this just don't gonna be a nothin

i like to refer to my bathroom as "the poopatorium"

i like to refer to toilet paper as "shit tickets"

i want to write a story about a cursed lord of a castle married to a succubus, and the castle moves every 14th month. it will be a gothic horror sex filled comedy,

today i will go see a waterfall that, although there is a sign for it, it is out of the way and kind of hidden. i will take pictures.

today i think i shall bake a choclate honey cake.

i shook the hand of the guy who was the hand in the addams family movie.

i knew the lady who did the puppets in the incredibly crappy movie "killer clowns from outer space."

i spent an afternoon with Jerry Andrus at his house in oregon, and he is one of the coolest people i've met.

i had this incredibly freaky dirty dream last night that was a bit unsettling when i woke up and thought about it.

a pig raised properly will produce fat that is similar in health benefits to olive oil...high in HDL (good cholesterol) and low in LDL (bad cholesterol), and will be full of tasty flavor and healthy and happy. most of the pigs raised in the states are not raised properly, and if people knew how they were raised, would be disgusted and outraged. what they call "farms" are really factories.

i want to buy a digital video camera and have my own tv show on the web, maybe make 5 minute movies or whatever.

i've thougth about podcasting.

i want to go a whole day (two days if possible) without speaking at all, without uttering a single sound. i bet i would be more concious of the things i say, and perhaps i would be more careful with my words and even a better listener.

if i only had 24 hours to live, i would not be upset or think i missed out on anything. i wouldn't call up anyone and say what i wanted to say to them. i would eat beer battered chocolate cake and potato chips, maybe fry up a duck and dip bread in the sweet tasty fat and smoke a pack of pall malls and drink a bottle of wine and relax and enjoy, knowing it would all be over shortly.

i am hungry and i'm going to eat something now.

one world one milk

the following is taken from the soon to be published book, "The existential gourmet" available from your good friends at Saddle Sore Publishing.....

Get two slices of sourdough bread

Because we make choices based on our experiences, beliefs, and biases, those choices are unique to us — and made without an objective form of truth. There are no “universal” guidelines for most decisions, so if you want to use white or wheat, that is ok as well.

Now, put some dijon mustard on one and only one slice of bread.

Human choice is subjective, because individuals finally must make their own choices without help from such external standards as laws, ethical rules, or traditions. Because individuals make their own choices, they are free; but because they freely choose, they are completely responsible for their choices.

Excercise your freedom by choosing either some cheddar or havarti, or even a bit of both if you want. Shred the cheese and put it between the slices of bread. Feel the freedom?

Freedom, however, is accompanied by responsibility. Furthermore, since individuals are forced to choose for themselves, they have their freedom — and therefore their responsibility — thrust upon them. They are “condemned to be free.”

Freely heat up a heavy pan, cast iron if you have it.

Responsibility is the dark side of freedom. When individuals realize that they are completely responsible for their decisions, actions, and beliefs, they are overcome by anxiety. Do not let this get to you, relax, and put some olive oil in the pan. If you try to deal with the anxiety by ignoring or denying the situation, you are only decieving yourself, and you will burn the bread or make it stick to the pan.

Individuals must accept full responsibility for their behavior, no matter how difficult. Now, with the oil hot, place the sandwhich onto the pan and hold it down with a metal spatula, for about 60 to 90 seconds. You are responsible for this, but applying pressure should not be too difficult. Flip the sandwich and repeat, applying pressure to the sandwich, again, this should not be too difficult.

If an individual is to live meaningfully and authentically, he or she must become fully aware of the true character of the human situation and bravely accept it. Make sure the cheese is melted, remove from the pan, and accept that your sandwich is tasty. You have the freedom to enjoy this sandwich with any beverage you feel like, but iced tea goes with it quite well.

My interview with Saddam Hussien

Check it out!!! I have this "friend" who works for the "government" and he has access to Saddam Hussein at the secret prison location. well, I told him I have this blog and I want to become a huge internet success/star/chick magnet, and asked him if I could interview Saddam himself. after much begging and pleading, he let me. that's right, you heard me, *I* got to interview Saddam Hussein. so, here you go, my personal interview with former Iraqi president Saddam Hussein:

Me: Thank you for your time, I appreciate you talking to me.

Saddam Hussein: (drinking from a bottle of Gatorade, looking comfortable). No problem.

