second favorite performance of Shannyn Sossamon, second to her part in "Rules of Attraction" which I can only say I liked because I haven't read the book yet. The book, as it happens, was written by Bret Easton Ellis, and if the movie version of this book was as weak as the movie version of "American Psycho" then it's probably got something to be desired. I'll let you know if and when I find out what.

Oh, and would you believe I found out today that I can take out the 256mb card in my phone and stick in a 4gb for like 12 bucks? Also it turns out that I can use the adapter, which came with the phone but has been riding in a bag in my trunk since September, to upload my phone pics right to my computer! A few years ago I probably would have freaked out about the machines taking over, but now I have conveniently conformed and as I am feeling pleasantly jingled from a bottle of chardonnay and a few stouts, I will take my leave and try to write something more interesting next time. Oooh, I started a story, maybe I will leave you with that. As of yet untitled.




(story start)

11:30 p.m.
New Year’s Eve – 2008

It has come down to one half hour.

I scrawl the words across the paper on my dusty desk, hoping she will be able to make sense of them, not confident that I am making the letters right. I feel a single light scratch down the back of my neck, and I know that she understands. As she moves her hand into my hair I feel her fingers on my scalp, and the accompanying involuntary shudder of pleasure threatens to overtake my terror. I set the pencil down and focus only on her touch, hoping I will be able to remember how it feels, hoping it will be enough.















12:45 a.m.
New Year’s Day – 2006

I guess this is where things get complicated.

Forty five minutes ago I was sitting in a friend’s living room, listening to Dick Clark officially check us out of 2005. I was a little nervous – I tried to play it off, but with only one drink the entire night I was socially unlubricated, dry-humping the crowd through its jeans. I told myself I was silly, that nothing was going to happen, there was no logic to it. But then I lifted my champagne glass to my lips after toasting and my heart stopped, briefly. The champagne didn’t smell bad – I wish it had. It didn’t smell at all.

Nothing did. Melanie was standing next to me, laughing, so I leaned over to smell her hair – to bury my nose in her crinkly brown locks that always smelled like coconut. I even poked fun at her for it sometimes… as my sense of smell had developed in the past year, I could always tell when she was around because she smelled like someone had squirted sunscreen all over her. It was usually pleasant. Now, the only way I could tell it was Melanie’s hair in my hand was that she was giggling and asking if I wanted to play with her coconuts. I tried to smile and asked if she could give me a ride home.

You might be wondering what’s complicated about this. At the stroke of midnight, less than an hour ago, my sense of smell abandoned me completely. Not so strange, right? Certainly nothing that can’t be dealt with. The bad part is that last New Year’s, exactly one year and 58 minutes ago, I went blind. Thirty years old, relatively good health, nearsighted in an unintimidating way – and as the curtain closed on 2004, the shades were drawn over my eyes absolutely.

It had been a bad year – I don’t deny it. I had been served divorce papers only 7 hours prior, and it’s true that I drank harder and with more fervor than I ever had, even for New Year’s Eve. But did I literally drink myself blind? It sounds silly, but I knew that some of my close friends believed it. I’ve been taking it pretty easy with the booze since then, just in case. Karma can really buck you, and I knew it. And here it is, a year later, and with one glass of champagne I’d apparently gone and drank myself anosmic. Let’s see you bastards explain this one. It’s a bittersweet victory, one which I have no choice but to accept. I was really starting to rely on my sense of smell. This is going to end badly, I can tell already. I don’t know if you’ve put it together yet, but it looks (no pun intended) a little like this:

New Year’s Eve 2004: lost sense of sight
New Year’s Eve 2005: lost sense of smell

I’m not much for math, but I’ve been learning a lot more about physiology than I’d ever dreamed. If I don’t figure out what’s happening to me by next year, and how to stop it, what will happen to me?

Dear Resident Advisor

This one goes out to Erica, a friend who somehow ended up my R.A. and likely kept me out of jail once. This is our serenade. Silly, maybe, but entirely from the heart. Over the intercom. Late at night.

Broken

Sometimes you hit the road, sometimes the road hits you.

I had to take the ol' Power Ram to work the other day to pick up some cylinders. I was still 35 miles away when I was thinking about what to use to give the windshield a good cleaning when it exploded.

I was glad I had sunglasses on because the glass sprayed all over the cab. It doesn't look that impressive but it scared the hell out of me, especially since I was staring at it when it happened and am still not sure where the guilty projectile came from. It looked like this:



It made me think of a lot of things - especially time. Like, if I hadn't dropped the ice cube I was putting into my coffee mug, I would have left three seconds earlier and that chunk of asphalt would have sailed over me, harmlessly. Isn't that weird? Think of how many things I could have done three seconds faster on Tuesday morning. Shaving, showering, getting dressed, finding my phone. Waking up. Brushing my teeth. Tying my shoes. Anything. But suppose I had done any of those things three seconds slower - perhaps I would have stopped at a different light and got clobbered by a trash truck. Or maybe a bee would have come in my window and got trapped between my face and my sunglasses, stinging me in the eyeball. I bet that would've hurt. Or it could have stung me right on the lip, and I'd've been stuck in the hospital with a talking cucumber. Usta!

At any rate, I just got the windshield on my Neon replaced two weeks ago because it's had a huge crack for almost a year. So if I had to take FOD on my way to work I'm glad it was the Ram. Two windshields in two weeks. I wish I could just take the bus. Do you know how much I could read during a commute like that? I need to figure out how to use the Hemet library so I can start checking out books on disc. the library here is a joke, did you know that? I don't know why. It is the suck.

Time to make plans. Good night, all.

You're a Nary

Good evening! I was thinking again today about restroom etiquette.

Fuck, once again I've typed a sentence that I never thought would escape my fingers. But I really hate editing myself - is sort of subtracts from the experience for both of us.

So - clearly there are some unwritten rules, and I'm sure I can google them all. Just curious if anyone would read this, and even more curiouser if anyone would humor me. In the men's room, don't stand directly next to another guy unless there is no other choice. It gets a little more complex, but that's the basic rule. There's a little saying I made up for the men's room: "When the flood gates are opened, so too shall the wind be broken." You might get it. You might not. It's not all that funny, but when I first thought of it I chuckled enough to rip a fart.

Ladies, if you are reading (and I see no reason you would be), let's say there are three stalls in a restroom. You have just occupied one with the intent of making water, but the gal in the other stall beats you to it. The only sound in the room is her tinkle hitting the water in the bowl. What do you do? I thought of two possible answers: one, you flush the toilet. Two, you find the courage to send your own stream blasting. Soon I will find a voting app to make this a little more anonymous, but you know, we're all friends here. For the most part. But I digress.

I had lots of things to discuss in this post, but I couldn't figure out how they all fit together to make an interesting blog post. I ended up ripping a receipt into pieces and picking whatever was written on the piece of receipt, on which I had written different things in the corners earlier today. So now I'm going to write about... and, I've lost the receipt. Hell. This blog lacks the range of total color necessary to make it consistently interesting. Full time consideration of another endeavor might be in order.

And with that, I introduce you to Mr. Harry Chapin, a philanthropist, genius and all around decent human being which means, of course, that he was killed in a car crash on his way to a charity concert when he was only 40 years old. Because I totally ripped him off in the last paragraph.



