hi, im back in palm springs where its dusty and windy and the hotties are sexy.

but im having a bit of a moral dilemma.

as you may know im a bit paranoid about going to heaven. i would really like to go. so i don't want to do things that go against the good book, let alone the ten commandments.

things written in stone hold a symbolic importance to my mind, for some reason.

so the problem is i am here in our villa in palm desert . i have hooked up the directv which i drove back to la last night to retrieve and hooked up this morning just so i could watch game two of the cubs / sox interleague game at wrigley.

but its not on wgn, and its not on my baseball package.

the only game they want me to watch today is the dodgers / angels game.

i don't want to watch the dumb dodgers / angels game.

i want to watch the dumb cubs / sox game.

why have crosstown rivalry weekend if on saturday you wont let me, the directv major league baseball package subscriber, access to those games? i'd like to see all of them. especially the reds / indians game... oh wait, for some reason they're not playing each other this weekend, even though the mets / yanks, rangers / astros, marlins / devil rays, dodgers / angels, and cubs / sox are... strangely the phillies and pirates aren't playing each other this weekend either.

see how screwed up everything is?

now the dilemma comes in the form of a pirated Directv card which if slid into my receiver box would allow me, here in palm springs, to watch the local, blacked out, chicagoland tv station which is broadcasting this game only in and around chicago.

my question is, is it stealing if you cant buy it for any price, and yet its in the air in your house?

1. i would buy it.

2. it's not for sale.

3. it's in the air in my house.

4. i thought this was the land of the free.

5. i thought republicans wanted less government.

6. i am now forced to "watch" it through Yahoo GameChannel like a common nerd.

7. yes i brought my computer back to the villa after i dismantled my directv which isn't at all nerdy.

hey, libras + if i ever traveled across the usa i'd wanna stop by here, and see all of america's twine balls.

# | |

while i was on vacation a lot of crazy ass shit went down that the xbi may or may not have been involved in.

there was a train wreck of a train coming out of palm springs to la.

i discovered that my rental car cd player played mp3s.

and i read this caption underneath the picture to the left, "Indian tribal girl Karnamoni Handsa, 9, looks at her husband, a two-year old dog named Bachchan, in Khanyan, 60 km (37 miles) northwest from Calcutta, state capital of the eastern Indian state of West Bengal June 19, 2003. "

the good people of Khanyan wed the nine year old to the dog to ward off evil spirits, the caption told me.

now, if you were an evil spirit, dont you think you'd feel at home in a town where two-year old dogs were getting married off

to underaged girls?

theyre both kids for god sake.

i dont date married chicks, but could i say no to someone who had been hitched to a dog since she was nine?

if i pet him would that mean i was gay?

what if i took him for a walk?

thats gay.

its gotta be.

i havent had a dog since i was a little kid, and back then we didnt have to pick up the dog doo, but i guess people have to nowadays - at least here in hollywood.

so if i met some girl, and she was married to a dog, and me and him took a little walk, and i watched him poopie, and then i picked it up

im home now.

crazy ass shit really did go down here.

best of all was the new blogger pro got implemented in my sector of the rockosphere.

this is the first post ive made on it.

i think it looks hot.

on first post i see that the edit link is a the top, which is much more convenient. you dont have to scroll down all the way to the bottom of the post.

old posts are accessible with drop-down menus now instead of the tedious back arrow: perfect when youre going back in your archives for old posts to republish when you go on vacation!

it also just feels so much more sturdy.

for example, and ive never even uttered this complaint to a soul. not even outloud, but when i wanted to highlight a word to link to a different site highlighting the word took equal parts luck and skill to get the whole word with no spaces in front or behind.

now you can even highlight a single letter, or two letters in a word. not that i would be doing that very often. but maybe a hidden link or two in a long phrase might be fun sometimes.

i also like that the "view blog" doesnt jump to a different window, you view it within the bottom half of the blogger window.

is it really 1:24am?

a sorority girl experiences snoop dogg live + gorilla mask + bettie girl

# | |

it's a classic
Tuesday, November 12, 2002

ten fourty pee em backpack stuffed with bread, brie, two bottles of champagne, one brut one extra dry, he could never remember which one was better. he rides his bike to the subway. no one rides the subway at ten fourty pee em.

the elevator smells like industrial orange cleanser. suddenly orange is the scent of freshness. some one has urinated against the glass wall. someone has scratched the name jed below the button that says mezzanine. some one is watching him.

three people wait for the northbound train. one old man who looks at the tunnel hole willing it. not knowing that there is a wind that comes minutes before the subway, then a sound, then a light. theres nothing to look at. has the boy brought a condom? no. they're just friends.

friends.

the thought sat like a lump in his breast. only good that word ever did him was in a heated scrabble game. seven letter triple score bitch. plus it would take about four bottles to blur the line of friendship. friends. the old man looked down in the tunnel and he's old enough to remember la when this wasn't the only rail in town what's he looking for, salvation?

a mexican made it four waiting for the train and he knew about the wind and sat down. its all about astrology he thought. gemini and aquarius. just like clue. parker brothers had taught him everything. if he knew it wasn't in the library why did he keep going there.

the train arrived he rode to her house. it was a tough ride since she lives on the top of a very high hill. it smelled like isla vista up there. eucalyptus and dynamite. gasoline and burned leaves. he put it in first gear. this was great exercise he thought and it would be fun to speed down late that night. which he did. two twenty a-em. drunk buzzed really santa anas warm, warmest night of the fall for sure. must be seventy. must be going fifty. no need to worry about rabbits darting in the road or acorns or potholes he was being guided by voices.

