tony pierce.com + mary!
busblog at gmail dot com

nothing in here is true

 


   Saturday, July 20, 2002  
Special Guest Star Ashley

Poor Tony has been afflicted with some horrid disease that won't allow him to update his blog. He asked me to fill in for the day + since I know neglecting his beloved blog will only draw out his sickness, I agreed even though I'm sure noone really has the need to hear from me. But I guess that just shows how much I love him ;)

Tony + I agree that it's important for everyone to know the latest news on the people I dig.

Drew Barrymore is currently dating Fabrizio Moretti, the drummer from The Strokes. They seem superhappy, which is great b/c after the whole 2nd marriage ending in divorce, she definitely needs some sunshine. The twosome traveled to Brazil together for the World Cup where they had an awesome time together. Drew finished 2 films which are going to be released next year - Confessions of a Dangerous Mind + The Duplex. Now she's gearing up for filming of Charlie's Angels 2. She was most recently spotted at Amoeba Records in Hollywood. Which makes me want to claw my eyes out since it is right down the street from Tony's house + he and I very recently drove by it. Could this picture have been taken as we unknowingly drove by on Sunset? We'll never know :P

No Doubt's new single "Underneath It All" is doing well + getting loads of airtime. It is my personal favorite song from Rock Steady. I know you were all dying to know that. The video world premiered on Thursday + it completely rules. If you're interested in seeing some crappy stills from it, then check out this site a nice nodoubt.com forum member set up.

Tony will kill me for even mentioning them, but Incubus announced their fall tour recently. Much to my glee, they will be in Irvine on Halloween. This time I will absolutely meet the band + make Brandon Boyd fall madly in love with me. You heard it here first.

As for me, I've been spending time with a boy named Matthew who is super cool + weird + beyond cute. We're "just friends". But it's a good thing we've got going. I think I may be his only good friend right now, quite an honor! I've also put my 2 weeks in at the suckfest of a store I'd been working at for 4 months. I'm going to be going back to my roots, working at the company I was at in Vegas.

Speaking of Vegas ... I'll be going home on Aug. 1 for a little stay. I miss it there, I have to admit. Totally looking forward to enjoying the warm summer nights. We have a severe shortage of those out here.

Well hopefully this is enough for Tony. Maybe I should add a paragraph all about how great he is to help in the healing process.

10 Reasons Why I Love Tony:
01. he's smart
02. he's funny
03. he drives a lot to see me
04. he calls me all the time even though he hates the phone
05. he makes me feel super special, even though he knows so many pretty cool girls
06. he's an excellent tour guide
07. he buys me food
08. he holds me all night while we sleep
09. he kisses me all the time
10. he's an off the charts lov-a

Later skaters!
Ashley*

loving: tony's ebay feedback number

   Friday, July 19, 2002  
hi tony!

hi president bush's dogs.

hey we want to be guest bloggers.

sorry, dogs, only humans are allowed to participate.

that sucks, we just read the good review your fashion photo essay got in the Dallas Morning News and we wanted to jump on the bandwagon.

no way you mangy mutts. you're republican dogs and i dont like republicans.

thats a damn lie, and you know it, theres lots of republicans that you like.

doesnt matter. nothing affiliated with george bush is of any interest to me.

what about his daughters?

ok, except for them.

make you a deal, let us write an entry or two and we'll hook you up with one of the daughters. theyre always up for a party, and of all people, tony pierce, i bet you know how to par-tay.

president bush's dogs, you're creeping me out.

we could tell the world our take on Big Brother 3.

too late, moxie already did that yesterday.

whats up with her? you call her yet?

nope. she called me though. her voice sorta sounds like kate sullivan's i like that.

hey, what are you doing totally stealing Nay's blog entry and putting it on your site?

i think its exactly the sort of guest blogging that i would like emailed to me. just random thoughts. but real thoughts. either do that or tell me about your town or your friends or what youre going to do this weekend. but i have to go, my hands are recovering.

who is this Doc Searls?

i really dont know, but from the amount of traffic that he's given me, and from the respect that he gets from the rest of the world, i think he's the west coast version of Instapundit. now i really wish that i had met him at that bash.

you better hope you stay on his good side.

totally.

whats up with ashley? looks like shes back to being in love with her first love.

yeah, that happens. you never really get over your first love. good for her.

ok, woof woof, tony.

woof woof, terrible republican dogs.

it's just typing, people
layne is back, as is Rabbit: does that mean welch, and a. beam aren't far behind? hope so.
 
stolen cam girl thoughts: NaynERz

Opinions are fun. I need to start writing more shit like this. So here it goes...
Are the people of the United States over medicated?

I've had this conversation with two people in the past two days. Quite frankly, I have to give the answer of this question as a big fat YES. Now I'm not saying the medication isn't needed. Of course it is. There are many people whom have problems and need the much provided medication. Sometimes doctor's are a little too flemsy with their medication.