And a must see.



I really hope that someday, soon, someone makes a really outstanding video of "The Rock." I've no doubt that it could be done well with the talent that's out there... and perhaps a little guidance from some of us die-hards. However, if you get antsy and want to hear the song, you can find it on youtube but I can't stress enough that you need to KEEP YOUR EYES CLOSED. It is a crappy compilation of pictures of rocks that takes up too much attention but isn't worth it. So here's a picture of a cactus flower I took yesterday.

Wherever Particular People Gather

I got an email about roundtrip flights from San Diego to Dublin for $459. Who's in? Anyone have a friend over there we can stay with for a few days? Guinness is on me. And hopefully in me.

I was so excited on Monday afternoon - there was a lot of stuff I wanted to get done and for some reason I was excited about all of it. I think it was laundry and cleaning out my car, and getting rid of some more clothes. The excitement wore off pretty quick, for some reason, so I started watching the first season of Burn Notice instead. Likes.

Oh, one question... what kind of books do you all go for when you pick something nonfiction? Some of you read that more than anything else, but I never have. I've been getting kind of jazzed about using my brain, which has been just sort of standing around and helping me keep my balance for a while, and I keep thinking of all these things I want to read that don't involve acid or time travel. I'm torn between reading about something current and learning about something I never really retained in history class. Any suggestions? Biographies and autobiographies tend to bore the hell out of me, so let's stay away from those for now. I heard about a book called Wolf Totem that I might try, or maybe something about some period of the Roman empire...

I just started reading Thomas More's Utopia and I'm on page 48... of the introduction. So it might be a while.

I don't have any videos screaming at me to be posted, or funny stories or anything like that, so I'll put up a piece of my drunken, late night whinery from about a decade ago. Enjoy!


Alone beside you
Closeness and distance unrelated
You, looking not into my eyes but past them
At what? Maybe it exists, maybe you just want it to
Perhaps I should stop trying to conform to it or
Perhaps it is conforming to me
Perhaps I will never untwist enough for the seed to take root
In this barren rocky region
Where nothing grows, only stagnates
Withers and dies
But is revived temporarily
Only to begin dying again
When I am alone beside you

Every Now And Then I Get A Little Bit Nervous That The Best Of All The Years Have Gone By

I'm going to postpone my silly music blog and say only this.

In highschool, you are not obligated to share the truth with your peers. You must prove that you are above them. You need to show the admissions department at the colleges of your choice that you are a more desirable student than the others with whom you graduated. In life, it's different. When you discover the truth, you are obligated to share it with as many as you can, lest they lead pointless lives because you were selfish.

For this reason, there will be no peace until we are all one religion, or we are all no religion.

This is the only belief I have that every one of you must agree with, unless you are absolutely without conviction, or are one hundred percent selfish.

Love always,
Matt

He Was A Shooting Star

To Whom it May Concern:

I am writing to you regarding the wrappers of Tootsie Roll Industries’ “Tootsie Roll Pop.” I have been enjoying this confection for many years now, and prefer it to the standard “Tootsie Roll.” The varied flavors of lollipop around the Tootsie Roll center add an undeniably delicious flavor to the traditional Tootsie Roll candy.

My question refers to the wrapper of the Tootsie Roll Pop. I have been saving the wrappers that contain the “Indian Shooting Star,” an individual clothed in Native American garb and wielding a bow and arrow, which is aimed at a star. I have heard for years that wrappers featuring this depiction are more valuable than other wrappers in that they can be traded for merchandise, or another Tootsie Roll Pop. I have heard different accounts of their actual value, but these seem to be the most common. What I am wondering is, how can I trade in my wrappers for whatever it is they can supposedly be traded for? I have been trying to find some sort of catalog that outlines the process, but have met with no success. I have a Betty Crocker catalog which I received in exchange for General Mills box tops, and Kool-Aid points can be used to obtain Kool-Aid merchandise that is readily available right on the side of the package.

I would appreciate information on how I can get my share of whatever it is I have coming to me. I currently have 14,355 wrappers with the “Indian Shooting Star” and 1,611 with part of the “Indian Shooting Star,” which may not be worth as much as those with the entire picture. Please get back to me as soon as possible regarding this issue, as I am planning on moving to a smaller apartment where I will not have space for my shoeboxes full of Tootsie Roll Pop wrappers.


Sincerely,

Matt

Shopping Should Be Fun

I'm about to write a blog about shopping. That's weird.

It all started about 6 months ago, when I bought a suit, went to a wedding and enjoyed both. It wasn't long ago that wearing a tie would almost make me sick. Then a few months later I looked in my closet and realized I hated about half a dozen shirts that I regularly wore to work. I sold them at a yard sale for a quarter each and decided to go for quality over quantity, which is not something that comes easily to me. Once for my class reunion I spent sixty bucks on a shirt, which I hadn't done before or since. I usually go to Target and get 2 shirts and 2 pairs of pants for that money. So now I'm like, "I have terrible taste, and I end up getting stuff that I don't like. And I'm spending less, so I get MORE of it." That's just plain stupid.

Part of the problem is that I hate trying on clothes. For years I've bought pants that may or may not fit properly because no two brands are cut the same, so a 30 length is fine on some but highwater on others. No big deal - I just wear taller boots with those ones. Then the next time I buy 32s. And they're way too long. I think I wear a 31 inch inseam, but I'd have to get all my pants tailored if I want that length and I'm not to that point yet. Also size 13 of some boots is too big, but 12 is too small and most brands under $200 don't make twelve-and-a-half. Size large shirts are often too small but extra large is like a tent. Where did I get these fucked up proportions? I would whine about my right eye being good and my left eye not so much, but I think that's kind of normal. But I digress.

As my blue jeans wear out, or I just get tired of them being too short or too long, I'm getting rid of them but trying not to replace them. I did break down and try on some clothes a few weeks ago, and was able to score one good pair of pants out of four I tried on. No luck on the shirts. They looked good on the rack but not on me and I realized that trying this shit on was the way I'd have to do it from now on. The problem is that while I have the desire to wear nicer things, I don't have the ability to recognize them. I tried on a few things which seemed trendy and realized I can't even come close to pulling that crap off. I guess at 30 I need to focus on dressing like a man instead of a college student or a hick. That sounds a little depressing, but also kind of refreshing. We'll see how this ends up. Where does a guy turn for fashion advice when GQ is way out of his budget? And did I just write "where does a guy turn for fashion advice?" Son of a bitch. I should have got drunk for this one, it would have been way funnier. And you know what's even funnier? I went to open a bottle of wine just now, and all that's left is some white zinfandel that's been in the fridge for at least 3 years. So I went to have a beer instead, but there's only one left and it's not cold. So you know what I'm drinking? This must be the second full glass of white zin I've ever had in my life. It doesn't really taste like wine. And it's not really white.

So enough about shopping and fruity wines - you guys should hear what I've been listening to during my commute for the last two weeks! And at home, and at work... my car sounds like Night at the fucking Roxbury for two hours a day. Yep - 90s dance music. We're talking Real McCoy, Londonbeat, Technotronic, La Bouche, Snap, Reel 2 Real, Ace of Base and - you guessed it - Haddaway.