her hair was soft and her lips were familiar. moreso than he remembered. every night felt like a dream so he traced her outline as she laid on him pressed down on her skin until he felt bone. eighth of an inch here. sixteenth there. he wasn't much of a romantic. he said if we had to eat you after a plane crash we wouldn't get much meat. she said the meat is the muscle and put his hand on, muscle.

must have been going sixty near the bottom of the mountain. hollywood hills meets hollywood blvd. night crew mopping the popeyes. people buying magazines. people leaving bars. people dressed real nice. he had his gangsta flannel flapping behind him no lights no brakes, a game he played since a little kid called lets see how far we can coast. the lazy mans game of human curling.

pink floyd plays in his ninety nine cents store fm radio. no dial just two buttons. one scanned in the stations, one you push for the next station. is anyone out there. the wall. when he was an ice cream man he would play dark side and animals to drown out the ice cream truck tings and tangs but it bled through mixing like strawberry twirl and carmel. she had silky hair that smelled of a fresh shower. velvet pajama pants and pale skin. he wanted to touch everything like in an x dream and she didn't care. only he was scared. she felt so comfortable with him she said often and is that failure asked his head.

thirty five whispered the wind as he turned left on sunset. go east old man. ameoba records says hi. archlight movies says hi. give us your money says the dennys the dirtiest dennys of all. now the game is called count the hookers. okay one two. three. no shes not one. oops, yes he is. four five. two people are fighting on a fire escape while one watches. not fight fighting fist fighting is one a girl don't look keep going. hi ninety nine cents store hi tulips strip joint. i wonder if its open i wonder what the cop car is doing empty not too close to the door but not tooooo far away. i wonder what it looks like in there in seedy hollywood on a monday night at two something a-em.

donuts. okay we'll stop here. don't get off the bike. three russians parked sitting on their hoods talking russian. laughing. plotting. planning. hating. hi russians with your blue eyes and short hair. everyone is welcome here. donut man asks if i want coffee. do you have eclairs with creme? of course. sixty five cents. thanks keep the change. tip everyone the brain says. over tip those you should tip and tip the ones you shouldn't. later he'd be robbed.

again.

nine, ten, eleven. that one has a shelf butt. how does she do that? that shelf is out so far its about to fall out.

two bums playing throw the screwdriver at the palm tree. hi.

hi trash making its way home. hi fallen leaves. hi everything. hi

tony making his way home down the hill next to the church coasting feeling like a kid again as he normally does with his very good friend who asked him to call her when he made it through the jungle back home 2.6 miles all downhill all one big thrill and when he does his phone rings and its another friend who had a date and wanted to let him know how it went.

hi three am. and he wonders who had a better night than he

# | |

another classic for your ass

Friday, February 15, 2002

hot black chick walked down the stairs at the wilshire/vermont station past the cops who smiled a hello and she smiled one back.

when she reached the bottom of the stairs the train arrived and she got on the car next to the driver, like i did.

we left the station and approached the next stop and before we did the driver announced on the PA, "Next stop, Wilshire and Normandie."

hot black chick yelled, "nobody asked you."

driver replied on the PA, "i know."

we stopped, at the station for a few seconds, there was a series of beeps, the doors shut, the train pulled away, gained momentum and we were on to our last stop.

the driver announced, "next stop, Wilshire and Western."

hot black chick yelled, "hurry up, then."

the train conductors always ease into the Wilshire/Western station because there are many intersecting tracks there since it is the end of the line.

driver announced as we slowed up, "this is the final destination, please make sure you have gathered all of your personal belongings."

then there was a pause.

then he said, "and please, have a good day."

then he added, "except for certain people."

we stopped, she got off the train, strutted past the driver's car, realised she was going to have to walk up stairs if she continued down that direction, turned around, right past me and headed towards the elevator.

i noticed that her super tight black tshirt said, "Cute." but it was written in a type of cursive that wasn't easy to read, so you were forced to decide whether you were going to read her shirt or check out her d-cups.

it was quite a decision.

i walked up the stairs and considered it my morning workout.

made it to the 720 bus, there were three of them waiting for us. i got on the first one that was half-full. the other two were mostly empty but Lord only knows when they would leave that stop. i sat in the back with a talkative older black gentleman and two mexicans who were speaking spanish to each other.

to my surprise, hot black chick got on my bus. she dug through her little purse for change and as she did the big fat black lady busdriver said, "good morning everyone. happy day after valentine's day." and waved at us behind her moving only her fingers. i cant explain it.

hot black chick made her way all the way to the back. the mexicans locked on to her immediately as did the black guy. when she eyed an empty seat near him, he couldnt hold it in any more.

"Got Damn, girl!"

she had tight red pants on, heels, hair done right, ruby red lipstick, very dark black skin, enough attitude for several busses of commuters.

the mexicans spoke spanish and the black guy kept talking to no one in particular. i pretended to be engrossed with my Bukowski poems.

"You know something, fellas," the black guy said, "that is a booty right there. that is a beautiful black booty. mercy. people say black ass like that is an acquired tastes, and i agree."

my stop was coming up.

"once you acquire that shit, you never lose your taste for it."

then he laughed through his smile and it sounded like a hiss, but everyone smiled.

the mexicans did their mexican handshake ending with the knuckle punch and one of them dug into his backpack and retrived a tupperware cube containing his buddy's lunch. and he and i exited through the back door and began our days.