Me: I'm going to just jump right in, so, lets begin shall we? I have heard that just one of your palaces cost millions of dollars, and you had about 90 or so. if you had taken the money for just one of those and distributed it to your people, some kind of "tax rebate" or something, they would have all loved you and claimed you were the best guy in the world. they were so poor, it wouldn't have had to be much at all, and you could have gone on doing what you wanted with no problem and no resistance, seen as benevolent even. why didn't you do that?

SH: Eh, whaddya gonna do? hey, have you heard the new Gorillaz CD? De la Soul is on it, you know. I like de la soul, and that guy from Blur's voice is just perfect, you know?

Me: Yeah, I kind of like it, it's a bit "electronica" and different, but I dig it. but let's try and stay on track, ok? next question....does the death of all the Kurds and others play on your conscience and bother you? or do you feel that even though you gave the orders, since you personally didn't do it you are not responsible for all the deaths?

SH: (thinking for a moment before taking a drag off of a pall mall cigarette) well, you see, it is like this: even if Amy Pohler threw herself at me, and I could spend a night in that vixen's passionate embrace, with her riding me like a wild pony, I would love it, but the whole time I would be thinking of Tina Fey. seriously, I just think Tina Fey is more attractive, physically and intellectually. she is just hot.

Me: yeah? I agree with you on that. so...you lost both your sons, your power, your empire, you've been ridiculed and publicly made the butt of thousands of jokes. you lost everything you had....was it all worth it?

SH: I will tell you what is worth it: the Buster Keaton box set, available online at Amazon. that is some hilarious stuff right there, that guy was a freaking genius. The stuff he did is still funny, and much more pure than a lot of today's comedy, really. in the movie "Steamboat Bill jr." there is this scene, where he is trying on hats, it goes on for about a full minute, and he doesn't move, just stares, it is sublime, totally hilarious. He just had that "look" that is subtle and so damn funny. you should definitely check out Buster Keaton. seriously.

Me: Do you think President Bush truly believed there were chemical weapons of crazy destruction..

SH: Weapons of Mass Destruction. Please, call them WMD.

Me: ok, yeah, so, do you think he honestly thought you had WMD or did he just need an excuse to come after you, to finish the job his dad started? What do you honestly feel about it?

SH: I think, well, it's like your Hollywood, what is up with them? They just keep remaking old movies, good and bad. Can't they come up with original stuff? I like Tim Burton, and the Johnny Depp, he is hot, but really, did they need to re-make the Willy Wonka? Gene Wilder played it great, slightly evil, a bit odd, just wonderful. And now it seems they are making every 70's tv show into a movie. Come on, what is up with you people? Stop trying to re-do everything, and do something original. I think, if your president wanted to do something original, he should have invaded, maybe, Saudi Arabia. They are crazy with the human rights violations, but noone seems to care. Really, without oil, they are nothing but lying brutish thugs who traffic in slavery, abuse thier people, and are complete hippocrites when it comes to Islam. It is a police state, you know that, right? People are put in prison for speaking out against the government. And they kill the filipino and bangladeshi workers, males, after raping them, just like the Kuwaitis do. Ask any filipino guy who has worked in Kuwait or Saudi Arabia. But, really, Hollywood needs to stop remaking old movies or tv shows and make some new shit. How about a movie about a substitute teacher who travels around and changes people's lives, a nomad, or maybe a guy who drives around in a snack truck and solves people's problems, like the Hulk did.

Me: How do you expect your trial go, realistically. are you hoping for a certain outcome, do you think it is all a foregone conclusion? Are you worried at all, does it bother you at all?

SH: You know what bothers me? the fact that hats seem to be so out of fashion. hats are so cool, and I have worn my share, some cool, some not so cool, but still, you know? now, it seems like only baseball caps or, thanks to Demi Moore's boytoy, trucker caps, are the only "hat" you can wear, unless you are p diddy or some other rapper. I guess cowboy hats are ok, but only if you are a cowboy. really, what happened to the fedora, or the regular everyday hat? that pisses me right the fuck off. you wanna make a big deal over the "tragic" death of people you don't even know? how about your tragic loss of a cool fashion accessory?

Me: Yeah, I feel the same way about bowties. I really dig bowties, but when you wear them, people say you look like a referee at a boxing match, a waiter, or some weird geek. to me they make sense though, they don't blow around in the wind and they don't get into your food when you eat. ok, I have a few more questions...

SH: sorry, I must end this. desperate housewives is on. thank you, and please, don't think for a moment I wouldn't kill you if I could get away with it.