God knows I use to cry attention. I kind of try to keep my problems out of the spot-light when it comes to my "depression," or whatever you want to call it. Like I was, so many teens are quick to say they're depressed.

Answer to that question? Pop a pill and make it makes everything all better.

It's to the point that they don't even need sufficient studies or logical evidence that this person is even depressed. They're just quick because God knows that we all have problems. Yes, I know I seem like a hypocrite. I myself am on the ever-so-popular Celexa.

Sometimes I wonder how much would I actually need this medication. They've never done testing on me. Just by what I tell them. Shit, I could walk into a doctor, tell them I'm having troubles relaxing and all of a sudden I have a nice little prescription for a tranq. Truthfully, I think it's time that people start opening their eyes a bit more.

Also, senior citizens as well as adults. So many times a doctor gives a medication to the elderly and they don't seem to recognize the effects it may have on other parts of their body and do nothing but go in a cycle. I know this because I've seen and read about it many times.

My own uncle was put on a medication for an injury and it ended up affecting his liver and they now have to keep an eye on his vitals because again, they're too flemsy with their medication.

I'm not saying that all doctor's are this way, but we too often fail to recognize these types of situations. I'm just curious as to what you guys think about it. - stolen from nay
 
Guest Blogger: DC Pierson

Tony and his staff of three-
You said send in your story. So here's my story.
Your blog is the alpha and the omega. Get well soon.


Heart Attack

Lothario Japan is suffering from a heart attack.

When I walked in, his heart was standing on his forehead, jumping up and down, stabbing him in the eye with a plastic Spork from the hospital food tray.

Who knew hearts could be so downright mean sometimes?

I grabbed the heart, but hearts are slippery.

It hit the floor with a resounding splat (hearts are also noisy,) scurried out the door on its little heart-feet, and ran down the hallway.

I followed it.

My stride was bigger than the hearts', but hearts are faster, and they excrete a natural liquid agent to trip up their pursuants.

It's called blood.

So the crocodile-skin shoes that Lothario Japan made me wear were slip-sliding in blood puddles all the way down the hall. You would think that hospital orderlies would be trained to deal with rebellious organs and the like, even ones that decided to become runners, but no. There was no one around to help, as Lothario Japan's cruel little heart jumped between derelict old people�s legs as they dragged their walkers, fairly oblivious to their below-waist area, as anything of any importance had refused to happen down there in years. So the heart passed undetected, save for little stains a nurse would later ascribe to a bladder infection. There was no one around to help when Lothario Japan�s heart hopped a ride on a cart being pushed by a big black orderly, delivering processed meals to every person on the floor.

I saw where it went. I�m observant like that, I�ve got �pigeon-eye,� as Lothario Japan once said. As far as Lothario Japan was concerned, pigeons were the best-sighted birds on Earth. Try telling him otherwise. Try it.

So my pigeon-eyes spotted the heart nestling itself into a brown plastic bowl full of red Jell-o. Actually, let�s not say Jell-o, because it probably wasn�t, and I can�t risk a lawsuit from the Jell-o people, and neither can the estate of the late Lothario Japan. So let�s just say the heart nestled itself into a brown plastic bowl full of red gelatinous foodstuff. Yes, let�s.

I like red gelatinous foodstuff. You know what my mother used to say?

Something about red gelatinous foodstuff. That�s really all I remember, and she didn�t use those words. But if I could remember it, it would be a good anecdote, and really appropriate and you would kind of smile because your mother said the exact same thing, in different words. And we could all kind of use that sort of sentimentality break, because I�m already several paragraphs into my narrative and I have no idea where I�m going.

But isn�t red gelatinous foodstuff amusing?

Mr. Quentin Sans of room 377-B sure thought so. I could tell, because he had wolfed down half of it by the time my crocodile shoes squeaked bloodily into the room. Here it was, the cardiac ward, where most people are too weak to turn the page of a magazine or slit their wrists, and Mr. Quentin Sans was sitting up in bed, shoveling red gelatinous foodstuff down his gullet, happy as a clam.

My mother used to say that, too. About clams. It was never in the same breath as the red gelatinous foodstuff anecdote. I asked her once why clams where so damn happy, and I used the word damn. She proceeded to tell me it�s because they didn�t get slapped by their mothers for using dirty words. Then she slapped me. Ow.

Lothario Japan used to slap me too, come to think of it. I must have very slappable cheeks. Or maybe I�m just an unmitigated bastard. Who knows.

Mr. Quentin Sans didn�t slap me, or even notice me, as I stood there at the foot of his bed, watching him stab a Spork into Lothario Japan�s heart, and not realizing it. Two Sporks, actually. Served the heart right, I thought. A bowlful of red gelatinous karma. But as he raised the heart to big fat recovering-from-surgery mouth, I had second thoughts. This is the first time more than one thought had hit me in less than a minute, and I had to take a moment to recover. So two thoughts in fifteen seconds plus a recovery moment equals Lothario Japan�s heart in Quentin San�s mouth, about to be chewed. Insubordinate or not, Lothario Japan needed that heart to live. So I did what any law abiding American would do. My mother, too.