# | |

ed. note - we are at work, so unfortunately, we have no access to photos of karisa.

dear undercover xbi agents who edit this page,

let me begin by telling you thank you so very much for all that you do. without you im nothing.

im nothing with you either, but without you not only am i nothing but this blog would be a gigantico mess.

you dont even want to know where i am blogging from tonight or how.

quite frankly im ashamed.

what im doing tonight in coachella california to spread good news to all of you is immoral, illegal, inappropriate and somewhat disgusting. in fact what i will have to do later to a gaggle of barely legal dairy queen employees is just plain wrong.

what im blogging on cant even allow me to right-click, so therefore i cant even add a picture to this post, so please, sweet editors, add a nice picture up in this piece. make it a picture of karisa if you can find one because lots of the boys have been asking for that and i aims to please.

my shoulders are hurting writing the way i have to write right now so sorry if this comes across not as long as i would like it to be.

anyways, hi people of the world. i miss you.

ive been driving across this desert all night looking for a different kinkos than the one that robbed me last night but i had no luck. palm springs is beautiful and their trees are well lit and every fancy community has gates and a security kiosk but no one has 24 hour internet and fortunately i had a nice driving companion who kept her hand in my lap the whole way so even though i was frustrated i wasnt totally pissed.

i dont get totally pissed all that often, but the last few weeks ive been testy to say the least.

i think i just need a change.

a big change.

even a little change would be nice and i thought this vacation would be it but its not.

palm springs isnt far enough from LA to ease ones mind and ive got a lot to ease.

plus, and she'll hate me for saying this, but i could use a steady gurl. clippergirls cousin is sweet but shes not it. ive been around the block enough to know and i know and shes not it.

tonight we ate at pf changs and it was deeeee-lish.

the restaurants out here have misters to add a little refreshment to the atmosphere and its welcomed.

pf was packed tonight and the food was great and the waitress was awesome and everyone had a great time especially me because i always end up there with the best people and that makes me feel so lucky.

note to self: youre the luckest man alive. enjoy it.

tomorrow i will golf and shop and ride around with the top down and i might even head back to hollywood

and i might not.

so anyway, xbi agents, if you would, could you please post three classic busblog posts tomorrow and then a caption this please for the kids before 1pm pst.

if you cant i totally understand but i dont have a computer and i dont have innnernet access and i have a feeling i wont even wake up tomorrow until 2pm so please help the busblog since i cant.

my love to all of you.

your pal,

tony

# | |

hi america, im in palm springs still, where it's hot.

im typing you from the conceirge desk at the fabulous hotel. id tell you which one but its top secret. they dont have a computer room or an "office center" or a "business center" or anything along those lines but they do have a cool computer with a flat screen next to the conceirge for checking ones email, etc.

last night i got jacked at the kinkos. i thought i was paying $12/hr for internet access but when i was done they charged me $24/hr because i was sitting at "the design station", whatever the hell that means.

funny thing about me is that i wont really argue about being overcharged if Black people are involved. especially in the big money world of Palm Springs.

i had so many things i could have told them like "well you told me to sit over there" and "this is why you will be working at Kinkos at midnight the rest of your life". but i take it easy on my people.

someone has to.

plus im living a dream life.

if i were to travel the country and write about it, i would want to hook up some sort of arrangement with Kinkos i think because it is great to have something around 24/7 where i could get on the web whenever i wanted. for example what if my laptop broke or got stolen.

this hotel is great and when i get back i will upload pictures and tell you all about it.

in the meantime i hope my internet heroes will post a few more classic posts from the busblog's near two-year run.

i would hate to have you bored wherever you are because i am taking a few days off here in the 100 degree dry heat.

its really spectacular here.

i dont know why i dont come out here more often, it really is a "short two-hour drive."

caio!

# | |

classic post brought to you by the ones who love you the most

   Friday, March 15, 2002
 

i was trying to prove God to this buddist at the baja fresh and i saw my old boss signalling me from the salsa station.

my old fbi boss.

i excused myself and met him in the men's room.

"long time, agent."

"not that long, really, seems like yesterday." i said.

"hows the xbi treating you?"

"the what?"

"ok, well, whatever. tony we want you back."

"im touched."

"we miss you and we need you."

"you cant afford me."

"what, are you suddenly materialist? has the xbi spoiled you?"

"it's not money that i want."

"figured as much, what do you want then?"

my old boss wasnt much of a negotiator, especially with me. all he would ever say is "no."

"i want my old flying car back and i want to be a superagent, and i want my old territory back."

"sorry kid, no can do. santa monica is taken."

"yeah, i know, by your son-in-law. is he still in the hospital?"

"hal is back, he's fine, thank you."

"well, those are my terms, my fish tacos are getting cold."

someone knocked on the door, my boss yelled, "one sec, buddy." then he said, "we could get you your car."

"and i want to pick my partner," i added.

"next you'll be telling me that you want to pick your boss."

"get me santa monica back, and let me pick my partner and i'll be happy with you as my boss."

"boy, that's a change."

my boss always liked to get close to me and whisper in my ear. that never sat well with me, but i understood his motives.

he said, "i'll see what i can do, agent. but your partner has to be someone from the bureau. none of those xbi hoodlums."

i washed my hands with hot water and soap. my boss looked at his male pattern baldness and primped. i dried off with the papertowels and threw all but one in the trash and used the remaining towel to protect my soon-to-be fishy fingers and opened the door.

like a gentleman i allowed my boss to exit first.

he said thank you and as he passed, i attached a bug to the collar of his suit coat.

