Wednesday, July 12, 2006


Off to try to write a book. Thanks for reading.

Update 10.24.06:

Hi. I am still working on a book. When I am done, this blog may very well return.

Until then, there is the archive. I hope you will pick a month at random and check out some of the writing. I am proud of almost all of it.

(Maybe ignore the first month or so. I was getting my feet wet.)


Friday, June 23, 2006


The thieves, they broke into my car. They went rummaging around the car, these thieves, and they made off with my cassette tapes.

They took the whole shoebox full of tapes.

And this, on the surface, really wouldn't seem to be the end of the world. It's not the worst thing to happen to a person. They were only cassette tapes, and many were dubs of albums in my collection.

Some were mixed tapes made by friends, and it's sad to lose them, but they are friends, and they will make more mixed tapes for me. They are friends. That's what they do. They make mixed tapes to show their affection for me. And they do other things to show affection as well. They make dinner, sometimes. They watch the cat while I'm away. They watch me drink myself to sleep without an unkind word.

They do all of that stuff. So, I don't sweat the mixed tapes. Not really.

I do, though, sweat something.

It's a demo. It's a tape I have had for a while. And I don't know where to find another.

Let me tell you a story.

Once, a boy was travelling with his family. He was heading north. He was flying in a plane.

The plane crashed. Everyone but the boy died. The boy survived, and crawled from the wreckage.

I should mention that the boy was a baby. I didn't mention that, but it's important that I mention that. He was a baby. A baby who could crawl.

See, then what happened was that the baby was found by a kindly wolfpack, and a kindly wolfmother raised him! No, seriously! This is really what happened. The boy was raised by kindly wolves!

The wolves made their homes in the body of the airplane. They ate the parents and the pilot, and the boy ate right along with them. The boy lived with the wolves.

In the plane, he found a tape player. It was a tape player with a hand-crank. Do you remember hand-cranked tape players? I do.

On the plane, the boy found tapes. The boy listened to the tapes when he figured out how to use the tape player. And he loved the music he heard.

There were Biz Markie tapes. And Stetsasonic tapes. And Boogie Down Production tapes. And Sugarhill Gang tapes. And Spoonie G. And Doug E. Fresh and the Get Fresh Crew. And DJ Red Alert. And Schooly D. Grandmaster Flash and the Furious Five.

The boy listened, and he loved, and he learned to speak.

And he spoke in rhyme, all the time.

The wolves did not know what he was saying. But the boy, night and day, spit rhymes at the wolves.

And he got older. And he was, one day, found. He was returned to civilization. He was brought to the states, and studied, and cared for. And given new tapes.

And he was recorded. He made a demo tape. He was MC Raised by Wolves. MC Raised by Wolves made one demo.

Then, he disappeared. Most agree that this was for the best. He was a furiously clever MC, but he was also a very dangerous one. No one knew what to expect from him, because he was MC Raised by Wolves, and he had been raised by wolves.

The demo disappeared quickly, too, just like MC Raised by Wolves.

I had a copy, though. One dubbed copy. I can't tell you where I got it. I just had it. And let's leave it at that.

Now, it's gone. It was stolen.

Can you help me? Do you have a copy of the demo tape by MC Raised by Wolves? Have you seen MC Raised by Wolves?

No, really? Have you? Can you help me track down a new copy?

Comment here if you can help. Let's find this tape.

I can't blog until I do.

Come on, readers. Let's go. I have a space all ready for him. Do you have photos of MC Raised by Wolves? I'd like to see those, too.

Saturday, June 17, 2006


There was a TV show called MASH. You remember it.

You've seen it.

I know you have.

There was on actor named Mike Farrell who was on a TV show called MASH. Yes.

In the beginning of the TV show they called MASH (though, who am I kidding? We all called it MASH. You know you called it MASH), they would introduce veiwers to all the actors who acted in the TV show called MASH. And, one of those actors was Mike Farrell.