I slapped him. The heart went sliding across the floor, finally settling in a corner.

�Hey, what the fuck?� said Quentin Sans. He was awful uppity for a recovering cardiac patient. Before he had completed his expletive, he was sprawled across the floor, legs still on the bed, grasping at the heart in the corner. He probably still thought it was a big piece of fruit or something, and put it in his mouth again, accordingly.

�Who the fuck are you, anyway?� he said in between meaty chunks of Lothario Japan�s heart muscle. Swallowed heart equaled dead Lothario Japan equaled no paycheck. So I had to stop Quentin Sans from swallowing, because I wanted to save Lothario Japan. So I strangled Quentin Sans, because I like money.

I didn�t actually strangle him, much to my money�s dismay. I just wrapped my fingers around his neck enough to keep him from really breathing. Strangling implies I did it long enough to kill him, which I didn�t. The big black orderly nearby was too quick for that.

So I was charged for the attempted murder of Mr. Quentin Sans. Kind of makes me look like an asshole, choking a guy in the hospital. But it was for a good cause, that is, saving the life of Lothario Japan.

Unfortunately, I didn�t even do that. Not to mention no one believes the heart story, so they have me on the murder of Lothario Japan. Not attempted, real successful murder. They say I extracted his heart with a Spork, hid it in a bowl of red gelatinous foodstuff, then tried to kill the person it was fed to. Which makes me look like even more of an asshole.

Don�t use the word �asshole,� though, because I�m in jail for life. Real life jail. And that word is just rubbing it in.

Oh, and it turns out Lothario Japan had never even been to Japan.

What an asshole.

tony's reading: riley dog
 
the ergonimitrist came to my desk and told me that i was wresting all my weight on my wrist and my arms and thats why i was hurting.

she also said my hands were too far stretched away from my body.

the pain has now made the grand tour from one hand down the arm up the neck down the leg then over to the other hand and down to the leg leaving in its wake a buzzy little reminder of who's boss and who aint.

my phone didnt stop ringing tonight and thats good, i needed a distraction away from my computer, who ive been addicted to since '98.

so this is what i need. i need some guest writers.

i have a staff of three. send in your story, and if the staff of three gives it a thumbs up then i'll post it.

just email me at xxsosaxx@yahoo.com and we'll see what happens.

go ahead, give it a try!

no, really, try.

   Thursday, July 18, 2002  
caption this, please


 
"am i a sell-out now, mothafucka?"

tiger woods is always trying to impress me, but i keep telling him to save it for the fairway.

your politics are not as all as interesting as your golf game.

"but i would have thought that you would have liked the fact that i told the reporters that private golf clubs should be allowed to be racist or sexist if they wanted," he said.

tiger. you're still a sell out. you work for nike.

"well, you worked for microsoft."

yeah but i wasn't a millionaire and microsoft doesn't have sweat shops paying people a few dollars an hour to make the most expensive tennis shoes in the world.

"i thought you were a capitalist?" tiger woods asked me.

im a left-wing capitalist. i think you should be allowed to earn a living but i don't think you should exploit people to do it.

"you believe in porn."

i don't think that's exploitive. those are adults who think its okay to get paid to get down.

"i swear, tony pierce, you are just never satisfied, are you?"

tiger, if you are going to charge some kid in oakland $100 for a pair of jordan's, and nike cant figure out a way to pay the kid in bangladesh $5/hr to make those shoes and still make a profit, then fuck nike, they don't deserve to exist. maybe they should pay their spokespeople less.

"maybe we'll just jump to adidas."

maybe you're an ass.

"maybe i'll kick your ass."

right now, you vest wearing balding freaky piece of hype.

"hows your girl?"

im inbetween girls.

"oh, that's right."

we had just finished the easy course at medinah, a private club across the street from my highschool where i attended prom. some of my friends had caddied there in the summers. one of my friends had told me the story of the super bowl shuffle bears playing there and a few of my friends caddied for them.

we had a big tall friend that we gave a terrible nickname to on account of his mild retardation due to the auto accident that he was involved in as a youth.

bear quarterback jim mcmahon, allegedly had our friend stand 200 yards in the fairway and used him as a target.

mcmahon was eerily accurate when properly motivated.

they rode in carts drinking beers golfing making fun of my friend and later tipped him five hundred bucks.

will you stop bouncing that golf ball off your sand wedge, its creepy.

"i can do this all day."

i know, you've been doing it for twenty minutes with one hand in your pocket.

"i am tiger woods."

hows your girl?

"pain in the ass."

how so?

"always wants me to take her out. im out all day. i don't want to go out when im done with my day. i want to chill out."

does she wear little outfits for you?

