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

nothing in here is true

 


   Saturday, August 09, 2003  
i want to do a photo essay about the goobertonial coup going on here in cali.

it's sorta fucked up especially since the republicans have the white house and the congress and the supreme court and they've pretty much driven the country into the ground.

when it became obvious that california was in trouble gray davis asked the republican federal government for help and didn't get any. then he made some bad deals with texas republican energy companies - one of whom was affiliated with vice president Cheney.

as a result of those bad decisions we now find ourselves caught up in a "recall" election on his ass.

its not like he lied about weapons of mass destruction.

its not like he lied about nukes in africa in his state of the union.

its not like he gave kick backs i mean tax breaks to the rich and bribes i mean refunds to the populace as the economy hits record lows.

id like to say that i cant believe what's going on in american politics today but i can believe it because ive seen hungry dogs eat before and it looks like the modern day grand old party.

they barked and yelped and howled at bill and hillary while trying to trap em in a tree but all they could do was piss on it and make the birds scatter and tear up the lawn.

they were not voted best in show but they ran home with the blue ribbon anyway while everyone just looked at each other and are still looking at each other like wtf and the only response is fuck if i know.

the lesson the right are giving the kids is the same one that charles barkley used to give which is i am not a role model and keep your big fat rich bald head down and your elbow out as you drive down the lane.

this is your world

this is your game

put your mouthpiece in, furrow your brow

no blood

no foul.

in a more logical world the end of the bush dynasty would mean the end of the republican party: nothing this man or this office has done was successful. none if it was honorable. the economy stupid is in the tank. morality is in the tank. you cant tell me that even one of those suits or skirts can communicate their vision.

not even fat boy rush has anything to say.

which means theres probably nothing to say.

its all just capture the flag for this generation.

i want i want i want.

not

heres what we can do.

or look at that.

or here you go.

the pendulum has swung so far that a muscleman

whose father was a nazi

whos been in america for decades and still cant speak english

is going to steal the keys to the governors office in the most important state in the union.

and people are going to cheer because they like the movies he's made.

the ones where he kills all those people with gigantic guns.

i want to do a photo essay about all this but i would rather prepare to go to the dodger game with some friends.

cuz photo essays don't make a difference.

or make people think.

friendships do.

this means whore + elizabeth spiers + cranky girl

   Friday, August 08, 2003  
super hot chick came over last night. dont ask why.

she knew i was busy writing my thing, but life is like that.

this is a girl who makes sure that every hair is in place at all times.

i was banging away at the typer, getting up, pacing, eating, drinking, smoking, trying to be a good host, and she was saying that i was making her nervous.

she didnt say it to me directly she said it to her reflection in the mirror as she redrew her lip line outline.

brazilian girl. tall. dark. handsome.

lots of things going on above the neck: jangly earrings, highlights, teasing, arched eybrows, fake mole, crazy blueblack mascara, insane green eyes, lip gloss, blush, sparkles, tounge pierce, perfume... exactly everything that i dont need when im trying to concentrate on baseball and writing.

once she was satisfied with her look she plopped down on the couch and flipped through tivo. then she browsed through my magazines. then back at the tivo. then she bounced up and looked at her see-through genie pants in the full length mirror.

she picked at the imaginary lint. she took a wrinkle out with a wipe. she twisted her torso to check out her ass.

its looking good from here i tell her.

she doesnt listen.

i wonder who all this primping is for if not for moi.

but its for moi.

moi is plenty happy, but would be more happy if she just sat down and chilled.

so i offered her a cigarette, which she accepted which ended up being a big mistake because then she realized that her nails were in need of a filing, and then a dab of polish, and then a star, and then one more file, topped off with a blow from her dazzling lips.

done yet tony?

it was midnight. she had a point. i was done. i shoulda been done. i was done. was i done?

just a few minutes i tell her and read it to myself seeing if i laugh at the jokes and before i could finish i see that she has taken off the genie pants and she is standing there in the door jamb bottomless except for a gstring and heels which shes tapping on my hardwood floor.

shes smoking the end of the cigarette and blowing the smoke into the air.

the smoke does what i should have been doing which was surrounding her and floating down the length of her shape and taking its time.

the glow around her looked like top gun.

she turned around to give me a different look, and thats where i saw two things that have always confused me about todays modern woman.

the g string panty is one of the finest creations introduced to this planet. my compliments to the man who not only invented it, but the sheister who convinced the ladies that it was not only comfortable, but in many cases vital.