So, they would cut from actor to actor. They showed footage of actors doing things, and introduced them with names—yellow names on the screen—and, soon, they showed Mike Farrell. A chopper has landed at the MASH (Mobile Army Surgical Unit, it means) helipad, and it is full of injured men. It is full of patients.

Mike Farrell looks at the up, when they show him. Mike Farrell looks up, and he nods.

Oh, how that nod haunts me.

What does Mike Farrell say with that nod? "I'll take this one, Hawk. I'll take care of this injury, Hawk." Is that what it says?

Does it say, "You've got this one Hawk. This one is definately for you."

Does it say, "Too late for this one, Hawk. Let it go and let's look at the next injured soldier."

Does it say, "It's a bitch, isn't it Hawk? Isn't war—with the shooting, and the violence, and the bloody, severed limbs—isn't it a bitch, Hawk? That's life. Life is un-fucking-believable. That's a heartfelt moment of tmesis, Hawk. When I split that word, and added the explitive, I was engaging in a something...a technique...called tmesis, and doing so from the heart. Oh, Hawk. I wish I could ask you to hold me. I really do. I really, really want you to hold me like you hold those nurses. All those pretty, lonely nurses. And what of me? Forget it."

What does it say?

I don't know. I must try to know. Until I know, I just can't blog.

Friday, June 09, 2006


I'm a cute and fuzzy puppy, and all covered in the softest golden fur you've ever seen. I stumble when I run. I wag my tail so vigorously, I tip myself over. My golden fur is very soft, and when you touch it, there is so little resistence, your hand just melts into me. It melts into my belly.

I'm a cute and fuzzy puppy, held aloft by a person standing on a couch, sinking into the cushions of a living room couch, holding me high above the couch, and the people in the living room are all attending a party. It is a party for me, the brand spanking new cute and fuzzy puppy, held aloft by my person.

And all the people coo. They coo at me, and they coo at each other, and they reach up to me. But I am held high, and can't be reached.

So, the people at the party for the cute—and golden—fuzzy puppy, they throw themselves to the floor. The drop to hands and knees, and they continue with the cooing. Such a racket. The cooing they make makes such a racket.

They, on the floor, crawl back and forth. They roll, and they crawl. They bump.

All the people on the floor bump into one another, and they raise sore spots on the tops of their heads. The bumps are much too rough. They are moving far too quickly. They bump, and they hurt themselves and one another at the very same time. Really. This is what happens.

I see it from my position, held aloft.

I am held above the fray.

It becomes a fray. It becomes a fray. A carpet of bodies begins to bloody, as the people at the party begin to rip skin with their fingers. The cooing is more urgent now. The cooing sounds a little urgent.

I am held aloft, and the person holding me walks out on the wriggling carpet of bodies. Blood has a strong smell, and I can smell it. The bodies love the cute and fuzzy puppy, and they are accidently hurting one another because of it.

They are accidently violent.

This is, accidently, a very violent party.

Because of me.

Skin does not stick to its frame quite as strongly as I thought it did. Skin slips off so quickly.

I will explore this more, but not blog until I have.

Tuesday, June 06, 2006


Look, I'm not saying I'm some sort of superhero or anything. I'm not saying that. I'm not.

But, it's just that I seem to have this power.

A power. Me. I seem to have this power.

It's like this: see, wherever I go, there's the party. It's where I am. The party follows me wherever I go.

I bring the party with me.

It's like, earlier, before I came in? Remember? When I was waiting outside? At the buzzer? At the door? For you to buzz me in? Remember?

The party was out there with me. It was me, and the buzzer, and the door, and the sidewalk, and all the passing fucking traffic, and the party. The party was there, with me.

And now I'm in here, right? In here with you? And here it is—the party. I brought it in with me. From the street. Up the steps. In here. Here's the party.

Seriously, look out the window. Look down there. Do you see the party? Hell no you don't. Hell no you don't. Because the party is now up here.

It followed me up.