I'd better take it easy or I'm going to be bumping the Cascada in my Neon. A couple of mornings ago I turned on the radio and listened to regular music for a while - it was weird. Like it had been ten years since I'd heard normal rock and roll, but it was really only a few weeks. It was that morning that I heard this song, which I really liked. It isn't new, but I hadn't heard of her before so I picked up the album and it's really good. Here's the song that got me, from the album "The Story."



I think she's super-duper.

Good evening then, think I'll have another glass and put this poor bottle out of its misery.

I'll Have What the Gentleman On the Floor Is Having

It's been so long since I actually got off work on time that I forgot what a shitty undertaking it is to get on the freeway at 5:00. What a mess. It gave me a chance to realize how attached I've gotten to my little egg-shaped Neon. Besides the outstanding gas mileage, it has a great stock sound system. It blows my truck's stereo out of the water, even with the Power Ram's new Dynamat-mounted speakers in the doors. The noise in the cab is so outrageously loud it would take a lot of watts and insulation to make it any good, I guess. I only mention this stuff because of some of the weird music I have been listening to of late. Don't even ask. It makes no sense.

To business. Fourteen days ago, I was out of the country for the first time in twenty-five years. And I'm not even completely sure I actually crossed the border that time, although I did get a giant sombrero out of the deal. But I digress. It was an abslutely incredible cruise of the eastern Caribbean, and I've been trying to figure out how to share it with all of you in an efficient yet engaging manner. Here goes.

Landed in Fort Lauderdale and took a shuttle that honked a lot but wasn't aggressive. Shared the van with three middle-aged couples going on a different cruise. They envied me but only because I lied. Got to Haddon Hall in South Beach (water so clear you could see to the bottom - hundred-thousand-dollar cars, everybody's got 'em) where all the girls had put their clothes back on because of the cold. Balls. Smoked some hand-rolled cigars with no drugs, drank some rum, drank some beer, watched a kid get the shivers as he got hit on by guys in short-shorts and halter tops. Spent ninety dollars at a bar called Lost Weekend where, unsurprisingly, the beautiful bartenders had never heard of the movie. Wanted to buy a t-shirt but didn't. Bought drinks for an Adult Entertainer who bailed unexpectedly, which is a good thing. Fell asleep around four and missed our checkout time. Went to the dock and saw the boat. It looked like this:



Boarded easily with a birth certificate so real it looked fake. Put a liter of scotch and a six pack-of beer through the metal detector in my suitcase. Went to bed wondering how long it would be before I was sleeping on the balcony. Woke up and played some trivia, didn't win. Looked at pictures, read some Thompson, drank some scotch and played more trivia. Realized I forgot my good pants and tried to get a girl with a hook for a hand to match a tie to my business-casual getup. Looked like a Jack-O-Lantern. Drank some scotch, drank some rum, drank some wine. Went on a 6-hour blackout that started like this:



Got up and went outside to see a pirate ship that was maneuvering to board. It looked like this:



Was pretty out of it by then but am pretty sure we repelled them with small arms fire. Mine not included, which I had left behind thinking it would be discovered by the metal detector. Went snorkeling, kissed a stingray, burned my back to a deep and beautiful red. "Ladies and Gentlemen of the class of '99, wear sunscreen. If I could offer you only one tip for the future, sunscreen would be it." Had a margarita at Margaritaville, had 6 vodka collinses at the bar. Bought a necklace. Played some trivia. Held an impromptu karaoke session on the stern, deck 9. Ate some free pizza, drank some Guinness, slept for three hours and got off the boat on Roatan. Took some pictures, bought some more necklaces, almost died in a van and rode some ziplines. Saw some guys get teabagged by a monkey. Tipped the monkey. Went to a private beach called Fantasy Island, wondered how many times the driver had heard jokes about "De plane, boss, de plane." Made a joke about De Plane. Floated on my back trying to burn my stomach. Failed. Went to buy a bucket of beer, bought a crate of beer instead. Drank some tasty beer. It looked like this:



Don't know what the drinking age was on Roatan but everyone came back on the gaier side of sobriety. Took our time getting ready and had to race through town to make the last tender back to the ship. It was loud as hell and we thought the others in the van were going to turn on us. It looked like this:



Ate some shrimp cocktail, ate some escargot, drank some Long Islands, drank some rum and wished I had more scotch. Closed the piano bar for the fourth straight night. Nearly got thrown out of the disco because somebody insisted on smoking his fucking cee-gar. Blacked out. Ate some pizza, drank some Boddington's, drank some whiskey sours, threw a flashlight off the balcony just to watch it sink. Hoped the power didn't go out since my flashlight was in the ocean. Woke up on a bus in Belize. Reset my autopilot which doesn't get used much but is still reliable, like a Dodge or a fat girl. Drank some cashew wine, drank some Crown, thought about asking the tour guide for pot. Don't smoke myself but he obviously had good stuff. Hiked in the jungle, floated down the river, didn't get batshit on me and was glad. Kissed a pig while no one was looking, gave it the flu. Ate some prime rib, drank some wine, drank some beer, drank some wine, drank some rum, played some bingo, wished I was young again, remembered I was, drank some rum, called the bank to get my debit card reactivated. Danced with the girl at the desk while I was on hold, because we were both missing the big show down the hall. Woke up early the next day for cartoon theme song trivia, won first place in overtime. Thanked FSM that I knew the Mighty Mouse theme song and the composer of The Pink Panther. Won a 24K gold plastic piece of ship. It looked like this:



It's sort of a blur after this. We went to Cozumel, I bought a bunch of shit, went to Paradise Beach and bought all the the drink specials with funny names. Did the backstroke out to the giant trampolines with my drink balanced on my rock-hard abs. Drank some more beer and got lost in a Mexican superstore. Played a game show where I guessed that a Big Mac might have weighed more than an average American female breast but in my defense I thought it was a trick question. Eliminated early, c'est la vie. Finished the last 36 hours in expected fashion, got off the boat and didn't get me land legs back fer nearly a week. Can't wait till next time.

M

Happy Chicken Day

I have to tell you about chicken in a can... I somehow brought this up last week because, come on, it's a pretty funny sort of thing to buy, and then today, I saw this... just opened the paper and there it was.

Chicken In A Can

In my defense, the kind that I bought at Stater Brothers and cooked with Jamie came with significantly less afterbirth in the can.

That is all.

How can she love me if she doesn't even love the cinema that I love?

Here, on the eve of my ephemeral salvation, I realize many truths - sad, denied, embraced, revered. Take your pick.

For one, this is the first time I'm packing things in what people would call "luggage." Historically I have been more likely to pack 3 days worth into a backpack so I don't have to check baggage. I borrowed some luggage, though, so I didn't have to buy any (edit: I think I borrowed a small suitcase a few years ago. However, this will be the very first time I have ever wheeled something into an airport.

For two, I'm not sure if I will be able to just sit back and chill out. I'm pretty high strung lately.

For three, I forgot numbers four and five but they are inconsequential.

For six, my favorite Guinnslinger Trixie is fleeing the country! Due to miscommunication, reckless exaggeration and flat-out lies on my part she has come to believe that I am leaving permanently, and has been so despondent over the matter that she scheduled her own indefinite leave of absence! Perhaps we will meet up on another continent, and regale each other with tales of our travels over glasses of rum.