# | |

clippergirls cousin is in the xbi?

shit, who isnt?

long story short: there wasnt any "vacation" in maui. there wasnt any "san diego" departure.

there was a kidnapping of yours truly by a wanna-be cheerleader who all along was working for your favorite band of undercover crimefighting superheroes and i was dumb enough to fall for it.

so here i am typing you from the air conditioned kinkos in rancho mirage, california in the palm springs desert where they pipe in the easy listening (billy joel's "new york state of mind") and ding you twelve bucks an hour to use their computer and speedy internet so that i can tell you that you shouldnt trust anyone especially giggly cousins of gigglier superhotties when they ask you to remained blindfolded as they drive you out of hollywood.

turns out there was a unsolved crime in joshua tree that they knew i wouldnt go do unless i was tricked to go do so they tricked me.

and i cant tell you what it is because it involves something that i do not like and i dont want the whole wide world to know what i dont like.

but i had to deal with this fear. and no its not agrophobia and its not claustrophobia but its close to that and we drove into the golf course resort and she changed into something incredibly uncomfortable and she laid next to the fireplace which is ridiculous cuz here it is midnight and maybe its 87 degrees but its probably 90 and i said i cant do anything youre my sorta girl's cousin. and she said youre not going to do anything to me youre going to do something for me and for the good of the people of palm desert.

and i said so whats the slutty outfit for?

and she said its for later.

people say things to me and a lot of times i have no idea what theyre saying. so i just go on.

so we went to where we had to perform superheroism and we did what we had to do and it didnt take very long. it was gross. let me leave it at that. it was gross. it was so gross as soon as i got back to the resort i ripped off my clothes and took a long long hot shower and put on shorts and a tshirt and threw the other clothes into the dumpster and had a quick double of baileys, no ice.

clipper girls cousin also took a shower and then slipped back into the terribly uncomfortable outfit and high heels and blew dried her hair and sprayed a little perfume on herself and sauntered into the living room and dimmed the lights and turned on some dexter gordon and gave me a couch dance and i said you do that a little too well and she said its one of my superpowers. and i said what is. and she said watch.

and sure enough within a minute, tops, i was puddy in her hands. i was willing to ruin everything that i had established with her cousin. and ive never felt this way about her before. and then just like that she dismounted and lit an american spirit and click i was out of the trance.

i said thats fucked up shit right there little girl.

she exhaled and said yup.

then she said, wanna be my new partner?

tif + kev + baseball blog + told ya Civ is crack

# | |

the busblog asks, do you remember when tony died?
Friday, December 13, 2002

i knew i was in trouble when i saw kurt cobain waiting for me at the front door.

hey buddy.

uh, hi, kurt.

i dont really know how to say this to you, so i'll just come right out and say it. youre dead.

pardon me?

ok, let me put it this way, knock knock.

heh. who's there?

not you, because you're dead.

can i ask you a question?

sure.

good, am i on acid?

no, youre dead.

how did i die?

i can tell you, but then i'd have to bring you back to life. ahahahahaha. sorry, little joke we tell.

what's this hole in my chest?

thats where you were stabbed with a knife.

who the hell would stab me?

lots of people. there are those who are jealous of your talents. there are all the dads of the young girls you do. there are the sisters of the girls you do. there are the republicans who fear that you might go to law school and then run for office. theres bud selig, matt drudge, george bush. or any of the hundreds of criminals you sent to jail.

you know whats funny, kurt, youd think id be sad, but im not sad.

good.

but i will miss all my friends.

they'll probably miss you too.

and i love the people of Earth.

theres people of Earth where you're going.

yeah, but i liked life.

you did? you were always bitching about it. you were never satisfied with any of the girls you got. you were never pleased with where you lived or what you did for a living, or what you looked like, or what you wrote, or who you were. dont bullshit me, bro.

hmmm. i did like chris.

too little, too late, cubfan.

and i liked living on del playa.

youre going to a better place.

i am?

maybe.

what!

hopefully.

fuck.

hey i got in and i broke some major rules.

thats right, you killed yourself.

major faux pas, let me tell you.

how did you get in after something like that?

G-o-G.

whats that?

Grace of God. thats how everyone gets in.

what if you were super good?

doesnt matter, without the GoG you dont get in.

so, like, mother theresa?

God isnt crazy about the Catholics. little known fact. especially the ones who know better. they disobeyed the very last line in the Bible, "dont add anything to this text or else you will get all the curses written herein on your ass."

thats not exactly what it says.

whatever.

damn, kurt, even in your afterlife you're controversial.

ready to hit the road, pallie?

wow. im really dead?

dead as grunge.

and i have to leave this apartment behind?

you can haunt it if you want, but scaring people becomes dull. it's pretty easy.

but its sorta messy, i'd hate to leave a mess.

trust me, dude, people are going to make a fortune eBaying your stuff. youve got some great shit here.

yeah somewhere in here i have a ticket stub from your last show in LA.

not anymore,

kurt cobain said and flashed me the stub and tucked it into the breast pocket of his raggedy flannel.

sk smith + spit on a stranger + science blog

# | |

while tony is on holiday, enjoy this selection from the busblog archives
Saturday, June 22, 2002

dawn is taking a poll on what fantasy she should write for the busblog, and more than a few women writers have asked me for an example as to what im looking for, but fortunately a decent submission was sent in this morning by ms. svensa swenson of eu claire, wisconsin:

pizza boy came home from a hard day of delivering pies.