You can feel it, right? You can feel the party. You know it came up here with me. You know we're hear, together, having the party that I brought.

Because, man, that's what I do. I bring the party.

I mean, at least you can smell it, right? You can totally smell the party! I can smell the party! Right here!

With me.

I am the focus of the party. The party is the solar system, orbiting around me because I am the party sun.

The party radiates off me like heat.

I bring the party.

Who the hell has time to blog when you bring the party? Seriously.


Better? Yeesh. You guys are mean.


I running. Donate money.

Friday, May 26, 2006


It's not so much that I can't. I simply just don't. I'm not sure I'll get back to it, either. Please explore the earlier posts. There are a few. Enjoy them. Occasionally check The Reader of Absurdist Books for interviews.

Otherwise, I think this is sort of over.


Wednesday, May 03, 2006


Sometimes, when I'm not blogging here—which, now that I think about it, is all the time—you might be able to find something new here/

Sometimes, though, it's because I have a lot of other writing to do.

And sometimes, I really, honestly, truly, just can't blog.

So, yes, there is a lull. During this lull, I encourage you to go here and read some fiction by Elizabeth Ellen.

Or, here and read humor by Christopher Monks.

Friday, April 21, 2006


Yeah, and so I had to go to the airport to pick up this friend of mine yesterday.

I went down to the airport, and I was walking to the baggage claim, but in a sort of wandering way, because I had a long wait and I had a book, but felt like walking instead of reading.

And so, while I was wondering along, a guy—young guy, blond—went running by me with a bouquet of flowers.

And I thought, "Okay, so he's running down to the baggage claim—because you can't run to the gate anymore, right?—because he's going to meet a girl, and he's in love with the girl, and he's meeting the girl, and he's, possibly, surprising the girl, too. Sure, that's what's happening with the guy. It happens all the time, in movies and on TV. That guy is sort of a stereotype.

"Airports are full of stereotypes," I thought.

I had to wait a long, long time to pick up my friend. I mean a long, long time. So long that if you were reading this instead of were listening to me talk, like you are now, I'd write long with extra o's. That long.

I saw that guy, again. I saw him run up to a girl, and they kissed, and they walked off together. It was nice, and I thought that sometimes a familiar narrative is okay. Sometimes a familiar story like that doesn't make me cynically say, "Man, what a cliché! Those two people in love are a total cliché!" Sometimes, I'm okay.

I was there, I said earlier, a long, long time. I mean, like, six o's long.

I saw the guy again. I saw the guy run up and hug the same girl. They hugged and they walked off together.

Thing is, they'd changed clothes. But it was the same couple. Again. They had different colored hair. The girl now had glasses. The guy was wearing a ball cap. He had a darker complexion.

But they were the same couple.

Want to know how I know? Same flowers.

He had the same flowers. I was dead certain of it.

I saw that couple more times. Each time, they were in new clothes, new hair, changed skin tone. After the second time I saw them, he even had different flowers. And once, she had them, and seemed to be the one waiting for him to get off the plane.

But, they were the same.

I was confused. I really was. For quite some time—and I waited a long, long time—I wasn't sure what was going on.

I went outside. It was raining at the airport, but it was just a light rain. You could just barely feel it. It didn't so much drop as it settled everywhere. I went outside to let the rain settle on me. I didn't feel like reading, or watching for the couple. I just wanted to be out, letting the rain settle on me—on my hat, on my sweatshirt, on my glasses. I walked to a sort of lonely place.

They were out there, too. The couple were there, sharing a cigarette. She was on a cell phone. He was keeping the cigarette dry, using his hand as an umbrella.

She was talking to a boyfriend. That's what I gathered, anyway.

I walked over to them, and he looked at me.

"Oh, yeah," he said. "You've seen us a bunch of times, haven't you?"

I nodded.

"I can't tell you, you know."

I nodded.

"But, watch the people," he said. They finished the cigarette. She told the person on the phone she loved him. They went inside. On the way in, she flashed an employee badge at me and smiled.