For seven, who has my book? I have been looking for it very hard.

I will forego the silly numbering system but I realized that I have never bought a beach towel, I don't like most of my clothes, I still don't have a passport and I've never been to Boston in the fall.



Further bulletins as events warrant.

Drink Name Sought

It's Mountain Dew (the soda) mixed with Irish potcheen (aka Mountain Dew). I'm hoping that everyone will pitch in with naming this drink. There's a good chance you don't know anyone but me who has ever had it. And I don't know anyone but me who has ever had it. Therefore, I get to name it. I'm kind of like an explorer. I find something that a ton of people already know about, but I get to claim it for my own because I don't know anyone who knows about it.

So far my best idea is a Double D, although I figure there is already a drink which bears that moniker. Also I think it's a stupid name for a drink. Mountain Dew + Mountain Dew. Mountain Mountain Dew Dew. Help me out here. Maybe something based on LedZep (puts on Misty Mountain Hop for inspiration). (none comes).

So, minutes later, I remember that I like Immigrant Song a lot more than I like Misty Mountain Hop. Henceforth, potcheen and Mountain Dew shall be known as an "Immigrant." Ask for it in your local bar, pub or tavern. Trixie, I expect both of these ingredients to be stocked from now on. And LJ, you can quit stacking empty Miller cans on my truck. I get it.

DAMN THAT'S A HUGE PICTURE

I didn't photoshop it so it's still huge. Bummer dude. "The cactus where your heart should be" just started playing. Yay Magnetic Fields! Also, I have been using up my brain at work. All these great posts are somehow dying between work and home. So, tonight I present you with a motion picture debut. One night I had a break between classes, and a paddle-ball paddle that had broken which I colored to look like a little tiny guitar. Or maybe a ukelele. My roommate had a webcam. We both had beer and half an hour to spare. BANGO! (P.S. upload speed with Fios is apparently not what they'd have you believe. So far it's been longer than the actual length of the video) (a lot longer). Is it even working? I guess I'll go watch Jimmy Fallon die a little more on The Late Show. Or whatever it's called that Conan used to do.

Lawyers, Guns and Money

This post isn't really about that though.

I recently had a character in a story who listened to Joni Mitchell. I don't know a fucking thing about Joni Mitchell, so I had to learn a little. Turns out she's Canadian. So far, of the Canadian songwriters I know, I'd put her third behind Gordon Lightfoot and the Mckenzie brothers. All the great things I had planned to write tonight have drowned so I think I'll put up some music. You know, let these other creative folks get some credit. We'll go in order.



Okay, never mind. Someone needs to tell me how I got videos to play on here. It seems like I've done it before. Good night!

EDIT: And hey! Nobody guessed where I took those pictures! I could have been in space, and none of you would even know. Those could be the first ever Polaroids of Venus.

Kill him! Kill the Beast!

Well. I found out tonight that Raymond Oyler's jury has recommended the death penalty. I feel more insecure with this than I care to admit. I knew only one man who was killed in the Esperanza fire - I also know his wife, and have known both of them since I was a kid riding my bike over their drying fire hose many years ago. I know the impact that this tragedy had on my father, who wept his share and then some, and probably still does - we all know that it could have been him, just as easily. It is a job based on risk, as are few others. This is what I thought tonight as I read that the jury had chosen death for the man who started this fire.

I was conflicted. Would killing this guy make any difference? Would it bring anyone back? Would it undo a single goddamn thing? No.

Then I thought about driving home on highway 38. Mid-October. Warm, windy. Dry as a bleached bone in a cheap western film. And what comes flying out of the window in front of me? It was either a lit cigarette or a unicorn... you get three guesses which. It was stupid. Double stupid, in fact, since the offending scumbag was in a truck with a personalized license plate. It turns out that the truck belonged to one of the camps along highway 38 (I won't mention any names, but the license plate read UU CAMP). After about 15 seconds on the internet I had an email address, and I kindly reminded them to remind their employees that throwing a lit cigarette from a vehicle in the mountains during the height of fire season was reckless in the least. They took the whole thing in jest.

Then I thought about fire in southern California. It's terribly destructive. It takes a few lives every year, and devastates hundreds - sometimes thousands, sometimes tens of thousands. It's really a big damn problem in a place where people insist on living in remote, wooded places and expecting someone to save them and their shake-shingle cabins (or, in Big Bear Lake, their ridiculous mansions). But we all know this. Every year we see "Firewatch" on tv because A) there's a 10-acre fire near Santa Clarita or B) there's a 5,000 acre fire in the San Bernardino mountains. Obviously, these numbers are interchangeable and expandable - further bulletins as events warrant.

Then I thought about what it takes for a Californian to do something in our mountains that is likely to start a fire. These are the heinous things that come to mind.

1: Calling down lightning through Witchcraft
2: Dropping a nuclear bomb near City Creek
3: Destroying a third of the Earth with fire
4: Getting 70 suicide bombers with napalm strapped to their chests to walk (hike, roll, whatever) in different directions from the middle of the Arctic Circle (between Big Bear and Lake Arrowhead) for 25 minutes and then explode
5: Throwing a lit cigarette out the window
6: STARTING A FIRE ON PURPOSE

All of these actions have a similar possible outcome, and anyone who does one of these things knows it. Unless they're retarded - in which case I beg the courts to show mercy. All others die.

It's not hard. People have made the southern California mountains a potentially dangerous place to live. It will even itself out, eventually... nature always does. But humans do not have the right, or the obligation, to strive toward that balance by setting the fucking place on fire. Stupid or not, we all have the right to pursue our happiness here. We are doing a pretty good job of mitigating the dangers and, at the same time, preserving the natural order of the mountains (as much as that is possible. kind of). Anyone who thinks they need to start wildfires has no respect for other people, and as such, no respect as a human should be given to him. I hope that the jury has conferred an educated verdict, because if Raymond Oyler started this fire intentionally he should be burned - burned to the point where it takes him five days to die, like young Pablo, plus the hours of unimaginable pain endured by the other four. Have you ever burned yourself? What was it like? You grabbed a pan out of the oven but forgot the mitt... that's a second degree burn. You got drunk and held your forearm over a lighter for ten seconds? It's probably a third degree burn which left a scar that you will brag about for the next year and be ashamed about after that. It hurt like a bitch, eh? And that's, what, a thousandth of a percent of your body?

I haven't been angry about this in a while. I am sad every day, and I honestly, honestly hope that everyone in southern CA sees an Engine 57 sticker at least once and gives it the ol' Google. Let's cut the human-caused fires down to zero and let our firefighters deal with Nature. She's capable of quite the fight as it is.

If I'm ever going to learn to ski, I guess I should do it now

Today I blew my nose with a napkin from Weinerschnitzel that I had left in my desk. All I could smell the rest of the day was chili dogs. It was awesome.

I spent the last two weeks reading all the comments on Youtube about Fred. But now there are like ten thousand more and my eyes hurt so I'm going to stop. Judy is such a brat! Bye!

Overheard:
"Did those femurs get delivered yet?"
and
"Don't tell me, she asked for jelly donuts and a fuckin' whiskey."
One was at the warehouse next to me, that supplies orthopedics, and one was at a bar. This would be way more interesting if I had to tell you which was where.