"no."

do you ask?

"no."

why not?

"it's disrespectful."

no way, it's fun.

"only you can get away with that shit, bro," tiger said.

for the record, i think private country clubs can have whatever members they want. all whites, all men, all women, whatever.

"thank you. finally."

Cuz one day there will be a brotha club and it'll just be brothas and white women.

"i heard that!"

and me and tiger gave each other the secret soul brother power handshake followed by a warm hug and he walked away bouncing that damn golf ball off his wedge

with a brand new "sellout" sticker on the back of his sweater vest.

can't believe: im winning a poll
 
my body hurts like hell, the carpel tunnel crept up the right arm and shot down to the toes of my right leg, which is strange because i felt better the second half of the day.

almost like the devil was snaking through my veins, taking a little tour, having a little look-see.

at my desk at work i have a dixie cup full of ice, i have a plastic bag that once held spoons, i put the ice in the spoon bag, use rubberbands, put the bag on my wrist till i cant stand it, then the other wrist. i look like an idiot.

i know at any moment i can be called to have to go out to chase bad guys, fight with them, climb, point a gun out, squeeze the trigger, etc. simple things like hold on to a guy who is running for his life would be impossible, but my workplace is so twisted that because i have no more sick days and because i didn't *predict* this injury two weeks ago, i cant really call in sick tomorrow, so i do my paperwork, review documents and pray that my phone doesn't ring.

this month has been a bitch, despite the lies that you read on my site, and others.

the lesson that ive learned is as long as i keep my mouth shut and smile everything's fine. as soon as i open my mouth and ask for the things i want, logical as they might seem, i will come across as pushy and dickish. this is the fine line men must traverse. be patient too long and you're considered wimpy. push and you're too aggressive.

there is a middle ground and sometimes i feel i have found it but when the feedback both verbal and physical says otherwise, rarely is it this punishing.

i love to write and to have my hands taken away from me, even for a little while, is scary as hell.

i asked this hot chick if worse comes to worse would she sit on my lap and dictate for me and she said isn't there software for that? so, yes, i think i want my hands back, please.

the elbows are buzzing with electricity, not good electricity, like someone hit my funny bone an hour ago and the arm still thinks its funny. the fingers are numb like i should be paralyzed soon, the neck is tight like an acupuncturist missed by just that much.

all i wanted to do the other day was cuddle with someone.

the tougher you are, the luckier you get, the more you want.

im sorry-- the tougher i am, the luckier i get, the more i want.

i might not be 108 years old but i feel like im about to blink and im gonna be that age. i say that because i blinked not too long ago and i was no longer 21 and i thought to myself what the hell just happened there. so maybe i am living hard now because i don't want to sleep through the next phase like i feel like i did in that last one.

im like ten pages away from finishing dot.con which layne is selling at a discounted rate, and i want two, bro, save two for me. and he wrote it so perfectly and smooth and easy that it almost says to you, "you too can write a novel, its not that hard. it wont be as funny, but 45 chapters, a chapter a night give or take for two months, give yourself a few days off, and hand it over to your friends for real editing and poof, novel."

i like dot con because so many of our friends make appearances and its cool to watch ken nail every single person, most happily axel, os, and charles.

im writing as fast as i can tonight, its about midnight, i just want to write, post, and go to sleep and rest my fingers and body because i never want to have this happen again. i know it's stress related. i know how weird my body gets when it even the slightest bit of emotion slips in. but still, i have to write to you.

and don't feel so bad for me. tonight a mysterious hot chick offered me a night of debauchery with her if i shaved my head.

this is a girl who ive been with before, shes super clean. freaky about it, but clean. perfect body, great kisser, great moves, everything you'd hope for.

once she cut me off, way back when, i truly never thought i'd have another shot. thankfully, im always wrong.

so here is another dilemma for the post-modern man. what do you do? this girl is obviously temporarily insane. usually quite intelligent, reserved, and has her wits about her, but now all you have to do is shear your thinning hair off and prepare for the party.

but what they don't tell you in maxim and playboy and sex in the city is that women are not attracted to men who have sex with women who aren't their girlfriends.

lets say this very webpage has a female reader who likes the pictures and occasional jokes, and would normally consider possibly maybe hooking up with the alleged author, she might be turned off with the fact that author possibly really does have the wonderful life that is documented therein.

and i say that fucking sucks.

hot babes do it on hbo and they're heroes. not even that hot of babes, i might add.

but a fella gets some play and instantly hes a manwhore, womanhater, player, user, risk, jerk.

its not fair, ladies, not fair.

and because my imagination is my best friend, and since nothing in here is true anyhow, and since this is no one who any of you know, so dont even bother trying to guess, i ask her, "if i cut off all my hair, will you wear a catholic girl skirt?"

she says yes.

i say, garters?

she says whatever you want.

i ask, will you spend the night?