I went back to the row of black, leatherette bench seats in front of the baggage claim my friend would be using when he got off his plane.

I watched.

People got off the planes, and they went to get bags. They all looked tired and mad. Some of them had lost luggage. Some of them had had layovers. Some of them sat next to rude, elbowy people. They all looked frustrated.

And then, he came running up to her. He gave her the flowers. They hugged, and it was awkward. They kissed. They held hands, grabbed her duffle bag, and left.

And the people watched them.

And they looked a little better.

My friend arrived and his bag was the last one off the plane. As we waited, I told he to look straight ahead, and only straight ahead, and only at the baggage carousel, and never at anything else.

I bet this is happening everywhere. I won't blog until I know.

Tuesday, April 11, 2006


There is a band who will change your life. They have changed mine. Yours is next.

I saw this band just a few days ago. I saw them live, on a low, low stage. They played there music from behind a fence of monitors. They stood on a low, low stage. They changed my life. They change lives.

Here is the band's name. Remember it. If you remember it, and you see a record by the band, or find out that you can go see them play, they will change your life.

This band changes lives.

Hello, It's Us, We Are the Cannibals, A Pack of Four and Fifty Cannibals, and the Cannibals All Love It When You Dance, Dance, Dance, You See When the Cannibals See Movement, They Are Drawn Right to the Movement, and They Run Toward the Movement Like A Moth Approaches Flame Because When Cannibals See Dancing They Assume That When There's Dancing There Will Soon Be Much Exhaustion On the Crowded Dance's Floor And As You'd Wager They Will Gather Up the Most Exhausted Dancers and They'll Sharpen Knives on Whetstones for a Feast of You.

That's the name of the band. The band that changes lives.

I saw them, and they changed mine.

Last night, I went to this club, and saw three bands. The first was unremarkable. The second was unremarkable. The third was Hello, It's Us, We Are the Cannibals, A Pack of Four and Fifty Cannibals, and the Cannibals All Love It When You Dance, Dance, Dance, You See When the Cannibals See Movement, They Are Drawn Right to the Movement, and They Run Toward the Movement Like A Moth Approaches Flame Because When Cannibals See Dancing They Assume That When There's Dancing There Will Soon Be Much Exhaustion On the Crowded Dance's Floor And As You'd Wager They Will Gather Up the Most Exhausted Dancers and They'll Sharpen Knives on Whetstones for a Feast of You.

Remember that name.

Hello, It's Us, We Are the Cannibals, A Pack of Four and Fifty Cannibals, and the Cannibals All Love It When You Dance, Dance, Dance, You See When the Cannibals See Movement, They Are Drawn Right to the Movement, and They Run Toward the Movement Like A Moth Approaches Flame Because When Cannibals See Dancing They Assume That When There's Dancing There Will Soon Be Much Exhaustion On the Crowded Dance's Floor And As You'd Wager They Will Gather Up the Most Exhausted Dancers and They'll Sharpen Knives on Whetstones for a Feast of You.

They will change your life. They changed mine. For example, my life is now much, much worse.

Thursday, March 30, 2006


I have a brand new project that will keep me away from blogging. I've decided to meet every dog in the city of Seattle.

There's this dog named Owen who I've met. I see him, sometimes, being taken for a walk. I don't know his humans, but I know Owen.

Every time I see Owen being taken for a walk by his humans, I want to shout, "Hey, Owen!" I want to shout that as I ride by on my bike.

"Hey, Owen!" I want to do this because I think maybe he'd wave. Or, acknowledge me in some way. I want to shout.

But, I don't. I think it would confuse his humans.

Anyway, so I'm going to meet every dog in town. I go out to the lake. I walk around the lake, and I wait for a dog to walk towards me. A dog and its humans. I walk by them, and I get really near. They are talking to each other, or, if they are alone, they are talking on a cell phone. But they are never talking to the dog.