I've been getting kind of ticked recently because I can't see the whole Office. I guess it's being broadcast in a widescreen ratio, because I can't see the sides of the picture. Did I bring this up already? I meant to. Anyway, my 20" tv that I bought about 9 years ago doesn't support this fancy fiber optic HD signal I'm getting, so I only see, like, the middle of The Office. And then, at work, I got a widescreen monitor for my computer (also bought about 9 years ago) that we used to use at trade shows, and now my display is stretched out like a used-up prostitute. If my television had a VGA input, and there was room on my desk, I could just switch the two and then everybody would be happy. Except the prostitute.

I took some pictures a couple of weeks ago. If I was smarter, I could put a link for you to see them full size so you could really get a good look. These are at about a third of the original size. With about a third of the original detail. Guess what they are.












Scroll down for the answer. But only one line, so it doesn't get annoying.

It's ice.

But guess where I took the pictures!

Ides of March (Das Boot)

I bet a lot of people will have that as their blog title today, so I gave mine a subtitle.


I used to love riding bikes down the hill at the end of our street, until one day when I crashed. I still like going down the hill, but my wheelchair isn’t nearly as fast as a bike – yet.

Every once in a while I like to put my old compact discs in new cases so they look new again. But sometimes the liners just don’t look new anymore, like the ones I wrote on by accident, and that one I used to stop the bleeding.

Once when I was little I accidentally shot a squirrel. I’m still not sure how I fit him into the barrel of that BB gun.

Have you ever twisted a packet of ketchup until it pops? I haven’t, but my mom keeps telling me I should try.

Sometimes my friend and I play air ping-pong, since we always have our paddles with us wherever we go but we don’t always have a ball. The other people at the auction obviously don’t know anything about air sports.

I rented a movie from the video store and when I was done, I left it at the halfway point so the next person could skip all the boring stuff and get straight to the good part. The video store charged me fifty cents for not rewinding it, but I’m pretty sure it should have only been a quarter.

Putting that lampshade on my head last night would have been really funny except for the venomous spider that was living in it. It was still pretty funny though.

Last week I went on a whale-watching trip, and I’m pretty sure the group of whales we were watching were on a people-watching trip. Nature has a way of keeping its balance. For instance, I was eating a whale sandwich during the trip, and then a whale jumped up and ate my friend. So I’m pretty sure that’s all evened out.

Friday Morning

I don't know yet what's going to happen in the afternoon, but it's shaping up to be pretty good.


So, I was sitting around cleaning my gun this afternoon, like I sometimes do on Fridays, and listening to Joni Mitchell, like I sometimes do every week or so. Joni seems like the kind of chick that would like to go out with you and blow the crap out of something with a shotgun and then not write a song about it.

I’m the guy who discovered time travel, but nobody knows it. Even I don’t know it. I mean, I don’t know how I did it, or how I am going to do it. But someday, I’m going to go back in time and get some wine from a winery that’s about to burn down. At least, I’m pretty sure I’m going to. I think I sent myself a message from the past, which actually came from the future, only I have to figure out how I did it so I can be sure to do it.

Matthew's Sunsplashed Goodtimes Orchestra (Of The Night)

It consists of nothing but tiny violins, playing emphatically for this guy:

Rapist would rather die than be raped

Hold on - let me dry my eyes.

Okay, all better.

Let's have a picture, then. How about trees in the fog? This is just outside of Angelus Oaks.



I like that image so much, I think I'll add a poem. I wrote it quite a few years ago but sometimes I remember it and have a chuckle.

Little Old Chinese Man and Puppy

Little puppy in the street
You better peel your eyes
If you get hit you’ll be a treat
For maggots ants and flies

You make me nervous, bite my nails
Darting out! And darting back
And then you dum-dum, chase your tail
And give me heart attack

There it goes! A bouncy-ball
And there you go, a yipping-yapping
The driver swerve to miss you all
And me in my pants crapping

You’re just a puppy, stupid pup
And me a grown up man
You go poop then eat it up
Watch out for that van!

Now you lay down on the road
And I run out like schmuck
You just watching horny toad
And I get hit by truck

Zorro was in the woods

Today, and also a couple of Sundays ago, I did a little shooting, nature walking and photographing. I'm not very good at any of them, but I still have fun.

I didn't take the time to adjust the images, so they'll show up pretty small.


Also, it turns out that the pics I upload go to the top, so instead of seeing the "Z" that was just a stick when you clicked on my blog, you saw a picture of Rocky Mountain Oysters. It's sort of funnier that way so I'm going to leave it. And I realize it's going to take a lot of work to finish this post. So, here we go!

This is some type of burrow or den. I don't know what kind of animal it belongs to because I'm not the outdoorsman I fancy myself to be. Also I didn't feel like sticking my hand in to find out. The entrance is the black spot at bottom left center.


"Feed me, Seymour, I want some blood!" I took three barbs from this cactus to my hand while taking the picture. Audrey got some blood. Those fuckers hurt when you pull them out.


These are called mortars. They were used by early Irish settlers in the mountains of California. On Saturday afternoon (or morning), a man would buy three of his closest friends a pint of beer. This pint was a type of downpayment called a "drowsy" (not to be confused with the costly and foreign tradition of a "dowry" which is the money, land and goods given to a man to take an undesirable woman as his wife: see bribe). The "drowsy" ensured that if you passed out, your three friends would drag you to the rock and each would pour a third of a pint of beer into a hole in the rock. Upon waking, you would have beer within easy reach to quench your thirst and refresh your spirits, enabling you to stand up and get back to business. The holes in the rock were usually round; thus, buying a drowsy was often referred to as buying a "round."


This is another critter condo. I really ought to find out what makes these. They're all over the place right now. I'm thinking Body Snatchers.


So now that you've seen my photographic genius at work, I was going to start a story about Friday afternoon. But I think that not all of you have read about Thursday Afternoon, so I'm going to post that and make this one of the longest blogs ever. I know, you might not like reading a whole story on the computer screen... I don't either. I was going to put a link to Word file so you could just print it out and read at your leisure, but Putfile is stupid and I don't have any other ideas of where to put it at the moment. So copy and paste if you like - it's pretty short.

Thursday Afternoon

I’ve got it this time, boy. I really have. This is the one I’ve been waiting for.

I was sitting around in my underwear this afternoon, like I sometimes do on Thursdays, and thinking about what I would do if I could time travel, like I sometimes do on most days. It makes perfect sense that they’re going to have time travel one of these times, you know, because they pretty much have come up with everything that’s ever been in a movie or one of those old-timey books, like rockets and fake legs and quantum physics. They have all those things now, but a long time ago you never would have guessed it, unless you were the guy writing all the crazy books about rockets, I guess. So I was reading the newspaper this afternoon and there was a story about expensive booze, like whiskeys and rums and wine that was a hundred dollars or more for a bottle. Like this one bottle of wine that was from a winery that burned down about 50 years ago because the guy’s brother who owned the winery was mad at him for stealing his recipe, and they were always at each other like most brothers are and so he set the brother’s winery on fire. Anyway, it all burned up, or burned down maybe, and only 6 bottles of wine survived the fire way down in the cellar and one of them was for sale for about a hundred thousand dollars. I was wondering how often people sell their bottles of wine and booze that cost that much, like if you had a cocktail party, you know, and tons of other rich people came and you were showing off your hundred-thousand-dollar bottle of wine and somebody said “Oh, that old thing, I had that five years ago. I sold it for fifty grand to some sucker in Florida. When did you get it?” and then the rest of your party would be a real drag.