but the one thing that baffles me is that so many women, even last night's loveable lass, allow the tag to ruin the view in the back.

theres a triangle of wonder that barely covers the tailbone in most sitations, and maybe 3 square inches of thong material. now i can understand a tag being there at the store so the woman can know what size it is and what the material is made of, but why isnt that tag removed after purchase?

you cant tell me that women dont know how to take the scissors to their clothes as i have yet to see a tshirt on a young lady that has had its arms cut off or neck trimmed before the ink on the receipt has time to dry.

so why not the label on the g string? is it sacred? is it protected by law like those on pillows?

and whats up with bra labels sticking out?

heres a girl who's every eyebrow hair is in place, every everyhair was either trimmed or removed, and yet miss hottie hot hot hot spins around on my dirty floor and the thing that catches my eye isnt what should be catching my eye, but two unpretty labels hanging on to the taut skin of my unknowing visitor.

perhaps the ladies of the world can educate me on this phenomenon. or maybe not.

i did my best to ignore it since there were other things to pay attention to,

and since soon i was the only stray pressed against her ultra soft skin.

wormhog + now is a good time to catch up with splink + shenaniganz
 
caption this, please



 
well i guess it was going to happen one of these days. put a hundred monkeys in a room with typewriters...

today your hero made it to the big time. this morning i got "published" on a real web site.

and i didnt say the f word once.

my mom will be so proud.

i may be a lot of things but i have never been very confident about my writing.

ive won awards, ive gotten paid, ive even gotten the attention of the ladies from it.

when i was curious about poetry i submitted poems to about thirty places and got pubished three times, just like that.

lots of you people say nice things every day about what i write in this blog, some send money, some send pictures, some just come right over and get naked.

but yet, still, when i was given the opportunity to pinch hit for the super cool edward cossette to write one measly column about the easiest topic i could think of - baseball - all of my doubts bombarded me like a bukakke of fear.

even though i write in a public manner every day, three times a day, always to very good response, i have a huge complex. i dont think i have what it takes to do it professionally. im constantly afraid that what i would have to do is "sell out" and take the "edge" off my style and give the people a softball approach and just lob it in there.

something that my fingers just wont allow.

and i know its all crazy.

for two years i wrote for the greatest college paper in the history of great college papers.

i was surrounded by some of the finest writers of our time, and not only did i match up with them, but they assigned me more stories than anyone.

my senior year (dont ask which senior year or i'll blush) i averaged almost two articles an issue. i had been the sports editor, a news editor, and i won best arts editor in the state. and hardly ever did i use the f word or the s word or even the c word. this is to say that not only had i been trained to write in a public, professional manner, but if you look at the stats, i did so and i succeeded.

and yet still when i graduated i went to sears to sell tv's and i didnt even consider once that i would ever write for anyone the size of Fox Sports, even as a substitute, like what i did last night, and see what i saw this morning, which was my words, barely edited, accepted, printed, and dispersed.

shock and awe are at the top of my words-of-the-day.

and the weirdest thing is it was so easy.

sure i procrastinated like it was my taxes i was doing, but when it came down to it, i wrote it in a manner of minutes, while on the bus, being jostled down wilshire on a tuesday afternoon. i didnt finish it until the wee hours of last night, but most of it was done, as it should have been, in one sitting, with a clear mind, in the morning, as the homeless snored next to me.

now im not saying it was brilliant, or a masterpeice or anything, but i did tell the good people of Boston what they probably would like to know most this morning, and thats how their beloved Red Sox can rid themselves of the 85-year-old Curse of the Bambino - the stumbling block that has kept their baseball team from winning a world series since when men wore top hats and women weren't allowed to vote.

and hopefully it came across as somewhat educated, and slightly funny, and sort of interesting.

but who cares, really, it got accepted, and its up, and my mom can be happy, and i can say to my demons that they're once again wrong wrong wrong.

i would like to thank my buddy welch who was up and awake and drunk at 1:30am who proofread it and trimmed a little of the fat. not only is he a professional writer and a great editor, but he's a huge baseball fan, and therefore perfect for the job.

commas he said he added and subtracted.

thank you.

but mostly i would like to thank my buddy edward out in beantown who maintained the ever-classy and insightful Bambino's Curse which i was immediately impressed by when i was doing Baseball Blog 2002 for a quick minute last year.

his design was stellar and his daily updates were perfect and we linked each other and went on with our blog-lives and i didnt hear from him again until this year when he said that he was going on vacation and would like for me to write in his place on this good friday.