I walk very close to the dog and I stick out my hand. I get very close. But, I don't touch the dog, or bump the humans. I just put my hand right next to the dog's nose. And the dog always does the same thing. The dog strains its neck to meet my hand. It sniffs my hand.

It meets me.

And then it is pulled back to heel, and off the dog and the humans go. Around the lake. One more time around the lake.

I turn around sometimes, and walk the opposite way so I can get the dogs going the other direction.

In this way I am trying to meet every dog in town.

It's a long project. So, I can't blog.

Thursday, March 23, 2006


I do not like to travel, and so instead I eat maps. That is what I do to take the place of leaving my house and going someplace far off with different kinds of buildings and clothes and cultural ideas. I eat maps that show the places far away that I might want to go to if it wasn't for the fact that I just don't want to.

I like to eat my maps dry, and without melted cheeses. I like to eat my maps with a small hunk of bread, a think, crusty bread. I like to eat my maps with a tall glass of some kind of really strong Belgian beer, like one of those triple fermented ones that has a 10% alcohol by volume rating. I like to eat my maps with a simple fork and a very sharp knife—one that is like a razor.

I like to, when I eat my maps, use the razor to cut along whatever lines happen to already exist on the map. I eat country by country on large maps that depict the world from a great height. I eat state by state if I am eating a map of a single country and that country breaks itself up into states. This also would work with principalities or regions or whatever. I eat county by county. I could eat a city map block by block, or whatever.

When I eat a topographic map, I like to eat just the tops of the mountains or hills first. The valleys seem a little more tender, I guess. They aren't, but seem that way.

When I eat a map, I always make sure to cut away the rivers and lakes and leave them on the side. It's like deveining a shrimp.

People ask me where I've been and I say, I've been lots of places, and you can rub my belly to see.

No travelling, no blogging. Just map-eating.

Wednesday, March 15, 2006


A lot of stories begin with someone waking up. A lot of times, a person will tell you a story, and they will begin when they woke up: "This morning I got up, and..."

And blogging is, sometimes, just story-telling.

There are all these stories, all these novels and short stories and movies, that begin at the moment when someone wakes up. And I guess that's because that's the point at which things begin to happen. Mostly, when things happen, they happen after you have woken up. You wake up and, bang, stuff begins to happen and you remember the stuff, and you think about the stuff, and you ruminate deeply on the stuff for a while, and then you decide to gather all the stuff up, and when it's gathered, you figure out a really good way of ordering all the stuff.

Oh, and a lot of people choose to order their stuff in the order that it happened. That's a popular way to order your stuff, when that stuff is stuff that happened and you want to order it. If the stuff is, instead, the physical stuff that accumulates around you as you live, then you might look into ordering that stuff alphabetically, or smallest to largest. You could probably order the stuff that happens to you alphabetically, but that might not be as efficient a way to order it.

Anyway. Sorry. I got sidetracked.

So, there are the stories. And the stories mostly happen after you wake up.

I'm asleep. I want to tell a story on this blog, but I really can't because if I don't wake up, the story can't begin. I'm a story, if you think about it. And I'm not yet being told.

I'm in this place. I'm stuck in this spot way before the narrative.

Okay, maybe not way before the narrative, but really, since I'm not yet awake, it doesn't really matter. I could wake up in a second, or in an hour. No difference, really.

I'm living pre-narrative.

You may wonder what it is to be pre-narrative. You may ask me: "Hey, what are the qualities of a story like yourself, when you are pre-narrative?"

And if I don't answer right away, you may press with a pointed: "Huh?" You know how people do that sometimes? They give you a pointed, "Huh?"

Yeah, well.

I do not know what it is to be a pre-narrative story. I cannot tell you the qualities of a story, like myself, pre-narrative. Not really. All I can say is that I know I am a bubble.

I know I am round, and I know I am under the water.

I am pre-narrative, and that means that I am a bubble of air, stuck to the lip of a blind cave fish, in a tank, in a dark room, in a zoo's nocturnal house.