After I thought about all that stuff I’m back to thinking about time travel, and how if I could time travel I could go back to right before the fire and steal a few bottles of that wine. Maybe steal a whole case, and then sneak in after the fire and break any that were left so that I’d have all the surviving bottles. I could sell one right away, you know, and say it was the only bottle that survived and make quite a bit of money even though it was fifty years ago. But I don’t know if I would be able to take money or anything with me – in some of the movies you have to time travel naked because nothing inorganic can time travel. So I might have to hide it somewhere so I could get it later. Let’s see, if I was going to hide something fifty years ago where it would stay there until now, where would I put it? I started looking around my apartment. I saw a movie once where someone in the past stuck something under a floorboard so the person in the future could find it, like it’d just been sitting there all along even though it just happened. Sort of. So I looked around but I didn’t really have floorboards. I was unscrewing the air conditioning vent when I realized that my apartment just got built like three years before I moved in. I knew it was three years because I asked the manager when they were going to put water in the pool, and he said it takes five years to get the permit, and that it had only been three so I should wait two more. What a rip-off. They used to always keep the cover on the pool and the gate was locked with a sign that said the pool was closed for repairs. Well one night, a week after I moved in, this kid climbed the fence and did a cannonball into the pool, right through the cover, and smashed on the cement about ten feet down. So then they had to leave the cover off and paint the edge yellow, and also put razor wire on top of the pool fence so that nobody would really want to go in there even if they put water in it. That was when we all found out that the picture in the brochure was actually of a pool at another place across town. It was a nice-looking pool.

After I thought about the pool, I started thinking about other places besides my apartment where I could hide a lot of money. Or, even better, cash all the money in for gold and just hide a pile of gold so it wouldn’t get all wrecked by getting wet or anything. Also if it was thousands of dollars, the gold would be easier to hide in a small box or something. So I went online and found out that fifty years ago gold cost about forty dollars an ounce, but today it’s almost nine hundred! This is the part that just about made me shit myself. If I sold one bottle of that wine in the fifties for even a thousand bucks I could buy 25 ounces of gold and hide it. Today that would be worth over twenty grand. So then I go back in time again to the early seventies where it was still only about fifty dollars an ounce and say “hey, remember that winery that burned down twenty years ago? My grandfather left me five bottles of that wine in his will and I don’t drink wine! Who wants it?” and then I sell them for at least five grand apiece and buy 500 more ounces of gold to hide. And then I come to today and that gold is worth about half a million bucks! Plus I could have hidden the rest of the wine, and I could sell another bottle for another hundred grand, and then, shit, I could invite some friends over to drink a bottle from the case I’d still have, and it would be really old and really expensive and we could take a picture of ourselves drinking it and send it to those rappers who think they’re real hot shit because they drink a thousand-dollar bottle of champagne when they’re getting crunked at the club. And then we could take a picture of me spitting the wine out on one of their cds and laughing! And then if I wrecked my cd I could just buy a new one because I’d be pretty rich.

After I thought about spitting all that wine I went outside to look for a good hiding place for five hundred ounces of gold and a case of old wine. It was all apartments though so I went downtown and a lot of the buildings were older than fifty years, but I couldn’t think of one good place in any of them that only I would be able to get to in all that time. Where else could I hide it? It would probably have to be out in the desert or something, like those guys from the Twilight Zone who stole a lot of gold bars and then put themselves into a coma for a hundred years so they could wake up and spend it without anyone remembering it was them who robbed the bank. There wasn’t a desert very close so I was about to drive to the mountains about an hour out of town and I was thinking about how one guy died in the coma because a rock fell on his little glass coma-coffin and let all the gas out that was keeping him alive. Then the other three guys fought each other for the gold and when the last one finally died it turned out that gold wasn’t even worth anything in the future. I thought about all the things that could happen in the mountains in fifty years, like earthquakes and rockslides and fires – it would be pretty risky. What about stocks, though? What if I bought stocks instead of gold? Then I could just have an account with all my dividends being reinvested for fifty years in companies that I knew would make a killing. That way, I could just go start pulling money out right now. But how would I tell myself where to get it? It started to get pretty confusing so I decided to stick with the gold plan. Just then I remembered that my friend lived in a house that was built in the 1920s, I remembered because one time we found this really old photograph of a woman with her shirt off stuck behind a beam in the basement. I asked him who used to live here and he said his grandfather and great-grandfather had built it in the 1920s and their family had lived there ever since. He said maybe the picture was his grandpa’s, and I said maybe the girl in the picture was his grandma and he hauled off and slugged me right in the face, even though he said he meant to hit me in the shoulder.

After I thought about getting slugged in the face, I went over to my friend’s house to see what he was doing. I pretended to go to the bathroom but I was actually looking around for somewhere that I could hide gold and wine. It might be hard to sneak into his house fifty years ago when I didn’t really know his family yet, so I went outside and started nosing around the backyard. I was lifting up the doghouse when my friend came out and asked what the hell I was doing. Now that he was all suspicious of me it was going to be hard to look around for where I might have buried the stuff, so I told him my plan. I figured I could cut him in for a little bit, I would just have to remember to bury part of the gold in one place along with a map that only I could read to show me where the rest was. I was looking at the fence along the back yard, wondering how old it was, and my friend was just standing there staring at me. “What about right here?” I yelled to him. “I bet this funny design on the board was here fifty years ago. Or what about over there by the door to the cellar? That’s cement, it’s been there forever and it would be easy to find. Or what about right in front of this tree? I bet it was a lot smaller fifty years ago, but it would be a good landmark.” But my friend had already turned to go back in the house. He was shaking his head and mumbling a little bit, and I think I heard the word “crazy.” Then out of the corner of my eye I noticed the whole tree that I was standing by move about half an inch to the left. The whole tree! It was really something else, not something you see very often. So I got down and started digging around the roots right in front. At first I was using my hands, but I figured I would have buried it deeper so nobody found it on accident, so I started using this old shovel which was leaning against the fence behind the tree. I wasn’t finding anything and I could see my friend’s mom watching me through the kitchen window. I was just thinking I should pick a different spot, maybe along the side of the house where the old cars were sitting when I hit something hard. I got down and pulled out this old, dirty box. I wiped it off a little and opened it up. There was a single piece of paper in there, so I turned it over and read “Make up your damn mind already.”

Party Time

Once it was snowing
And I spent the evening
Photoshopping pictures
To put on a blog
And also keeping the fire alive
And writing bad poems.

Tonight is that night
Without the snow
And without the fire
And also without the Photoshop.

So it's an evening of bad poems
And the sun has just set on it
But also I think the moon is coming up
So we'll call it a night.


I just wrote that because everything I wanted to write tonight was unoriginal. For instance, I'm getting upset that I don't see the whole picture on my regular old 3:4 ratio tube tv anymore. It looks like lots of the primetime shows are being broadcast in widescreen, so I keep seeing text and faces that are incomplete. Which is bothering me because sometimes when you're watching The Office you have to see what's happening in the periphery.