thanks ed, i hope maui is treating you right.

me, i'll be in paradise all day.

fox sports new england

   Thursday, August 07, 2003  
you guys know im a dumbass, right?

thats what sort of ass i am.

i cant believe i wrote the previous post on the eve of possibly getting a column on a huge website.

what if they misunderstand it?

i want to just say "whatever" but isnt that what mr. beard guy said when his wife told him, "if you take sergie to the zoo, please dont let him too close to the bears, they have claws you know."

i just want to move back to isla vista. my home.

i want to marry a pretty girl and get a phd in something fun and then teach.

i want to wear a tweed jacket with patches on the elbows and smoke a pipe in the park and skateboard to my home and play with my kids and be an advisor to the Daily Nexus.

right now i'd call up the editor in cheif and id say, hows my paper.

im not sick anymore.

there was a miracle today as work wound down to quitting time.

suddenly the gross feeling in my gnose and throat dissappeared.

then one thing lead to another.

then all these nice things happened.

then i banged out the column i had been procrastinating.

then i ate my little dinner.

then i chatted with a bunch of people, one who i hadnt chatted with in a year.

then i ate a bowl of cookie dough ice cream.

then i watched howard stern.

then i thought of you.

then i sent my column across the country to be edited.

then i said goodbye to my nice chat friend.

then i said my prayers.

then i said amen.

matt + raymi + moxie
 
theres three kinds of ass out there. and the third doesnt exist.

theres the easy ass. the kind thats always there for you. the kind that poses and whispers and locks onto you and doesnt let you leave the house without a million kisses and wishes.

easy ass gets boring to most, but the wise man learns to appreciate it and not get bored. boring people get bored - especially of easy ass.

billy joel had some easy ass for awhile and divorced it.

kobe cheated on his easy ass.

hef dances with his.

then theres the perfect ass. this is the type that doesnt exist. perfect ass wants you when you want it. perfect ass comes right before you do. sometimes right when you do. perfect ass doesnt bother you when youre crawling under the beach house while youre laying wire on your day off cuz your sick, perfect ass doesnt put you fourth on its list of things to do, perfect ass will make you cry but only out of joy.

there is no such thing as perfect ass.

if you think youve found it, you should marry it, or bottle it, or shake your head because your probably dreaming.

the closest thing youve probably gotten to perfect ass is your hand.

thats not a bad thing.

then theres normal ass.

normal ass is a pain in the ass, but c'est la vie.

you have to work to get normal ass, you have to work with normal ass's schedule, you have to marinate it, romance it, wine it and dine it.

you have to tell it that it looks good even when it doesnt look so good.

normal ass looks at you like youre normal ass and gets fed up with you just as much as you get fed up with it.

normal ass is forgetful, lies, cheats, fucks up, isnt perfect, isnt always sweet, doesnt always want it, will talk shit about you to the world, will probably make money writing about your ass one day.

normal ass is as plentiful as the leaves of grass and when people say they cant get any ass theyre overlooking the normal ass.

normal ass doesnt like being identified or boxed in or bagged and tagged.

normal ass wants to think that its special, but its not.

normal ass is as normal as pimple on the ass of a good looking girl.

me, i like easy ass, and i must admit that i get fooled into the idealistic dream that theres some perfect ass out there for me that will love me when it finds out my phone number, and yet im willing to settle for normal ass.

i dont think im much different in that example than most men.

if youre a man under the age of 100, any ass will do, but once you get older than that dont be suprised if you get impatient when perfect ass stops being perfect or when easy ass becomes dull.

even at 109 years old i have never been bored by easy ass, however ive grown tired of jump-through-the-ring-of-fire normal ass.

and because i have experienced perfect ass a few times i can tell you it does exist

but it was probably a dream.

sponsor Blogger Pro for the busblog for a year

   Wednesday, August 06, 2003  
hi tony

hi blog, what's going on?

um... nothing.

hey, sorry i haven't talked to you lately.

yeah its been a while, huh?

don't think i don't love you. of course i do. im just trying out new things.

oh i know. no hard feelings.

are you sure everythings ok, bloggy?

you know, just because everyone else talks to their blogs now doesn't mean that you have to stop talking to me.

i know that.

i mean i realize you want to stay a step ahead of everyone, but i think sometimes you forget you're about five steps ahead of everyone.

i wouldn't go that far.

you should.

at this point, blog, i don't know if you're being generous or conceited.