his teen exgirlfriend was busy doing teen things,

his busty other exgirlfriend was drinking with her coworkers on the wesssssside,

his cuban lust affair was through with him, the nba cheerleaders were in maui recovering from the grueling season, so he figured he'd immediately change into his pajamas, turn off the phone, sip rum and watch hbo.

david spade's "joe dirt" was scheduled to be broadcast.

as the microwave bell tinged that his frozen burrito was warmed, he heard a familiar knock at the back door.

a curvey tanned girl in her early twenties waved at the backdoor cam.

big smiles.

he opened the door, she came in, he didnt hug her she didnt hug him but in minutes they were on the couch

going at it.

just like they should.

pizza boy might not have been blessed with good looks, rich uncles or funky dance moves.

but he had been born with an uncanny memory of city streets and addresses

and an equally creepy way around a young woman's body.

creepy good.

she didnt seem to mind that he was in his red flannel pajamas, that the ball game was on the tv, that porn was streaming on the computer, or that he didnt offer her any of the steaming hot chicken nuggets.

she didnt even notice the thirteen tiny sauce bowls on the coffee table with variety of dipping choices.

there was hot mustard, bleu cheese, ranch, salsa, hot sauce, bbq sauce, mc donalds sweet and sour, hunt's catsup, soy sauce, zancau garlic paste, honey, lemon pepper, hummus, and what nugget isnt tastier than with a dab of ecstacy.

which our writhing guest was obviously in the throws of.

ting.

hot fudge was ready.

now this was a girl who hated body hair in the same way pizza boys hated rodents.

she had beautifully long hair hair, perfectly plucked eyebrow hair and three curls that our hero was up to his eyebrows in.

thanks to the internet, pizza boy had every great song ever recorded ever

stored in his sixty gigabyte hardrive which was connected to his only real extravagance, a two hundred watt mcintosh thx dolby home theatre whose speaker wires crept through all the walls of the small apartment including the far south wall where a pair of descretely placed infinity speakers hung beside the futon mattress of his hollywood crash pad.

she backed away and started doing things to him that will never be shown on national television

and he wondered why

he looked outside, it was the first night of summer, and he thought about all the things that he'd seen on national tv like death, lies, wars, tragedies, and wondered if he would ever see a young man and a young woman seriously get it on to a point where clothes were ripped off and clothes were pushed aside, and sounds were made, unmistakeable sounds, and both people were beautiful and said beautiful things to each other

and then

banged

hard and fast.

pizza boy knew he was the luckiest man in the world. he'd just gone to an astrologer who said that there was a good luck convention going on in his house. the astrologer said go to vegas, play every game there, play the lottery, smile at every hot babe you see and watch them All smile back.

and again the microwave tinged.

the girl returned with a second dish of hot fudge.

being that pizza boy was handcuffed

and gagged, he had a pretty good idea about what was going to happen next.

but as always, he was wrong

for, hark, what's this?

is that a knock at his front door?

only the mail man knocks at that door and it was now nearly midnight.

the girl gave the steaming fudge another stir and hopped up and skipped to the door, a blur of white cotton panties, little tennis socks with the fuzzy ball above the heel,

ponytail.

she came back holding the hand of her miniskirted

highheeled best friend

who'd always wanted to meet the world greatest

pizza boy,

who couldnt take his eyes

off of her glittered

black leathered

choker.

until her twin sister slammed the door, stormed through the apartment

clomping over the hardwood

with her cowgirl boots,

crashed past the two x'ing girls,

and ripped off his whippedcream covered

strawberry stained leather gag.

# | |

the good thing about a blog is that you can say anything you want and i try so hard not to talk about my work on here because its a serious job and dangerous and important, and because i just dont think that its good form to talk about the people who are around you most of your day, not because theyre not important but because thats where you make your money, thats what pays the rent, thats what keeps the tivo activated and the dsl on.

and if there was a day that i wanted to write about my job and how great i worked and how little i was respected for it this would be the day.

but since nothing in here is true i could tell you how work really was today, and how i was a master at my job and how the girls flirted with me, and how i cheered up the sad and how i bitched slapped the bad, and how they have player of the day awards and today after a long long time of waiting, i got one and everyone cheered and i got to dig into the bucket of change and i got to buy lots of candy and chips and soda out of the machine and i got to pick what the good night music was going to be, and after i did everyone danced and the prettiest girl told me that she had voted for me five weeks straight.

and if you could really tell the truth in a blog and since im no different than anyone i could tell you that the xbi made a mistake with the maui tickets not a bad mistake just a little one. that for some reason the tickets didnt fly us out of lax, that we were being sent to maui from san diego. but it was ok. and i would have to rent a car, but it was fine. i didnt care. i rented the car, i hung out with karisa and watched tv quietly with her door open and her cats playing and then falling asleep, and then i went to my lawyers house and then i just drove around la listening to talk radio and wishing i wasnt so alone and woe is me.

which of course is ridiculous because my phone rings off the hook and its this one then its that one. my friend came over and told me that i should go through my phone machine one day if i thought i was so alone and he clicked the button and it was one great friend, then another, then a rock star, then a young girl begging me to pick up the phone and then a hottie and then two hotties, and then someone wanting to make a movie with me, and then someone wanting to make a tv show with me, and then someone from canada, and then my fired maid, and then ashley and then ashley and then ashley.