Me: I know. thanks for your time. and before I go, just tell us, who is your favorite blog?

SH: (making that devil horn thing with his fingers, like you do at rock concerts when you go headbanging, and shouting at the top of his lungs) SADDLESOREREVIEW.BLOGSPOT.COM. OH YEAH!!!!!

i feel photovoltaic today

liberace was not a musician. he sucked as a musician. he was a performer/showman who happened to play the piano. he played it technically perfect, each note played just as it was written. so how could he have sucked?

feeling. the music he played had as much soul as a vampire. he was all flash and glitter, no substance.

when i play the guitar, i play other people's songs, other people's music. i listen to how they play, i listen to the timing and phrasing and such, and i do my best to ape them. frankly i suck, and i'm not being modest, i really suck, but i like to play and amuse myself.

but i've been thinking....do i have a "right" to play the music? no, that is not the right words, but, what i am trying to say is...do i have any soul?

i do not play like a man who went down to the mississsippi delta and waited to sell my soul at the crossroads, not even close. when i play, it feels (to me) empty. i used to play AC/DC's "you shook me all night long" note for note, right along with angus, i even did the headbob thing (when i was alone in my room sure that noone could see). i hit all the notes just as they were played, but did it have any feeling behind it? did it have any ass?

now, when i tool around the fretboard, i play a riff here and a lick there, but i wonder, does my voice come out? i think not. music can be and should be an expression, you should feel the passion, the pain, the ecstasy, in each song. there are songs that, when you listen to them, you can feel the smile of a pretty woman, her eyes connecting with your soul, sunshine bouncing off her hair. there are songs where you can feel the empty void of lonliness and despair, or the electricity you feel in that first two seconds when the band takes the stage, it is still dark, and they play that first ripping loud guitar chord, the first two seconds when, no matter how packed in you are, everyone surges forward and you feel like you are trying to disprove that phyics law about no two solid bodies existing in the same space. (if i could bottle that energy and sell it, it would be bigger than solar powered crack).

that is how music should sound, but i don't hear it when i play. ok, so musician is not my primary or secondary or even tertiary occupation, it is a hobby, something i do for myself and no one else. but when i play, i wonder if i am doing Music a diservice, if i am being somehow sacrilgious and profane towards Music.

i know i have some feelings to draw on. i know i have pain and lonliness (at least, it sure hurts like i do), joy and lust, yet i cannot seem to translate that into music, as much as i might want to. if i try to play something with attitude, something that sounds like a sultry vixen swishing towards you in a smoky bar, stilletto heels clicking on the floor as she gives you a "hunry tiger ready to eat it's prey" look, i usually end up sounding like how you would imagine steven hawking playing a guitar. it's like a language where i can say the words but i dont' really know what they mean and i can't make any sentances myself, i can only repeat what is in the phrasebook.

can anyone, with enough instruction and practice, play a musical instrument beautifully? or can only those people who have had significant emotional highs or lows play? if you cannot seem to convey your feelings, is it possible you just don't have feelings deep enough to convey? or can they be too shallow? is it possibl that some people just shouldnt' bother playing a musical instrument? almost...not worthy enough to? what if musical instruments were a way to talk to god, would only those who could qualify as "priests" or "preistesses" be allowed?

that would be a kinda neat story, a culture who uses music as a religion, and only priests can play instruments....hmmmm....

i wonder if liberace ever lounged around in his bazillion dollar mansion, bathing in caviar and champagne, worrying about it.

THE SUNDAY PHILOSOPHY CLUB by Alex McCall Smith

what, was this guy paid by the word? because it took him 247 pages to tell a story that only took about 60 pages to tell, and i am being generous.

so a 40 year old scottish lady sees a guy fall to his death. fine, no big deal. but this is supposed to be a murder mystery, and it takes another twenty or more pages until the main character figures out that she is involved in a murder mystery. *I* know she is involved, *You* know she is involved, it's right there on the fucking book cover, why does it take so damn long to get to it?

then, as if that is not bad enough, the next hundred or so pages has the story moving along slightly slower than an iceberg drifting across a lake with no wind. finally, the story picks up in the last 50 pages and gets over with.

so what had been going on the whole time? some freind of the main character's love life story, which has absolutely nothing to do with the main story at all. it's like Smith wanted to write two short stories and decided to meld them into one story, or like he needed padding for his main story, which is supposed to be a murder mystery, but turns out to be a big boring drawn out waste of time.