how can i be conceited with those links over there?

i know dude, im sorry, its a mess over there.

do you even care about me any more?

of course i do. im just so swamped at work... superheroing and stuff.

do you even know what day it is?

its wednesday.

you took off today and you had all day to do something and you didn't even do anything, so don't tell me its a time issue.

what are you talking about?

it's my birthday tony.

holy crap.

i knew it, you forgot.

oh man.

what is up with you dude?

man.

whatever, i'll get over it.

im so sorry, blog.

no you're not. you so take me for granted. you know how many people would love to be able to have the busblog? tons. and you just put in the minimum amount of effort and collect the praise. it took you forever to fix the comments, it will take you forever to fix the links. you don't interview people any more, you only talk about yourself. your writing hasn't been good since you were banging that teen---

easy there.

no, fuck you. how many people seriously get laid off their blogs? very few. but you do. and you don't give back. you don't make this better. you don't hype it out in the world, you don't smooze the blogosphere, you don't learn one thing about design, you don't even talk about how good Blogger Pro has been for you. how many posts have you "lost" since moving over to Pro?

none.

one. and it wasn't Pro's fault, it was yours. and it sucked. i ate it. I did that for you. but you don't even use Pro the way you should, you barely spell check, you barely do shit. you let the pictures expire, you don't do even half of the things that high school kids are doing and you walk around like you're mr bloggy guy. you aint shit and you don't even know or respect when this shit started. everything you do is half assed and what's so disappointing is you at 5 is better than most of the crust at 10. you were getting your fingers stinky and cranking out four posts a day with carpal tunnel at your peak and now your coasting like you have something better to do. you don't have anything better to fucking do.

my chair is really bad....

shut up. and you curse way too much on this shit. how are people supposed to take you seriously. why do you do that to me? its a reflection on ME you know, not you. on ME. and then you steal all these damn pictures, and you steal from ee and bukowski and you don't even care.

and if i had a damn penny for each time you use "and" you wouldn't have to beg people for ten bucks for a car, you'd have your damn stinky ass car.


look, im really sorry. ive had a bad day. im sorry, i will try to make it up to you

try? try! fuck you and your trying. gimme your try so i can shove it up your ass. try. try to be taller motherfucker. its my birthday and if you want to give me something, give me your damn attention and give me some respect. im older than most of the shit that's out there and im better than almost all of it. and if you stopped typing typing typing hitting post&publish and actually took your time and read - gasp - your shit sometimes you'd see all your damn typos and you'd make something good out of this more than once in a blue moon.

have a little class. show a little effort.

quit playing to the level of your competition, which, sadly, there is very little of.


anything else?

yes, and if you aren't going to write about politics, lazy ass, then write about sports. or at least write about music, and none of these one two sentence bullshit reviews where you compare it to a burrito or some nonsense. write like how all the others write and beat them at their own tired game.

im not sure i can do that.

and quit being a fucking sensitive wuss. the lord gave you a mighty sword. use it or lose it. now wish me a happy birthday and finish that thing you're writing.

happy birthday blog.

thank you tony.

i love you.

i love you too. that's the only reason i just don't delete myself.

good.

and tomorrow get an auction going. the winner gets to sponsor Blogger Pro on the busblog.

k.

kevin holtsberry
 
caption this, please

 
today is an odd day here on the busblog. i called in sick.

i haven't called in sick in over a year. maybe a year and a half.

in many ways im a great employee. i respect my bosses, i am perpetually in a good mood, i don't mind working overtime (for a price), im disgustingly loyal, im on time, i don't take a parking space, i hardly ever expense anything, i bring in all my magazines for people to read, i get along with even the evil people, and i like baking treats for the passers-by.

and i never lie.

ive noticed in my 75 years in the work place that lying is a basic form of office communication. its like a language. people have ways to lie and make it not sound like a lie.

but the best is when they say things that don't mean a fucking thing.

i actually do like when people can do that, cuz i suck at it.

so yeah, im sick. i do feel gross. if i have something i don't want to give it to my coworkers because their jobs are vital. if i don't really have something bad, i will be back in chopper one tomorrow.

and if the boss asks me how i feel i will say, i was shitting fire all day yesterday.

which is true.

you know you're sick when your farts smell like old man farts.

you don't have to be a doctor to know that your ass doesn't lie, america. remember that.

when i was in grade school i had a teacher who taught us that laughter is the best medicine. he told us about a guy who had cancer and he got all these three stooges movies and played them over and over in his hospital room, and he laughed and laughed and he beat cancer.