That's me.

That's why I can't blog.

Monday, March 13, 2006


Oh, yes, and if I were anyone else's moustache, to hell with me.

It's all well and good and true and close and wise and great to be a moustache. It feels good to be a moustache. It feels right and welcoming to be a moustache. Every hair of me loves to brush the very tip of the top lip, to stroke and rub it as the mouth moves, to skim the line where the skin goes from peach to red. Love it.

This moustache fights the Civil War, though it is only a fake Civil War. This moustache tickles a lip that wants nothing more than to fire a phony musket, and ride a horse. This moustache is right and proud to be involved in the freeing of the slaves, even if the slaves are no longer being held, and this is only a pantomime.

That's right, this moustache (me) is in the Show Business. I have a trailer that is all my own, right next to the trailer wherein the man who wears me when we are on screen stays. This moustache has a personal trainer, who keeps me full and dark. This moustache has a mini-fridge filled with bottled water.

This moustache is worn by Matthew Broderick, who is really a consumate professional.

Have you met his wife? She's a dear.

They have parties. This moustache is often invited.

James Caan gave this moustache a tip on where to find some real Cuban cigars.

This moustache looks good in a thick blue uniform, and hangs with distinction, don't you think?

No time to blog. They are about to start filming.


I interviewed a poet named Brian Beatty and put the interview up on the internet.


Crushed by defeat. May never blog again.

Actually, no. Probably will. Congratulations, Need Coffee!

Tuesday, February 28, 2006


Here's what we need: it’s those photos where two people are kissing a third person in between them. You’ve seen them, right? The pose three friends often fall into, where there’s a person in the center being kissed on either cheek? We need more of those.

In fact, what we need is one of those photos for every man, woman, and child the world over. That’s my suggestion, as far as world peace is concerned. I think if everyone had a photo of themselves like that, with a person kissing either cheek, it would do a lot for their self-esteem. It would make them feel loved. It would keep them from doing bad things, like shooting at moving cars from a highway overpass, or implying that someone is of a loose moral character when in conversation with friends and acquaintances.

What we need is a van to go from town to town throughout the world with a photographer who can take those pictures. Someone with a nice camera, maybe something digital, and a high quality printer in the van that is somehow run on solar power, or from the van’s battery. It would be better, I think, if it had some sort of solar component, just as long as the photographer didn’t make some sort of big deal about how environmentally sound they are. No one needs to be lectured to all the time. They just need to be kissed on either cheek, and they need a photo of that kiss.

They need to carry it with them, or have it in their cubicle.

They need that.

I'm going to get right on that. So, you know.

All together now.

No time to blog.

Friday, February 24, 2006


Blogging is over. I was going to blog, but it's already over and I missed out.

And I can't do something after it's already over, can I?

And, I'm really good at jumping on bandwagons after those bandwagons have already broken down, and the band has gotten off, and found a new ride to the theater by hitchhiking or some such thing, and the driver of the bandwagon is staring at his broken down bandwagon, looking beneath the hood at what to him is an incomprehensible mess of greasy metal seashells and boxes and wires because he never bothered to learn how to actually fix his stupid bandwagon, and wondering why he didn't decide to do something better with his life than drive a stupid oompah band all over the fucking town!

Stupid, stupid oompah band. The worst of them is the tuba player. The tuba player is everything that is wrong with musicians all rolled into one giant, twisted brass tube. Did you know that? It's true. To hell with his huge, gaping blowhole, or whatever you call the big opening at the top of the instrument where the sound comes from.

There were choices to be made. There are always choices to be made. Make the right ones. That's what the driver of the bandwagon thinks after his bandwagon has once again broken down.

And to blog after it is already over is the wrong choice. So, I can't.


Thanks to The Reader of Cute, Happy Books.

Here's an update: The Reader of Cute, Happy Books has some new stuff on a website that you should really go and READ.