she says i will spend the night and be super nice to you.

i say, will you laugh at my bald head?

she says, i will love your bald head, i love bald heads.

i say, can i think of some other things that i might want that night?

she says, sure, make a little list and i'll tell you whats okay.

and instantly i had enough strength to write to you and now i think im done for the night.

four shout outs:

i got some email today and in it there was a letter from this chick who is jailbait and wants me to link her to my site and im always impressed when young girls put together web sites that have decent content, great design, and pretty original style. so keep rocking, teresa.

somehow i came across this site which is the polar opposite in design, and a lot of the things that the old fogies say is wrong with the web but something about it totally appeals to me. i get a good feeling that i know parts of the true life of a real person, and i like that feeling. rock on, punk munkie.

then theres meesh, who i like a lot, who id drink with if she lived near here, and who im scared to meet because im sure she wouldnt like me in person. i loved what she wrote in the comments of yesterday's post but i really love what she wrote in her blog about her family and growing up. meesh is another who wrote me else i would have never known her. for that im very grateful.

im also very grateful for everyone who has permalinked me. because im not really on the computer much, i haven't been able to compile all the people who have linked me, but know that i want to link you back on the column on the left, so if you want me to return the love, email me and when im all better i'll get it together.

salivating over: eric neel living every man's fantasy, and getting paid for it.

   Wednesday, July 17, 2002  
ashley doesn't think i love her which couldn't be further from the truth.

ashley, baby, sweetheart, of course i love you. i love you so much im typing to you despite having terrible carpel tunnel. my wrist looks like that giraffe. im only going to post one thing today and this is it. of course i love you ashley.

sometimes love means letting go. don't ask me to explain it because im not sure i totally understand it.

but i do understand the benefit of laying on your back with someone your own age, relatively, holding hands, discovering new music and old gems. ashley you're twenty. im 108. you need to find a guy who's also twenty.

you two need to listen to led zep until the sun comes up, pink floyd, skynyrd, the doors, the dead's american beauty, the clash, the police, motorhead, the ramones, the talking heads, santana, bob marley, dylan, ac/dc, van halen, boston, dio, sabbath, priest, maiden, yes, classic rock. and not the greatest hits, but the full albums completely.

you need to be going to college and read shakespeare, hopkins, faulkner, hemingway, milton, joyce, dickinson, twain, tennyson, vonnegut, tolstoy, yes, classic rock.

don't be fooled by guys who have great sex with you. the sex will always be great.

don't be fooled by guys who can write well. it just means that when they're mad at you you'll get the most hateful terrible emails. you deserve better.

don't be fooled by guys who are terribly handsome, or charming, or cool as a cucumber in a bowl of hot sauce. those guys, especially in LA are a dime a dozen.

what you need is a nerdy guy who'd do anything for you. who would leave you presents at your door and make web sites for you in your image: beautiful and grand, lyrical and edgy. you need a geek who would wait years for you, secretly, despite his own welfare. you need someone who wont make fun of the bad music kids these days love.

instead of trolling the skate parks and beaches, you should sit outside a cyber cafe or an engineering department, browse through the aisles of fry's electronics, become a member of the battery club at radio shack.

go geek, not greek.

your whole life you're going to be pursued and eventually conquered and dominated by a variety of well-meaning men, take this opportunity to turn the tables and you be the one who does the corruption. and trust me when i tell you that you've got all the tools.

go to tower records and smile at the boys with the dyed hair and the unoriginal punk rock wear, but give your number to the guy in the back wearing the weezer tshirt who would never think that in a million years you'd say hi to him.

then get his number, tell him to ride his scooter over, kiss his neck, watch him shake, get him stoned, put in jane's addiction, and go where the music takes you.

maybe the rest of the good people who read this page will be kind enough to leave comments here with their suggestions since i could be wrong. and since i cant type another word.

tres happy: at the tres producers

   Tuesday, July 16, 2002  
this is how to keep it real.

allen iverson is one of the top three basketball players in the nba. the order probably goes, shaq, kobe, allen.

all his life allen has been a rough neck drug taking outlaw rebel who lives his life as recklessly off the court as on.

how a man six feet tall can have a napolean complex is beyond me, but if you look at his behavior, and the fact that most of his peers are six to fourteen inches taller than him might explain some of it, but the bottom line is he's a punk rock superstar.

a few days ago it became obvious to the 76er shooting guard that this morning he was going to be arrested for busting through an apartment with a gun while looking for his wife.

you think he could have combed his hair.

but allen keeps it real and i might be a sarcastic person most of the time in here, but i like that.

he didn't soar to the top of the nba by playing someone else's game, or copping someone else's style. he's his own man, full of complexities, oddities, viciousness, rage, and pure love of his terribly shy momma and little daughter.

he's also one of those young black men who has a chip on his shoulder and it will never go away.