most people would be satisfied with that but im looking for more. im looking for this phone call from that person saying this thing. or this plea from this girl wanting this thing. its fucked up. worse is that people are saying those things just not the ones i want. worse is that i know better than all of this. that i do know how to bring it up a notch in every avenue of my existence. if this guy is saying why arent you being this i think to myself if i was that letter-of-the-law i would have turned you in years ago. but i let things slide.

i let things slide for a long time. i give people chances. i give them second chances. some people i give a ton of chances and one day their chances are up. even then i say do this and alls well and they wont do it. some of them wont do it for years, and when they do they do it so half heartedly you wonder why they even bothered.

i was insulted today and when i said so the woman didnt even seem phased, and certainly didnt apologize. and i hardly ever let those things bother me. but today i did Let it bother me and i tried to stop it but it was seeping over me like spilt oil across a marble floor. like baby piss across a dinner table. like cats in a rat factory.

anna kournikova has been calling. i dont answer. she asks me why im not happy for her. she reminds me that i told her i wanted her to find true love. but now we get into personal business and all i have to say america is i have plenty of reason not to return her phone calls although it was pretty cool getting a telegraph so i did have to send her a reply to that.

anyway sometimes when you stand alone you will be shot at. call it friendly fire call it a comeback call it my day to experience the fuct up, all i know is it wasnt fun even though my astrology begged me to enjoy it.

today i will and i should look back and enjoy the fact that i got to see karisa today after far too long and i got to talk to rene who wants to see a movie with me and i got to help out ashley even though she will look at it as me being mean.

and i got to drive a new car around a pretty sweet town.

my town.

which i'll miss while im away.

hollywood.

madpony shops victorias secret

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every time i see that picture of christina (below) all i keep singing in my head is that justin timberlake song.

i want to rock your bod-ay

please stay.

once again the devil has invaded the friendly confines of my gray matter and i am victimized in his name.

clippergirl's cousin is emailing me asking that i use her real name but nothing in this thing is true, plus if i used her real name then all youd have to do is a quickie little google search and voila find her sisters name in the clipper press guide. so no thanks little girl.

everyone is talking about getting tanned on the white sand but i just read something in The Week that talks about skin cancer and now im all paranoid.

they said that we should be careful about laying underneath a sun which is just a huge orgy of nuclear gangbangs going on releasing crazy gas and radiation and our sun tans because its sorta freaking out.

they said that the whole sun tan thing came when Somebody Chanel stepped off an airplane in like 1930 or some shit and she looked amazing. as if black people havent been naturally looking amazing since the dawn of man. as if latin people havent looked amazing since the day after the dawn. as if every single pale swedish intern who sends me an 8x10 glossy with a resume doesnt look amazing.

f tans.

f skin cancer.

thank God for bronzers and g strings. i love a lot of you people and i want you to hang around a little longer.

in other news yesterday my man vaine brought over the Zeppelin dvd and blew me away.

there was no band like Zep before or since.

im am born again now to that band.

i will buy a dvd player just because of those discs.

watch me.

azarok + malate mail + friendster

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as you can clearly tell i have been off my game for quite some time now. thats not to say that ive had any game to begin with, but the luck has definitely run out and ive exhausted all the resources to plagiarize from.

coincidentally clipper girl found out that her timeshare in maui had a few extra days on it and invited me out there if i could get a cheap plane ticket.

thanks to the good people at the xbi travel agency i was able to purloin a first class roundtrip dealie that gets my ass out of here late-lunch-ish returning early sunday morning in time for church.

clipper girls cousin will be accompanying me.

shes a gemini and you know how i feel around gemini girls.

i heart them.

a long time ago there was an fbi training session that i was exposed to that was super psychological and emotional and spirtual and newagey and all that wrapped up in one disguised as tank battle game in the middle of death valley.

we learned how to drive and shoot tanks and we even learned a little about ourselves along the way.

one of our instructors was a buddhist monk. zen buddhism. i learned a lot about zen poetry from that man and i appreciate it.

he said that americans, especially american superheros often relied on their reactive skills more than their meditative skills. he suggested that we didnt prepare our minds as well as we had prepared our bodies before we went on our assignments.

so before we climbed into our tanks he had us sit in front of the tank, cross-legged, and think to ourselves what our purpose of entering the tank was going to be.

he asked us to meditate on what experience we wanted to take away from the exercise and what we were willing to give to the process.

lots of us thought it was a load of shit but he could read our minds and bitchslapped us and reprimanded us.

the purpose of entering a tank isnt to blow up every evil motherfucker alive, he told us. each mission has a totally unique desired result and very few assignments in life require the death of our adversaries.

the xbi isnt so crazy about the training i got in that desert but it has stuck with me and when i board the hawaiian airliner and take my first sip of rum n coke i will close my eyes for a few minutes and clear out any distracting thoughts and i will meditate on what i want to accomplish in maui, other than clippergirl's cousin.

one thing is i want to come back strong to the blog.

the other thing is i want to figure out what i want to be doing professionally. as in soon. as in by this summer or right near the end of it. cuz this xbi stuff, as nice as it is that theyre sending me away ha ha is hurting my soul and it affects my blogging.

and we cant have any of that.

malaho.

totally awesome + greg vaine, baby photographer + moxie

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the kids of the world are always asking my advice on things. and before you ask, no, thats not punk rock.

not only that but it would make me not want to go to that alleged pizzeria.

im sorry but i do not want my punkers being human billboards for middle of the road consumerism.

do you?