Wednesday, February 22, 2006


Someone's in the way of my blog so I can't blog. Someone is blocking me. Someone's in the way.

I can't get to my blog, and I can't get the person who is in the way to push off, or to scooch over or anything, and now I can't get to my blog and I can't blog.

Someone's in the way.

That someone is playing the flute.

In fact, that someone who is standing there, in front of my blog, making it impossible for me to blog, is Eric Dolphy.

No, really. Eric Dolphy is blocking my blog.

I love Eric Dolphy. I can't just shove him. People keep calling me up on my telephone. They keep calling me up and asking if I'm blogging, and I say I can't because someone is in the way, and they tell me to shove him out of the way.

(Why do they all assume it's a him? I mean, it is a him, but why do they all have to go and assume? I don't get that.)

I can't shove him, I tell them. It's Eric Dolphy. I can't just shove Eric Dolphy.

Can I?

Eric Dolphy is playing his flute right now, making little bird calls, and then improvising on the melodies.

How could I shove him after that? How can I shove him while he plays bird songs? It's like, any second now, a bunch of birds are going to break through the window and land on his shoulders. And they'll pick him up, and carry him out the window. He'll keep playing, and birds will carry him off.

Then, maybe I'll be able to get to the blog.


The amazing Mike Topp now has a blog. You should spend most of your time reading Mike Topp.

Monday, February 13, 2006


I have this brand new web browser. It's the latest one, the one everybody is clamoring to get. It's the newest thing in web surfing.

It brings you out to the site you want to see, and then it shows you the page from below.


It shows you everything on the page from directly underneath. Isn't that an interesting perspective? Below?

And what does a webpage look like from below? Flat, actually. Empty space, line, empty space, line, empty space, line.

"Be patient, for the world is broad and wide," said Friar Laurence to Romeo. And Edwin Abbott used that as an epigram for Flatland.

Be patient, for the World Wide Web is broad and wide, and when seen from underneath, quite strange.

But, see, because I can only see the web from underneath, I cannot blog. I do not trust my ability to fill out the blogging post with perfect spelling. And I cannot check it. So, I cannot blog.

Wednesday, February 01, 2006


I came home with a blog. And my mom, she said, "What's that?"

And I told her it was a blog.

And she said, "Why do you want to go and have one of those for?"

And I told her it was cool, that all my friends, they had blogs, too. Everyone my age had a blog.

And she said that thing—you know what I mean. She said that thing moms are supposed to say. She said, "Well, if everyone your age jumped off a..."

I don't even know if I can finish it. It's know. It's just so...

Okay, so she said, "Well, if everyone your age jumped off a bridge, would you?"

And I said maybe. Kind of to maybe freak her out.

And she, then, got sort of quiet. She looked at me, and then at my stepdad.

"Really?" she asked.

And I said maybe again.

And she sort of nodded, and said, "Huh," real quiet-like.

Then my stepdad told me to go to my room. I went to my room.

At school the next day, I found a printout in my bookbag. It said teen suicide by bridge jumping was up. On the page, there was a little red "FYI!" in my mom's handwriting. And a smiley face.

And it was true. Next thing you knew, all the kids in my age group were throwing themselves off of bridges, and my mom, she was finding citations, and leaving them taped to my door.

At breakfast should would look at me (all disgusted) and say, "All the other kids are jumping off of bridges. Why the hell won't you?"

But, I wouldn't do it then, and I won't do it now, and I'll never do it. You hear me, Mom? I won't do it! Stop calling me.

I completely forgot about the blog.

Wednesday, January 25, 2006


You know how it is when you get a new blog in the mail, right? Oh, man, it's great. It's great!

And, you leave it in the living room, and you go to work, and you work your full 8 or 9 hours (depending on whether or not you get paid for lunch, but if you're ordering blogs from a catalog, you probably don't get paid for lunch), and you get home, and you just tear into that box. You just tear right into it.

I have a pocket knife. I use the pocket knife when I open boxes all the time. I'm glad I carry a pocket knife.