allen is a superstar and in philly where he is now in the slam awaiting the wheels of justice to move, he's a deity.

and in the prison that he is sitting in, he is bigger than a god.

which just makes me wonder, what the fuck is up with your hair?

did the coppers unbraid the corn rows? did he party all night and never get around to having his cousin fix him up good? was the hair dresser busy at the phillies game last night?

and the eyes.

allen, we all know you're a baller. and a stoner. and a leader. ive never been to jail as an inmate, ive only been a visitor, but i cannot imagine going through the process of being booked, deloused, processed, etc. while baked.

i know guys like snoop dogg don't like to do anything while not under the influence, but if you really are a marijuana connoisseur, and you're bigger than God in the slam, don't you think theres going to be a nice sack of weed waiting for you and a basket of flowers from the fellas in the cell block down the way?

i know if i was allen iverson i would expect that shit and i would be one pissed off lil all star mvp if all of that wasnt laid out real nice on my cot right next to the silver commode.

true, his stay will probably be short. just time enough to get arraigned and bailed out. but allen has a chance to be with an element that, despite what the blatantly racist tv pundits will kid about, he does not interface with on the regular.

petty crooks, tax evaders, money launderers, cocaine middle men will break bread with him today. nobody is expecting a sermon of, "shape up, brothas, thats what im fixin to do." but they'll want to talk basketball. they'll want to talk about playing against mj. they'll want to talk about lots of stuff.

and the way allen iverson will be with these other fallen angels will touch them in ways that will stay with them for the rest of their lives.

it might even change them for the better.

so you know the cops are going to unbraid your braids. and you know the brothas will braid it up good for you. and the only thing better than a jailhouse tattoo is a jailhouse hairdo, so why didn't you show up prepared, awake, and alert, AI?

keeping it real?

no.

maybe because deep down you're just a selfish little bitch concerned with you and you only.

you can storm through a house waving a gun talking shit because you know how to drive the lane spin a 360 and sink a fallaway off the glass.

cut you and you dont bleed.

and still that chip on your shoulder is so big that you cant see how deeply you could touch others who need to be touched.

so concerned with your own self you don't see how living by example, if only for a day or two, no matter where you lay your nappy head, could send the right man down the right path. how every guy who passes by your cell once you're gone will think, nba's finest was right there. this hell hole isn't so hellish after all. in fact this little nook is pretty special.

so next time you find yourself in prison, #3, comb your fucking hair, and smile for the birdie. the man hates it when we smile.

my kingdom for one strong black man with an attitude and a shred of class

up in here.

loving the link love from all, especially: doc searls and the daily pundit
 
cd's that come out today



flaming lips, the vines, robert plant
 
bryn and sonny first met each other in the basement of the keeneyville grade school in the chicago suburb of mundelion, Illinois.

even though the boys were always ending up in blood curdling school yard brawls, they were best of friends to the curious amazement of anyone who saw them fight.

byrn was a short boy who was always coming to school beaten and bruised most thought at the hands of sonny, who seemed to feel no pain, but it wasn't true. he got his ass kicked by everyone. an odd lad, he would fight with all sorts of people. but his favorite sparring partner was the ever smiling, eternally up-beat sonny i. lavista.

"those two will either be the finest boxers to come from this town, or they'll be dead before high school," principal collins said to herself as she pulled back the stylish curtains of her office which over looked the west end of the playground.

mundelion, famous for its youth boxing league did not discourage pugilism at any age, due in part to the fact that a healthy portion of the citizenry were either first generation immigrants raised on a brand of unspoken self reliance or they were simply the twisted offspring of one of the many famous organized crime families who had relocated from nearby chicago.

bryn and sonny belonged to neither of these groups. they were merely two young boys who loved to fight and loved each others company.

bryn, of course, had a secret.

he was from another time.

naturally.

sent to earth specifically to adjust the tiny devices covertly placed into the heads of dozens of neighborhood kids in the forgotten town, bryn was the last child on his list, and was unfortunately the most difficult.

the chip wouldnt snap in.

so he tried to beat it into place.

everywhere they went, sonny and bryn took turns slapping and wrestling and brawling and scratching and cursing and threatening and, eventually, bleeding and being broken up.

only bryn knew the motivation behind the violence but sonny only wanted to stop the headaches, which were never-ending and excruciating.

"i know you have terrible pains," bryn told sonny that first time they met in the basement sorting pints of milk.

"how do you know that?" sonny asked, stopping, still holding a chocolate milk that looked like a little house.

"cuz i used to have them too," bryn lied.

and that's when they first started to brawl. not out of hatred or fun but necessity. bryn did his best to beat the tiny chip into place so that sonny could see what he was chosen to see and so that bryn could complete his visit and go back to a time when things were simpler and everyone had flying cars and a man could buy a pair of concert tickets from a variety of sources at a nominal fee.

but bryn failed day after day, month after month, and as time went on it became obvious to the time traveler that this young fellow might not ever get it together and might indeed need to be disposed. sonny was, however, certainly learning how to take a punch.

one day as the boys were playing an innocent game of baseball in the street a happy little accident occurred.

the hardball that sonny pitched was hit squarely by bryn and the ball sunk into sonny's forehead and bounced away knocking the youth right on his back.

he awoke to a world of colors and symbols, numbers and characters.