i live in one of the hotbeds of counterculturalism and the punk rockers are pretty scarce, i dont want them dressed up as subway sandwiches, i dont want them selling batteries out of baby carriages, i dont want to see them passing out free samples of breath mints.

i want them where theyre supposed to be: sitting on their asses, with their hands out, in cute little groups, dressing better than i ever will in a million years.

has this planet completely lost its mind?

once again, i must blame the president.

if the economy was better these kids would be getting handouts from the young and olde alike, obviously noone has any codder for me brotha and now look what you have.

why doesnt nike just have him wear a tshirt that says nike on it?

why doesnt someone give him ten bucks to mow their lawn?

why doesnt abecrombie and fuck just get him a cute little office and a window and a laptop and make him vice president of suck my nuts - it's all equally wrong and ridiculous.

and good pizzerias dont need to advertise - with signs!

no i dont want to buy a slice from some well meaning bleeding heart who is taking the rock right out of punk by bribing the kids with what they so love: attention and greasey cheese.

im not someone who you'd consider a hisser.

sometimes i'll be at the pictures and a preview of a bad movie will come on and when its over some in the crowd will hiss.

it usually catches me by suprise, but when it happens i can often see their point.

if i passed by a punker with a placard i would not only hiss but id spraypaint sellout on his pants. look how clean that fuckers pants are.

obviously this man dresses this way to attract girls and congratulations, melvin, youve got your girl. but youve sold out on an ideal that goes back to the 20th century. maybe even further.

punk rock is about eating pizza from a dumpster or stealing it from a yuppie, certainly not earning it you tweaking tard.

its all that radiohead youre listening to. makes you soft.

if youre going to sell out, do it in a big way. not for a slice of za, a big cup of mountain dew and a few bucks.

extra cheese on that mothafucka and shit.

you can only sell your soul a few times, punk rockers.

make it count

and quit being so boring.

instapundit + bukkake + 44 days until her 17th birthday + mr. doc searls of santa barbara

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in order to mourn this day which basart reminds us is the anniversary of the day that Tribune Corp. bought the Cubs from the Wrigley family for a paltry $20.5 million back in 1981 (back when $20.5 million was a lot of money), this will be my last post of the day.

but not before we get this in:

fuck you, Tribune Corp.

from your whiny announcers, to weak infielders, to your general ignorance of all things baseball i raise my middle fingers to your ivory towers and i wish monkeypox onto your most private of areas.

you took a national landmark, a local treasure, a sports jewel and you have wiped your dirty ass with it.

yes the cubs are good right now due to some timely hitting and a handful of young pitchers - pitchers that cost you a million or two, tops.

yes you got us the best manager in baseball after the frisco giants showed him to the door. leftovers. good leftovers, but leftovers none the less. still, thank you. you coulda fucked that up. but you didn't. a gift landed in your lap and you didn't squash it. nice work.

but you have done very little else for the cubs in the 23 years that you have slumlorded over my favorite team and for that i curse you and the things you hold dear.

i would say more rude things but my mommys on vacation this week and i understand that she might be reading this post especially since she too loves the cubs and wrigley field.

die you motherfuckers, die.

if you want a baseball team to have as a playtoy, go buy the sox. give the Cubs back to the people. the people deserve better.

how can you let a big fat windbag like George Steinbrenner just cherry pick the planet for the latest stars while you sit around counting your gazillions as the Cubs flounder and the little northside kids weep?

why would you want to do that?

alex gonzales and his clutch home runs helped the Cubs start off the season with some great late-inning wins. but in the last month he is barely hitting .214.

want to do something for the city of chicago? trade him for Miguel Tejada. right now. those dumbass A's will go for it, and guess what, the Yankees have an all-star shortstop And an all-star second baseman, so this will get you half way there. dumbasses.

god i hate you.

while youre at it trade Mark Bellhorn, Kyle Farnsworth, and Juan Cruz for Frank Catalanotto and Kelvim Escobar. the blue jays don't know what on earth they're doing and they'll be shocked that the cubs are giving up two fresh arms for one.

but this is our chance. this is our season. its now or never. especially the way you seem intent on burning out the arms of mark prior and kerry wood.

do this and i wont hate you.

as much.

perfect gallows + mad pony + crispy duck

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im sure you will be suprised to learn that im totally against arresting female streakers.

i say let em streak. what could happen? the could get leered at? isnt that what they want?

now male streakers, i say we arrest them. it's not right.

maybe there should be some on-the-spot public declaration of male streakers. perhaps once the authorities apprehend the man, the cop can put his hand over the man's head and the audience can either boo or cheer. get enough cheers and the man will be let free to run around until he's punched by a drunkard.

im not a fan of streakers who are advertising web sites. especially super hot women who plaster the busblog's address all over their bodies.

57. dawn

being naked and free is one thing, but being a human billboard is another.

save that for nascar racers and bicyclists.

if you want to advertise on yourself and get peoples attention, just wear wet tshirts or see through clothes. duh.

have i told you that im addicted to Friendster?

i didnt know what it was at first, but this weekend i totally got into it and now im hooked.

i have over 69,500 people in my network.

when i pare it down to just hot chicks that live in la who are between 25-35 who want to date men i get 366 young ladies who may or may not know the 13 "friends" that i really do have.