so this morning i took a shower, drank a bunch of oj, called in, and pay-per-viewed Old School, which, yes, i had never seen before, and of course loved.

then i sex chatted this hot girl who i hope will wear a nurse's outfit when she gets off work tonight to check in on me.

and then i turned opened my blogger pro window,

and then i said hi to all of you, the wonderfully anonymous readers of the busblog.

who i adore immensely.

and if my boss is reading this, i know that its 80 degrees here in hollywood with clear blue skies,

and the beach is a bus ride away

and if you have any friends who see me there

it was purely therapeutic
 
i just got off the phone with my first girlfriend ever. who i still love.

a lot.

ive known mary since i was either 14 or 15, i always forget.

she tells me about her life, and theyre not always the happiest stories, but she tells me and all i can hear is

i am still the hottest girl youve ever known

and the smartest

and the sexiest

even though youve met them all.


she tells me about the losers she ends up with and the crazy job that she has and all i hear is

take me away from here, romeo

sweep me off my feet.

please

come

here.


her life couldnt be more different than mine.

her attitude couldnt be any better than mine.

she couldnt be cooler under pressure.

and she said the nicest thing about me.

and now i miss her so much.

in the matter of an hour we got deep into the bible, super deep into slander and HR, waaaaaaaaay deep into sex marriage kids life, we even delved into boxing.

i love that girl.

and if youre reading this, as soon as you divorce that son of a bitch im taking you on the hottest date youve been on since highschool.

so get a sitter.

love alwas,

tony

21mm + happy belated birthday xeni!

   Tuesday, August 05, 2003  
i just want to be good. i want to write good. i want to fight good. i want to fuck good. i want to rock good.

when im with people i want them to have a good time. when im with a girl i want her to think of noone else. when im skateboarding down sunset i want the budhists to say shit weve gone down the wrong path all along.

im not feeling well.

in my review i told them that i hadnt been sick all year. now im feeling a little dizzy. i think i had bad roast beef yesterday and i thought i was having a heart attack. then i ate all these tums. then my buddy came over and wanted to do a quick shot with me.

one shot leads to another.

then i tried to write what i have to write for the big time web site. wasnt able to. passed out on the couch. ashley called me and woke me up. went back to sleep. woke up. went back to sleep.

i just want to do good and be good and feel good and write good.

i want the pearly gates to open when i arrive and for them to say that motherfucker was good.

i want the dogs to bark and the fat ladies to sing.

i want i want i want. camus said that wanting is the root of all pain but you know what i say to camus.

i say fuck camus, thats right.

fuck you camus.

i want to make tshirts. i want to make hats. i want to make mousepads that people can give to their dads.

whats this boy?

its a fuck you camus mousepad, pops.

i want this hot girl to come over but im sick. im not sick. im pre-sick. my buddy gave me some echinacia, i ate clam chowder for lunch, now im gonna pound water.

every time my throat hurts i always think that its from my after-work pipe.

when i was a kid i always thought that when i was an adult i would love to have a pipe hanging around cuz they looked and smelled so damn good.

little did i know how easilly dreams can come true.

i want you.

im going to say it again until i instill it.

right now i could use a shot of rum. we chased this mother down thai town in the heat and i cant catch my breath.

some of the fellas shot at him but missed and i shot and hit him in the foot.

nice shot, footy, they say. they think its lame that i always hit people either in the eye or in the foot and i say what good is marksmanship if you dont apply it and they say thats bullshit that if you hit them in the foot they can still shoot back and i tell em let em shoot back its not like any things ever going to hit us. ever.

and they look at me like im crazy and i tell them nothings ever going to get us.

nothing.

nothing.

and you know what they say?

they say,

good.

ev + missie + bing + kzug
 
i have that used song going in my head and this gray haired woman with her name on her sweater and the number 19555 stitched on it is telling people that there's room to move back into the bus and she's sitting in a seat and im thinking, ho, if you think there's room back there then you go stand there.

there's no room on the bus. she may have the mta sweater and dress shirt collar sticking out from under it but im the fucking busblog copy editor and what little room there is is there to keep us from rubbing our asses on each other as we bounce down wilshire and you might think that's a good thing to be doing at seven thirty in the morning but look around, its not such a good thing to be doing at seven thirty in the morning.

i turn my back to her so that my ass is in her face.

gray haired sweater woman.

aol chatted with miss montreal last night.