"are you ok," bryn asked.

"no, not at all," sonny winced.

"how many fingers do you see?" bryn said holding up his middle finger.

"twelve. thirteen maybe." sonny said, blinking and eventually gave up and kept his eyes closed.

bryn popped him a good one right on the nose. and then another. and then one more.

"it's like ive got a screw loose," sonny said.

"no, quite the contrary, friend. finally the screw is in place. open your eyes."

sonny did as he was told and the world was back in focus and he smiled. bryn smiled back and the sudden change of colors and spinning of numbers around his violent friend nearly blinded poor sonny with its unusual light.

he promptly passed out.

naturally.

laughing at: oliver's anna exclusive

   Monday, July 15, 2002  
the email said," why don't you ever say any bad things about yourself? You talk about asswipes, you sound like an asswipe."

never one to turn down a request, crude as they may be, here goes my secret admirer.

heres all the bad things i can write about myself in four minutes. ready? set? go

watches sports constantly, likes strip clubs, smokes a pipe, not a crack pipe suckers, christian minister, slow safe driver, safe sexpert, talks dirty, on the computer a lot, doesn't eat much, doesn't sleep much, likes the bed, contradictory as hell, cheap, mad slacker, will probably say something wrong to your mother, laughs at his own jokes constantly, reads too many magazine, likes to make out all day, bad cook, messy as hell, wants 8 kids, not motivated at all by money, thinks he's destined to burn in h e double hockey sticks, compliments way too much, doesn't speak french well, doesn't like to do the dishes, homebody, eats a lot of pie, horrible memory, lucky in lust, reads poetry, watches hella tv, will call you on your shit, terrible memory, bad dresser, likes to drink, tons of friends, hates the phone, will never divorce you, thinning hair, hates the cold, has no problem with porn, likes bikinis with prints designed with the image of revolutionary Che Guevara.

happy, giselle?

but to answer your first question. its my belief that the devil lies hidden in the part of your brain that tells you that all those things are bad. and they're what's keeping you from what you want in your life.

as if the devil was going to be dressed as a pretty girl, or wear a red suit and twirl his tail and knock at your door with a see through briefcase of hundreds, a box of acid laced sugar cubes and the dallas cowboy cheerleaders.

some might say that the devil isn't that creative. i say he doesn't need to be. the list of things that freak us out are so basic and predictable all the guy has to do is start with your face your ass your hair and your gut and rinse and repeat. if he really needs to get at you he can remind you how little money you have in savings, that your girl might be thinking of leaving you, and how closer you are to death.

don't kid yourself into thinking hes not there, acknowledge him, but pay him no mind.

be worried if you cant hear him.

be terrified if you believe a word.

envious of: bitchen's visit to fenway
 
winona called, but i hung up. beyonce called, but fuck her. things get weird when i talk to her.

cher called, it was the wrong number.

david letterman called, but then he put me on hold.

angus young called and i said, i love you and he said, right back at you.

madonna, prince, rupaul, sting, eminem, shakira, britney, and liza called but none of them could get me stones tickets for the halloween concert at staples so i hung up on each of them, disappointed and put-off.

venus called, then serena, then their mom. fuck em all.

the president called and i said, legalize weed like britan did. he said, it's not legal?

"spin" called and offered me a job, but they didnt really mean it. they havent meant it since 1989.

hef called, but he was just looking for ashley.

then anna called. my love. my true love. the girl of my dreams. my lil russian nite cap. the only girl. the reason some of you are here.

she said, quit recording my calls.

i said, done.

she said, quit using pictures of me when you talk about me, it makes me think that you only like me for what i look like.

i said, fine.

she said, and whatever you do, do not under any circumstances post another entry until at least three different readers comment in your comments section.

i said, uh...

she said, you get 500 people a day on your shit and you let them lurk. if they're not going to give you money for a car any more, make them-- a few of them at least-- show some love.

i said, they show plenty of love.

she said, do you want me to call you again?

i said, yes, my dear.

she said, then dont let me see you write another post until this one gets at least three and your last one gets three. i liked your last one.

i said, then why didnt you comment?

she said, im commenting now, dumbass.

cute picture of the day
 
when the ducati of life throws you off when you're in second gear taking the s curves of Hanover your pit boss tells you to hop back on but fernando threw down his helmet and walked off the track climbing over the hay bales that lined the chain linked fences, unzipped his fire retardant leather suit and retreated into the adjoining forest.