I got a digital recorder for all the great ideas I have while I'm commuting. I haven't figured out how to use it properly, or how to wire a bomb to it in case it gets stolen. But eventually I'm sure it will have a cameo in my blog. For instance, if I still can't figure it out tomorrow and end up shooting it. It's almost extinct anyway.

I hate adjectives. I started listening to a book-on-cd by David Baldacci that someone gave me and it was terrible. He has about a 12:1 adjective-to-noun ratio and it makes you want to swerve into someone.

This town gets one radio station. I have to turn it off every fourth song and start listening to Gordon Lightfoot or Fischerspooner again. Listening to the same songs over and over again is underrated.

Steel-toed boots in the dryer while you're trying to sleep are loud and destructive.

I hate the format that this post is taking. You wouldn't believe how much I've had to edit it just to make it presentable in a blog that only a few thousand people will read. I feel like Dave Barry with too many adjectives.

I just farted because that's what guys do.

I went home with a super hot girl last week and didn't make a move, and if I did I wouldn't say anything about it because it's none of your business, anonymous internet readers. We made out all night. And if I said I wasn't lying about making out with her all night, you'd know I was lying. Wait - are you reading this, Trixie?

I plan to start getting drunk when I blog because it's bound to get more exciting.

I think it's hilarious when people compare George Bush to a monkey but I think it's racist when they do the same thing to Barack Obama.

I plan to start getting drunk when I blog because it's bound to get less repetitive.

(Again with the editing)

(And again)

Man, some of you guys would be pissed to see all the things I'm cutting out of this elecronic piece of spiral-bound notebook paper. It's taking for-fucking-EVER.

The End.

Love Matt

The Norm

Some of you may have read this already. Whether you have or haven't, I hope you enjoy it. I wrote it a few years ago after waking up from that place just after awake and just before asleep.



When Norm finally met his creator, he thought he was totally prepared. And so, of course, he wasn’t.

Norm opened his eyes, blinked two or three times, and gazed around him. He was floating, but this did not surprise him much. What did surprise him, however, was the little green sphere that he seemed to be floating toward.

“H-Hello?” There was no echo whatsoever.

“Hello-o-o…” Nothing. Norm could see now that the little green sphere was turning, rotating, and that there was something on the side that was about to face him. He tried to slow himself down, but just kept floating toward the sphere at the same speed, no matter how he clawed or flailed. Soon he saw a little shack, like a large outhouse, and next to it was a man in a floral-patterned shirt sitting in a lawn chair. He flicked something toward Norm and it zoomed by him with a whoosh, and was gone. The man and the house rotated out of view once more, and Norm crashed into the little green sphere. He bounced only a little.

“Where am I?” asked Norm, swatting at his shirt a couple times after realizing there was nothing to brush off. “I’m dead, right?”

The man took a bite of something, nibbled a bit, and flicked. This time, Norm recognized it as a pistachio shell. It flew off into the darkness, accelerating as it went.

“Yeh, guess you are. Or else why would you be here, am I right?” Crunch crunch crunch.

“I saw the gun pointing at me, and I remember thinking I was about to die, but then I was here. This could just be what unconsciousness is like. Or a coma, even.”

“Yeh, I suppose it could be, but most folks who come by here talk about their car being out of control or not being able to see their grandkids again. So you’re dead, likelier than not.” Nibble nibble.

“Makes sense. So where am I now?” The man looked at him and stopped nibbling the nut. “Well?” asked Norm again.

“Oh, sorry, I was just waiting for you to ask if this was Heaven or Hell. Most folks do.” Flick. Whoosh!

Norm snorted. “Huh, well, no, I don’t believe in either of those.”

“So where are you going after this?”

Norm suddenly realized that the man was wearing a Goofy hat. Not just a goofy hat, but one from Disneyland with Goofy the dog on it, his buck teeth sticking down from the bill. He had a sudden urge to say it, or better yet, shout it. I’m going to Disneyland! Later he would realize that he probably should have.

“I don’t know, I guess… I still don’t know where ‘this’ is…”

“This, my boy, is the beginning. This is where it all started. And I’m the one who started it.” Crunch crunch.

“What, the universe?” Norm was incredulous, and rightfully so. The man in the lawn chair flicked another shell. This one didn’t whoosh, but dropped down by Norm’s foot rather unimpressively.

“Huh. A dud.” The man cracked another shell.

“Where are you getting those? No – never mind. Are you telling me… are you telling me you’re… God?”

“Nah. Not any god you’ve ever heard of, anyway. Yeah, I created this universe, but I’m not exactly a deity.” Nibble nibble.

Norm thought for a moment. “This universe? You mean there’re more?”

“Shit, the guy in the next room might have one, for all I know. I’ve never been anywhere but right here, with occasional jaunts out there.” He pointed into the darkness, where tiny specks were now visible. “You’re from Earth, which is right over the chimney. See it? I drew a circle around it.” Norm saw it. It looked very small.

“So what else is out there? Is there intelligent life on any of them?”

“Yup, yup, on one of ‘em back that way.” The man jerked a thumb over his shoulder. “You guys’ll never find it, though. You look in all the wrong places. It’s expanding, outward, and that’s where humans look. If they would just look back this way a bit, they’d probably find me smiling and waving. They never will, though. I think it’s winding down anyway.” Flick. Whoosh!

“Winding down?”

“Yeah. See, the other world with intelligent life is almost dead. Your planet isn’t far behind. When there’s nothing left worth watching, I guess it’ll be someone else’s turn to try. When I woke up a long, long time ago, I came out of that shack right there and the guy who was sitting in this chair stood up, looked around and said ‘Good luck, kid’ and then vanished. I suppose that’s how it’ll be for me.”

Norm was getting excited. “So you created everything? How did you do it?”

“Well,” said the man, popping a whole pistachio in his mouth,” it was mostly trial and error. I started off with easy things, like plants. Easy, but boring. Then I started making little animals. Then bigger animals. Then I got really good, and I had all sorts of creatures walking around. All different. A little while longer, and I figured out how to make one like myself. He was so much fun. I never knew what he was going to do next. All of them, I mean. I made a lot, but you guys are pretty good at making yourselves. Only problem was the dinosaurs. They were eating you faster than you could reproduce. So I had to squash them. That’s when-“

“You squashed them? What do you mean?”

“Stepped on ‘em. Most of ‘em, anyway. People eventually took care of the rest.” Norm looked at the man in the Goofy hat, trying to imagine him stepping on dinosaurs.

“But what happens now?” Norm was getting impatient. “Is this it?”

“Oh no, I imagine you’ll be leaving any minute.”

“To go where?”

The man stopped munching for a few seconds. “Don’t know, kid, I honestly don’t know. Been trying to figure that out for a long, long time. I’m always hoping – well, I’m hoping that one of these days, one of you will be able to tell me.” Norm looked away, uncomfortable. But who am I uncomfortable for? he thought. Him, or me? Pretty soon, Norm started to feel a little uneven, like he was walking on the deck of a sailboat in choppy waters.

“Take it easy, kid. Looks like you’re on your way out. Some people, they just shimmer and…disappear. Some shoot off like rockets… never in the same direction though… looks to me like you’re all ashimmer… come back and let me know how it turns out, if you get a chance…”

Norm took one last wavering look, and saw the man in the lawn chair nibbling on something. Flick. Whoosh!