me: why dont you like me any more.
her: i still like you, maybe more than ever.
me: why didn't you kiss me last week then?
her: im still trying to figure that one out myself.
me: maybe you should go back to just sorta liking me then.

women.

none of them know how easily pleased i am. none of them know what i have to offer them.

if they want to go out with their friends and leave me behind, fine. if they want to sit and watch tv with me and hold hands, fine. if they want to parade around in finery and push the boundaries of slutty, fine.

i dont even care if they run around and date others.

and then if they want to come back to my place every night and hold me tight as we count sheep together with a window open and the white stripes on mellowly as summer comes and goes, you know what, that's fine too.

life can be so easy if you want it to be.

the ladies think im not old and they're so wrong, i am so old.

if all goes well im about to do something that's going to take a lot of energy and a lot of effort and a lot of being 100% 100% of the time and all i want to do this month is watch tv and get molested and sample the wide varieties of rum that get sent to my po box.

i dont want to fight with any hotties. i dont want to worry about deadlines and commitments.

karisa did the coolest thing this weekend, she avoided any responsibilities that she might have out there, she threw her cell phone into the la brea tar pits, filled up her mustang with super and drove and didn't come back till the very last minute.

one day i'll get to do something like that, i hope.

and if its when im olde and gray and driving a motorhome then fine.

if its before that when im young and still have something to say, then fine.

if i can drive around and meet all of you and take pictures and take my time and spread good will then fine.

if i have to start a caravan of old men in motorhomes and have a cannonball run of senior citizens, then ok.

there are so many possibilities in this deck of cards its mindboggling. it makes me lose patience in people who get paid to say no all day. it makes me lose hope in those who dont think big all day. it makes me want to shine the light on the egyptians who kicked more ass in their day with nothing but slaves and clay than allen greenspan ever did with the federal reserve and that old man still isn't behind a winnebago and you know why? because he'd drive it right off the road before making it to the end of the block.

i wanna rock right now.
i wanna rock right now.

my buddy saw tsar the last time they played and he's cynical and takes his time making decisions and bought the cd after the show and yesterday told me that he is now a tsar fan and i said duh.

rene called me last night after work and we tell each other we love each other about every other minute and still all i wanted to do was write but her stories were so good, her life is so good. she is so good.

got off the bus, made sure to accidentally step on the toes of 19555 and saw that despite the up escalator dying half way up, and despite the fat women who stood there like it would automatically fix itself after two seconds, and despite the 20 Santa Monica dissing me at the stop, by the time i was 4 blocks from the xbi i went into the little tiny chinese deli and got a martinellis apple juice and a croissant and the man looked me in the eyes and told me to have a good day.

and thank you.

and you know what, i think he really meant it.

go out there and kick some ass, superheroes.

steph in south beach + wasted life + britcoal + Incendiary Introspection

   Monday, August 04, 2003  
im procrastinating again. i dont know why this time. now i know exactly what i want to write to the big time web site i want to write about how the red sox can win the world series.

usually the idea part is the hardest part to writing a column and on the busblog you dont even need an idea, you just need a feeling. something. anything. some sort of motion to get you in motion and as karisa has taught me, a body in motion stays in motion, and a mind full of shit stays full of shit.

karisa jim morrisoned into the desert this weekend as did bunnie as did clipper girls cousin and oddly they all went to different deserts.

meanwhile this super hot girl came over looking amazing, smelling clean, hair driving me crazy with sexiness and didnt move when i tried to kiss her until i got right up to her and she curled up like a potato bug

i retreated and she'd smile.

id attack again and shed defend herself.

claiming she couldnt spend the night.

looking at her watch, calling her hot girlfriends, pretending to be interested.

there is a little bit of mind reading necessary to dating and i suppose thats the reason im not interested in teaching the red sox how to win the world series, something they havent been able to do since 1918 ad.

because mind reading is more interesting to write about than breaking curses, making dreams come true, pulling the hearts out of the yankees and showing it to them before they die in a quivvering heap.

cute girls do get away with murder, but im so old, america, that i dont have very much patience for even the cute ones. especially in hollywood, where you cant flick a spent match without poking a supermodel in the eye with it.

i fall in love about every two blocks.

even on the bus theres your choice of all sorts of wonders.

so i dont know if this girl thinks im going to break her heart or if the world is about to go oops upside her head but all i know is i saw a lady in a wheelchair today on the subway, and i wondered what it was like for her to get prognosised with whatever got her into that wheelchair.