quitter, his crew was heard yelling in a variety of languages and he thought to himself fucking ride that shit yourself then fuckers and walked and walked and walked. eventually he couldn't hear the whines of the motorbikes and the screams of the crowds and he climbed out of his advertising, stripped off his long johns and climbed an inviting tree in nothing but his lucky boxer shorts that said chico's bail bonds.

as he climbed he saw he had a different perspective of the forest and saw it was bigger than he thought. he saw the race below him and couldn't make out who was winning and eventually grew disinterested when all that it looked like were colors and shapes circling and circling. motion but no movement. action but and no progress. volume but no sound.

he kept climbing and discovered something very uncomfortable in his right boot and realized it was his secret diary, just a little spiral notebook with a few pages and a pencil stolen from his country club golf course. he sat on a branch staring at a clear-cut section of the forest thinking about a happier time when he was an ice cream man during a summer vacation from college, and he thought of a girl he met on his route and wrote the first chapter of a poem that he'd never finish.

he wrote:
in the richest meadow of a wooded plain
Where clouds and rain and pain,
are as
rare as a train.
You take your showers by standing outside
in the sun
and letting its rays soak you.
While the birds hum
and the children play, and the day
and the air and your hair
are all one.
every once in a while you sigh
and say, "Where the heck am I?"
It's then that you know,
(although you sorta thought so)
that's you're on vacation
or at recess
or at home
or in Love.

and lucky for all of us, a huge gust of wind took the world champion by surprise and sent him to his violent and dramatic death.

blushing: at moxie's photo essay

   Sunday, July 14, 2002  
one reason i say that nothing in here is true is because none of you would believe it. but last night's blogger party (#4, i think) had some photographic proof, and several witnesses, so let's pretend that last night really happened.

my good pal the rallying point picked me up and we drove through hollywood listening to the blasters. even though it was about 830pm, traffic was nuts because there was a blackout near paramount studios. rolling blackout? terrorists? too many LA women all blowdrying their hair at the same time? who knows these days.

well brian probably knows. he certainly knows how to throw a blogger party. the host of the very first LA blogger drinkfest, the den of lion's producer put together a guest list that included eric and dawn fresh from the sandy beaches of waikiki; charles johnson from lil green footballs; bill quick was in town from frisco so it was a treat to meet the daily pundit; i never had the chance to say hello to doc searls who i didn't know was from santa barbara; shook the hand of a man who actually gets paid to blog, mickey kaus representing the wesssside; was introduced in person to the original patio pundit - accept no imitations; some guy named warren zevon (pictured, with dawn) who crashed the party despite not having a blog; ann salsisbury proved the fact that no blog party is official without a super cool lawyer in attendance; i talked about the power of Tsar with Brian an associate editor from Reason; and libertarians with brian's cohort, sara, an assistant editor from Reason, which is the beautiful publication that runs nice pieces from welch.

matt and emmanuelle were there; os and ali were there; ben was there and pulled a coulter on me; a woman with gigantic boobs and no bra was there with a very dark mysterious stranger with long hair and a huge hat; scott rubush showed up only to tell everyone he's moving to philly cuz the party scene in LA is played out; said bon jour to an enchanting french woman tolerated the ten non-dirty french words i still remember; and not only did i get to meet madison slade but i got to drive her porsche. but more about that in a second.

another party crasher was famed music video director nigel dick who is responsible for g'n'r's "sweet child o' mine", britney's "baby, one more time," and several others of hers, and many many many many other vids that you've enjoyed. did i ever tell you that my secret dream is to make music videos? i didn't tell nigel that either.

instead i drank wine with madison who lived on russian hill when i was in the haight, little did we know.

one of the nice parts of not having a car is being able to ask for a ride home from a girl who looks even better in person than on her blog. driving down hollywood blvd looking for a gas station, the quick witted capricorn cruised past two CHP motorcycle cops who were putting on their helmets to bust a different hottie in a volvo. just our luck they pulled her over in the same gas station that we pulled in to. and as i was trying to be a gentleman by holding the gas pump into the sweet targa, cop #2 circled madison and her car as cop #1 "investigated" the miniskirted twentysomething in the four-door.

cop #2 made madison follow his finger and asked her how much she drank that night. she told him two glasses of wine, which is the wrong answer, apparently, and when he got distracted, moxie said, "fuck this, im getting some smokes" and strutted over to the cashier leaving me at the pump with the cop.

i told my man that she really only had two little glasses and i only had one and she was taking me home. he gave me the follow the finger test which i failed at first because those things always crack me up but then i got it together and passed and he said, "if you drive out of here i wont give her the breathalizer, which she would fail."

i said, two glasses of wine will make you fail?

he said, 14 years ive been a cop...

i said, you're the boss.

and when the long legged skinny blonde returned she handed me her keys and i drove her to my house in her porsche.

too bad it was 3am or i woulda invited her in.

but i did get her number.

thanks for throwing the bash, brian!