Love and the Blimp

There's a really ostentatious blimp that's been hanging around San Bernardino the last week or so. The whole thing is illuminated, and twice now it's had me thinking it was the moon as I left work. It has a giant scrolling marquee that's in full color, which was impressive, and then the damn thing started playing a movie or something and I had to put my eyes back on the road. It belongs to a place in Vegas that, as far as I can tell, is called 'M.' And somehow I've been getting heartburn again this week. A year ago I had strep throat, and I went from having heartburn once or twice a day to having it only once every six months. Can't explain it, but I had forgotten how annoying it was.

I was thinking today about one of my favorite movie scenes of all time. It's Gary Cooper in Love In The Afternoon, a Billy Wilder Flick from either 1954 or 1957. Audrey Hepburn's character has fallen in love with this wealthy American hot shot playboy, and in order to make him jealous she makes up a whole list of men she has been with and leaves it on his tape recorder. This scene starts shortly after he starts listening to it. You miss a little of the beginning, but frankly I was surprised to find such a good clip that had most of the scene. The scene I speak of ends at about 3:30, although if you watch the whole clip you just might want to see the movie. The playboy, Mr. Flanagan, has a mariache band of sorts that he flies all over the world with him. They always play 'Fascination' when he's putting the moves on a lady. This is him with the band while listening to the recording of the girl who's got him vexed.

Politics Explained

Omar posted this earlier. Neither he nor I knows who gets the credit for writing it, but it's good.


Politics Explained
FEUDALISM: You have two cows. Your lord takes some of the milk.

PURE SOCIALISM: You have two cows. The government takes them and puts them in a barn with everyone else's cows. You have to take care of all of the cows. The government gives you as much milk as you need.

BUREAUCRATIC SOCIALISM: You have two cows. The government takes them and put them in a barn with everyone else's cows. They are cared for by ex-chicken farmers. You have to take care of the chickens the government took from the chicken farmers. The government gives you as much milk and eggs as the regulations say you need.

FASCISM: You have two cows. The government takes both, hires you to take care of them and sells you the milk.

PURE COMMUNISM: You have two cows. Your neighbors help you take care of them, and you all share the milk.

RUSSIAN COMMUNISM: You have two cows. You have to take care of them, but the government takes all the milk.

CAMBODIAN COMMUNISM: You have two cows. The government takes both of them and shoots you.

DICTATORSHIP: You have two cows. The government takes both and drafts you.

PURE DEMOCRACY: You have two cows. Your neighbors decide who gets the milk.

REPRESENTATIVE DEMOCRACY: You have two cows. Your neighbors pick someone to tell you who gets the milk.

BUREAUCRACY: You have two cows. At first the government regulates what you can feed them and when you can milk them. Then it pays you not to milk them. Then it takes both, shoots one, milks the other and pours the milk down the drain. Then it requires you to fill out forms accounting for the missing cows.

PURE ANARCHY: You have two cows. Either you sell the milk at a fair price or your neighbors try to take the cows and kill you.

LIBERTARIAN/ANARCHO-CAPITALISM: You have two cows. You sell one and buy a bull.

SURREALISM: You have two giraffes. The government requires you to take harmonica lessons.


As soon as I get another giraffe, my plans will be complete. I'll be seceding. Who's with me? Also, I had forgotten how much I like Mazzy Star. I'm having a hard time deciding whose voice I like better - hers, or Margo's from Cowboy Junkies.






BONUS: Both songs about angels. Suddenly I'm wondering if PJ Harvey has any songs about angels.

Motivation?

Also, I just wrote a super-mini poem.

Of wine I keep my mind but lose my body
Of beer I keep them both and just go potty

Let's Hear It For Sully

Caveat: This post is not about Dr. Quinn, Medicine Woman.

I'm sure you've seen the outstanding pictures of an even more outstanding feat by now, but This Guy has a pair that must require special drawers. Sure, his knees are probably still shaking now, but imagine how elated he's going to feel tomorrow.

So I was dining on Hamburger Helper and a fine cabernet sauvignon tonight, and reflecting on how easy it is for someone like me to fill his head with inconsequential information these days. This morning on the radio I heard "Stop Draggin' My Heart Around" and could not remember who sang it. Fifteen years ago, I would've asked everyone I knew (with no luck)and then spent the whole day trying to remember. Sometime in the evening I would've remembered my Weird Al tape that had "Stop Draggin' My Car Around" and also remembered that the writer of the song being parodied was always credited in the liner notes. So if the writer was the singer, I could find out as soon as I got off work. I would've gotten home and found that this particular cassette had no liner notes, and at that point I'd've had to call a radio station or something. Now, 5 seconds on the internet and I don't have to wonder anymore. Then I spend the next two hours finding out stuff that I have no reason to know, except for the hope that I do better at trivia. I packed all kinds of knowledge into my head. Also, I forgot to pay both my credit card bills last month. But did you know that Brian Keith played Hardcastle in "Hardcastle and McCormick?" That was a trivia question earlier tonight.

Just now I read about Brian Keith. His mother was Peg Entwistle, an actress who committed suicide in 1932 by jumping off the H in the Hollywood (Hollywoodland) sign. She was in plays in Boston, Los Angeles and Broadway. I was thinking how cool it would be to live in the 20s and 30s, and not be poor, and go to plays and such, and wear a suit and hat without it being a costume. And then I thought about what's going on right now that I'm missing. Someday when I'm old or dead some kid is going to say "I wish I could have lived in the aughts." Aught nine, year of the drought. My goal is to write something someday that that kid will read. I think I need to practice. My first step is to remember how to write a sentence without having the word "that" twice in a row.

The weather in San Bernardino has been more like mid-October than January. Windy, warm and dry. The other day, when the weather was exceptionally like this, I was behind a girl in a Mitsubishi Montero that had a sticker on the back which read "Coalition For An Idiot Free America." Would you be surprised if I told you she threw her lit cigarette out the window? It was so big that she obviously only smoked half of it, and left the other half for the wind to smoke.

That reminded me of a story that I wrote exclusively in my blog about a year ago, about a guy who wishes that every piece of trash thrown out a window would come right back in. It caused chaos, and yet people didn't learn. That blog is gone so I'll have to rewrite it one of these times.

So, no original poetry today. I started a good Christmas one that I have yet to finish. But I'm really looking forward to it.

Ta ta for now.

The Future's Uncertain and the End is Always Near

So - what else could I do for my first blog, but this?

FAIL.

I wanted to post Rick Astley here, but everyone on YouTube is vying for views (still?) so embedding is disabled. Technically, you weren't even going to be RickRolled... you would've had to click play, and RickRolling involves taking away your choice to see/hear it. Anyway, now that the whole thing's ruined, you can watch "Never Gonna Give You Up" here.

NEXT: A poem I wrote last night.

WE LOVED each other like
it was our last night alive
it was
and the mountains laughed

WE TALKED like we were
meeting for the first time
we weren't
and the mountains sighed

WE CRIED like the world was
ending, already
it would
and the mountains rolled their eyes

we explained how volcanoes worked
and what they would do
they did
and the mountains shut their fucking mouths and exploded



And so it begins. Welcome!

MC