and when i day dream the whole story hits me fast and the details fill themselves in even faster. depth is created. nuances. dialogue. background details.

i thought about what it must have been like to get told that you couldnt walk any more and i thought of the things you couldnt do and the first thing i thought was i couldnt wrestle with the right girl in the right way in the right places on the best nights.

so this girl was sitting on my couch and im thinking tick tock baby this is fun but life goes so fast it makes you wonder if its a race but one thing it isnt is is a fakeout game of lets watch the grass grow.

it made me remember the games i had to deal with a long time ago that nobody won.

theres lots of games i like playing but peek a boo or even advanced peek a boo dont do it for me the way they used to.

i should be nice to her. nicer to her. im not the easiest person to eat pizza with.

and im still procrastinating.

so the sox will have to wait

another lousy day.

blue cad + aaron's baseball blog + d.lo
 
i have a lot of favorite blogs. but the ones that i keep going back to day after day week after week month after month are the blogs written by the ladies.

and this weekend i was trying to figure out why this was, and i think its because the best blogs that i like are the personal ones that have to do with stories and emotions and real life and nuttiness and i know youre not supposed to pick favorites but youre also not supposed to do a lot of things that i do.

and i think right now my favorite writer and favorite blog is the always entertaining and dangerous splink.

unlike Bunnie (who has been my favorite for a long time) who even in her weakest moments is totally together and in control and sexy and wonderful and adventerous, our girl flagrant always seems on edge and crazed and paranoid and yet Still seems sharp and smart and fascinating and surprising.

for example she is totally freaked out to roam around LA, her hometown, in the daytime, and yet she'll fly off to Bali alone to combat bugs and strangers and foreign languages and SARS with no worries whatsoever other than getting her frequent flier miles.

i want to think that she writes her life in a more dramatic way than it is, but something about her tales are very believable, and it makes me super happy that she keeps on blogging it down and keeping herself out there.

some might look at what she writes as being crazy. you might even look at what she writes as being crazy. i dont think shes the slightest bit crazy. if anything i think shes awesome.

splink takes great pictures, has decent taste in music, is living a traveler's dream, but most importantly she writes about her parnioas and complexes and issues in an educated and creative way.

people have said that they feel blessed that good bloggers dont charge for the entertainment that they provide, i feel blessed that we get this sort of stuff at all, because typically people who can provide the sort of blog that flagrant does are either too nuts to write it down properly, or too paranoid to keep it going or to keep it on the web.

like Bunnie, flagrant also has successfully remained anonymous, only photographing her shoes or a hand, or a shadow, which is a tough trick to keep up.

so i have imagined her as a blonde mandy moore (pictured).

regardless, she has proven that its the words and stories that matter, not the pictures of the author.

rock on valley girl.

when you seriously do dump your supermodel boyfriend and buy a house in santa barbara and look for a husband, all i can say is look no further.

a year ago i interviewed flagrant + her old blog + her new blog
 
one day i'll get married. i might be 209, but the day will come.

i might not be the shooting guard for the lakers but i will marry a nice girl and i can guarantee you one thing, i wont ever cheat on her.

i can guarantee you another thing, if i ever did, in a moment of weakness, cheat on my young bride, i would not buy her a $4 million ring.

a big gaudy ring that if i ever looked at i would remember the colorado teen who accused me of sexual crimes and her young ass that i tapped.

why would you want to remember that?

why would you want a glittery sparkely expensive albatross around your lover's finger?

other than for resale value.

i bet you right now you could get $6 million for that $4 million ring.

maybe $8 million.

its the most famous $4 million ring ive ever seen. and the dumbest.

if i cheated on my hot wife and i wanted to make it up to her financially i would buy her a $4 million rose orchard and let her run the place.

id name the roses "kobes". theyd be expenisive roses. like $100 a dozen.

for when you really love your girl.

or really

for when you royally f up.

on sad days my wife could stroll through her acres of roses and smell the lovliness that sin has ironically brought her way. and on happy days she could see the bottom line that the business venture has reaped her way.

imagine the dynamic that men and women could have in the future:

man: im so sorry baby.

woman: yeah, sorry you got CAUGHT.

man: no really baby, im so so sorry.

woman: i know you're going to get me some kobes.

man: baby im gonna get you two dozen kobes.

woman: so you really ARE sorry, arent you?

man: oh yes i am. of course i am.

woman: oh i love you.

man: i love you too.
once again, the busblog helping mankind before lunchtime on a monday morning.