69k people in my network after only a few days of clicking.

very strange. but very cool.

keep your eyes open, i have a feeling that Friendster will take off and do something very interesting. especially since theyre just in their beta.

eric olsen writing about metallica for msnbc + doktor frank + rabbit + new front page

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one of my dreams one day is to have a summer tour. im not sure exactly what sort of summer tour. maybe a book reading one. maybe because i hate book readings and part of life is doing things you hate so that you end up liking them. i think thats what youre supposed to do.

in that case it would be poetry reading tour. maybe with some open mic action.

is there anything worse than open mic poetry?

dueling mimes?

multilevel marketing salespitches delivered by mimes followed by a poetry open mic book reading?

one day i'll have kids and i wont be able to go on summer tours. maybe i would. maybe i could take the damn kids, but something tells me i wouldnt be able to do that. i guess i would want a wife that would be all for it and would help motivate my ass to stick everyone into the motorhome and follow bob dylan as he went from state fair to state fair.

turns out the hottest chick at work has a boyfriend and when i delivered this news to the fellas on friday they went into their tiny room and just today was i notified that there was white smoke coming from their hideout and a new hottest chick was named.

here are Dylan's summer tour dates:

July 12: Winter Park, Colo. (Winter Park Resort)
July 13: Casper, Wyo. (Casper Events Center)
July 15: Jackson, Wyo. (Snow King Resort)
July 16: Big Sky, Mon. (Big Sky Resort)
July 17: West Valley City, Utah. (USANA Amphitheater)
July 19: Stateline, Nev. (Harvey's Lake Tahoe Outdoor Amphitheater)
July 21: Sun Valley, Idaho (Sun Valley Amphitheater)
July 22: Nampa, Idaho (Idaho Center Amphitheater)
July 23: Bend, Ore. (Les Schwab Amphitheater)
July 25: Kelseyville, Calif. (Konocti Harbor Resort & Spa)
July 26: Paso Robles, Calif. (California Mid-State Fair)
July 27: Costa Mesa, Calif. (Pacific Amphitheater)
July 29: Sunrise, Fla. (Office Depot Center)
July 30: Tampa, Fla. (St. Pete Times Forum)
July 31: Atlanta (HiFi Buys Amphitheater)
Aug. 2: Joliet, Ill. (Route 66 Raceway)
Aug. 3: Somerset, Wis. (Float Rite Park Amphitheater)
Aug. 5: Noblesville, Ind. (Verizon Wireless Music Center)
Aug. 6: Columbus, Ohio (Germain Amphitheater)
Aug. 8: Darien Center, N.Y. (Darien Lake Six Flags Performing Arts Center)
Aug. 10: Calverton, N.Y. (Calverton Enterprise Park)
Aug. 21: Gilford, N.H. (Meadowbrook Farm Musical Arts Center)
Aug. 22: Syracuse, N.Y. (New York State Fair)

bing + my shit dont stink + truth laid bear + twixt

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yesterday while the president was fishing i had to work. i have to work today too but i will get three comp days this week in return. which is good because last night i worked my ass off. almost literally.

had to go to the lbc last night. signal hill, technically.

they sent me because the two other times we went there the agents got terrible food poisoning.

when i first started at the original agency they made me drink a new pepto bismol every day to make my stomach lining stronger. it actually made it weaker. i could barely eat anything. most of college i was 125 lbs and ate a lot of apple sauce and soup. so they transferred me to uc isla vista where possibly i would find something to give me the munchies.

this time they were right.

it was there that i discovered my incredible tolerance to drugs and alcohol, which was when the xbi became interested in me.

when they found out i felt no pain was when they offered up the flying car.

last night i expected to be poisoned in one way or another.

its nothing you can prepare for because you dont want to have an empty stomach and you want them to know that you are being affected by the drug. a wince will do. but then youve got to get it together.

my partner wore a diaper.

they say that you should wear clean underwear because when you die, apparently people judge you depending on the cleanliness of your underwear.

i couldnt care less about that, but i do know that i dont want to die wearing a diaper.

ah vanity, you evil temptress.

after we ate the undercooked chicken stuffed with magic mushrooms the suspects brought out a dusty old bottle of absinthe.

lucky we've been practicing.

the absinthe worked as a liquid plummer in the system. it cut a nice path for all the terrible foods to bypass being broken down and ended up right in the spleen where it reacted in a violent way. i didnt want to go to the bathroom because i didnt want them to think i was barfing it up. if you barf they give you stronger, quicker stuff. like bullets.

my partner asked me to pull his finger and winked.

i squirmed a little and felt the drugs rushing through my blood stream like fat kids on a water park slide.

mind over matter

get into a discussion about the bible. talk about talking. have a poetry reading contest. see if they have xbox. ask for a beer. go outside.

right. go outside.

go. outside.

if you go outside they'll think youre barfing, my partner esped me. and he was right.

he was wearing a full diaper, but he was right. he lit up a camel light and winked at me again. gayboy.

they had an outdoor lit basketball court and i invited them to a game of two on two.

they smiled and accepted the challenge and my partner coughed and gave me a dirty look but hes new what does he know.

i was all, you fellas have some shorts we can borrow, im all about a real game.

they were all, oh sure, we want a real game too.

the dude pointed upstairs and the chick stopped dancing and walked up the spiraling stair case and returned with two pairs of shorts and a selection of throwback nba jerseys. i took the old school dr j kentucky colonels jersey and congratulated them on their fine taste.

i excused myself to the restroom, used the facilities, didnt flush, and changed into my uniform.

they soon saw that i hadnt barfed up their poison and i apologized and flushed.

my partner looked perfect in his seventy sixer barkley jersey, with that fat ass of his.

i messed around and got a triple double.

then we got our information and flew home.

massimo + jason + get your oj

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