If you have a pocket knife, and you use it for your keyring (like I do), you probably don't get paid for lunch.

And the cat—or the dog! Hey, you might have a dog!—they have a field day with the packing material, don't they? Sure they do.

Sure they do.

So, you pull out your blog, and take all that fitted styrofoam off, and you open all the little plastic bags, and you pull out the instructions, and you assemble your blog.

You assemble your very own blog!

But, wait. Where's the little allen wrench? Where's your special, only works on this blog allen wrench?

They forgot to pack the allen wrench.

And you can look high and low. You can look everywhere you want. You can search every utility drawer, every tool case, the bottom of every closet. Keep searching. Even though you have one of those allen wrenches somewhere in your home—one of them from one of the other things you've purchased from the same company, one of the other things you've built at home, like that desk, or your entertainment center (man, that's an ugly entertainment center, by the way...look at the size of it!), or whatever—you are never going to find it.

So, you know what you'll do? You'll just leave the pieces of the blog on the floor. And you'll go to work the next day.

You still work at that newspaper, right?

You'll go to work the next day, and the first God damned copy editor who comes up to you and asks you about whatever the hell it is copy editors think about, you're going to punch him in the neck six times.

Six times.







And then you're off to the roof, and once on the roof, it's off into the air, and once you're in the air, it's fall, fall, fall.

And once you're falling and nearly to the ground, it's spin, and turn, and shoot back up into the air, and don't stop until you find yourself at a bricks and mortar version of the place where you ordered your blog. And you'll tell them what happened.

And those kind-hearted motherfuckers are going to give you a free plate of meatballs and noodles. God bless them, they are going to make everything all right.

You know how that is, right? That's why I can't blog.


Again, thanks to whoever nominated me for a bloggie.

Lots of new people have stopped by in the last couple of days. Welcome. If you decide to vote for me, thanks much. If you vote for someone else, that's fine, too. Do stop by again.

Monday, January 23, 2006



Why, I've got the longest, stiffest fingers you've ever seen.


Why, I'm in heavy, heavy demand throughout the county, and people are always calling and asking me to come on by.


Well, my long, long, stiff, stiff fingers make me just about the perfect person to call when you need you someone to till the soil.


I'm always more than happy to stop by and use my very long, very stiff fingers to till your garden.


I feel like it is, what do you call it, kind of a duty of mine.


I'm always ready, because it seems to me that my long, stiff fingers were just made to be put deep into soil, to catch up rocks, to stir up worms, to work in compost.


I'm first and foremost a patriot, I think, and a man of my community.


I read a dozen books a week.


I just can't move my fingers to type, and never blog.


Can't blog. Shocked.

(Check under Best-Kept-Secret.)

Thanks to whoever nominated me!

Wednesday, January 18, 2006


There's this font you may have heard of or seen, and it's called Sand.


I hate Sand.

I hate Sand more than you could ever imagine.

There is a Spider-Man villian called Sand-Man. I like him.

When you put bread around something, it's a sandwich. I like sandwiches.

I hate Sand. I hate that font.

Sand pretends like its all handwritten. Sand has these, like, lines that get thicker and thinner, like a pen drew sand, and the wrist was sometimes strong, but maybe not all the time, and the pen pulled up from the paper a little.

Sand is sans serif. It's stupid and blunt, and it has dots over the "i"s and "j"s that are too big. Like, in an "ij" combo in another font, you see this elephant face, with two way too big eyes. the "i" line is a tusk. The "j" line is the trunk. The dots are eyes. Baby elephant face.

In Sand, though, the "j" is askew. And it changes the face. And the "i" dot is much too large. It's not an elephant. It's the Elephant Man.

Wait. Sand is the Elephant Man.

I'm sorry. I've reconsidered. When it's used for "ij", I love Sand. More than anything.

I'm too confused to blog.


There's a new blog linked. It's really good. Check through all the old posts.