metropolio + bloopy + riley dog

   Sunday, August 03, 2003  
im procrastinating. im slacking. im not doing what i oughtta.

big fancy website's gonna print what i type soon and im taking my sweet old time like a fool.

im pretty sure i know what im gonna say and im pretty sure it will be funny but im pretty sure im not gonna write it tonight like i should.

instead im going to check out this hot chick who's coming over any minute now.

i mean we're going to watch a movie together.

the problem is so simple.

i dont think im ready for this jelly.

i dont think im ready for prime time.

im a not ready for prime time blogger.

i havent seen too many bad reviews about the busblog out there in the world and i am being asked to do this but still im a little nervous to break on through to the other side.

i know i have to do this though.

i know it will only help me though.

the hot chick is over. you would know this if you walked past because sex and the city is on. shes being a good sport.

we were supposed to watch moulin rouge but tivo deleted it prematurely.

c'est la vie.

shes not into the rum or the blunt or the beer or lots of me but for some reason things are working out right now.

she was miss montreal in 97.

i dont know what we're going to do after this tv show is over.

i never know whats going on in this reality game show soap opera.

while showering i came across an idea that would probably fly, but why even bother.

a gen x soap opera called isla vista about a college beach town and all the cool kids who go there to live die and rock out steal bicycles experiment with kegs and burn couches every day on cbs.

there really should be a regular farm team for all the best young talent of hollywood to get discovered.

no ones saying it shouldnt be a soap opera where a rock band plays at the end of every episode.

i think the meat lovers pizza and diet pepsi have arrived.

bon appetit!

faith fools + moxie + get your oj
 
i dont have the guts to make lotsa money. but i do have the guts to wake up a snoring cheerleader before the alarm sounds. infact im mighty courageous in the waterbed, and if theres one thing i can teach the world it's whisper, be safe, and experiement.

even if it doesnt come out right i love writing in the mornings. every morning. any morning. mornings where i have to work in an hour or less, mornings when i am working. mornings when women blow the rest of what they have from theirs into my lungs on a sunday morning in southern califuckme again she whispers.

but im writing.

please.

the lilt in her lilt is adorable and my hairline might be retreating, and my tummy might be advancing but the libido still thinks we're nineteen so i ask the beauty queen to give me ten minutes. i swear baby ten minutes.

its the morning but its the summer morning so i have to take my shirt off to write which she puts on and models infront of the mirror for herself. its a red flannel pajama top thats never been ironed after a million washes so its all fuct but on her and that nattygood long hair it looks spectacular as tanned long legs jut from underneath and disappear into the plush carpet

when did i get plush carpet?

nothing in this is true.

ah yes.

a little sore from grinding this morning with her before going to sleep again. she likes her panties when she sleeps. lots of girls do. daintiest things in the world and yet these very bright girls charmingly seem to consider them protection.

she kisses me on my bald spot and i say eight minutes bring me some cereal dear and she comes back with a tiny variety pack box of frosted flakes and i forget shes not my mom shes the polar opposite, she doesnt serve she receives and now she wants to receive every inch of my attention.

she says nice things about my attention. she says its perfect and i say it could be more perfect and she says yes it could be closer to me and i say seven minutes hot girl and she puts her hair up and poses and lets it down and acts coy and is hyper hyper hyper what has made you so hyper and she says lalalalalalust

shes a singer. not a pro. not even a fake. but she sings her words when shes happy and sings her words when she whines.

when will you coooooooome-herrrrrrrre she complained on the phone last night twirling her hair and stretching on her queen sized sounding like a boarding school girl and people have always asked me how i tolerate such things but im a fan of communication and shes just saying those three magic words i want you added with the best one of all

tony

inpatiently she flips through tivo as the sunlight's revived in her highlights

she cant sit still and she cant stop making the tv beep and bop and bing

she cant stop flashing me her nothing.

everythings cute on her. i want to take pictures and show you but it doesnt photograph well.

and anyway everythings context

on some it looks dangerous and sexy on others adorable or evil

on her its cute. just enough attention paid. just enough motion made.

the best planned babe of men and lays.

brought her own condoms. flavored the way she likes em. and guess what will happen when a girl likes the taste of something dear gentlemen,

oh and there were other things in her magic bag which would have worried me once upon a time but what did i say in the opening.

play.

and later she will continue to lick my chest in her attempt to break my heart.

killermart + dresarii + scene fashion + sexiest blog of july