the ending seems like Smith figures he dragged the thing on long enough, and is resolved in one page. BAM. just like that.

oh, and as for the "philosophy" part of it, it is just for background coloring, really has nothing to do with anything, and it looks like Smith read "Kant for beginners" to get a few ideas to throw in to the story. the main character happens to edit a philosphy zine or something.

i dont' care how wonderful the no. 1 african ladies detective agency (or whatever) is (and really, is there a lot of detecting needed in botswana or the kalihari desert?) this book is boring. dull and boring. and i have no desire to read anything else by this guy. i know everyone has a bad day and all that, but this soured me on him. each sentence of this book is a perfectly good sentance, but they don't link up to make a good story. they don't quite fit right, there is no flow. and actually, maybe it's me, but the meter and dialogue seemed a bit off, as if this was translated or something.

i didnt' like it. maybe if you like tepid, tame, quaint stories that take thier time, like a slow train through the countryside with a milquetoast view, than this is right up your alley. i wouldn't reccommend it though, you would spend your time better reading an agatha christie book and "Kant for beginners."

i am madly in love with tina fey. seriously.

i woke up today to the sound of my Eton Porche design P'132 am/fm/shortwave and xm radio, which is my alarm clock, conducted a quick toilett, annointning myself with a spritz of my Dolce and Gabanna parfume before donning my Armani wool blend suit, which i wear when i feel like dressing down and giving off a lazy bum appearance.

it was raining madly, the sky a menacing grey, angry heavy drops of rain pelting the ground like a hail of bullets from a stuka over world war II germany. i grabbed my trusty Burberry oversized umberella and headed out for a capuccino and a porcini and red onion omlette at my favorite local bistro.

i was immediately taken aback by the hellish sight that befell me, as if i had walked through alice's looking glass directly into a lovecraftian world of horror and the macabre. snakes. all around me were snakes. snakes of all sizes and breeds; asps, vipers, constrictors, the lot of them. what had caused this eerie phenomenon?

the streets were empty of traffic, human and machine, and other than the pulsing of the ground caused by the uncountable number of snakes, there was not one sign of life. i realized then and there that my whole reason for existence, the cosmic hand that caused the breakage of the condom my father, a traveling used shoe salesman, used on the night he made oh so sweet love to my mother, a ticket taker at the dollar movie theater, did so only so i could be born and live to this moment....the moment that I, Swanky McSmooth, would be the savior of the planet.

thinking quickly, i dashed, with the speed and grace of the bastard mutant child of a world champion boxer and a prima ballerina, back into my home. i had to think fast. suddenly, just like obi wan in the first star wars movie when luke was flying into the very heart of the death star, a vision appeared, giving much needed guidance. it was my grandmother, a tough old italian lady who was brought up on the hard knox streets of brooklyn during the depression. a crusty old woman who, much like the cheap toilet paper you get at the dollar store, was rough and tough and didnt' take shit off of anyone.

following her guidance, i took three of my best Henkle Chef knives, an old spring from a mattress that i had "used" until it could no longer support even the weight of the anorexic olsen twin, and some regular everyday gaffer's tape, commonly found on any set in hollywood. i quickly rigged a three pronged slicing machine, and donning my K2 Radical 100 inline Skates with big wheel technology, i glided my way out into the reptile infested rain soaked hell that my world had become and started dispensing some no shit, bad ass, Swanky McCool brand justice.

the last words of advice my spirited grandmother gave me before heading back to whatever eternity she was in was: remove the head, it's the only way to stop them.

i glided along the slick roads, chopping heads off of snakes, but there seemed to be no end. at one point, after a few hours, i was so tired, i had to stop and refresh myself with a vannilla flavored GU packet and some Gatorade Ice. as i regrouped my will and strenght, i lazily gazed at the seemingly eternal amount of snakes, and i caught a pattern. i noticed a concentration of snakes off to the east, and when looked at from the broad picture, it was a giant arrow pointing the direction that i realized i must journey. the source off this nightmare.

i skated hard and fast, chopping heads off of any snake i could as i went in the one direction, my goal. eventually, i realized what the vision had said. remove the head. she didn't mean the head of each snake, but the main snake, and i had found it. bloated and reeking, like anna nicole smith before the liposuction and the atrocious appearance on that award show, it lay before me. one large, black, evil snake. i realized my three knives were too small to do the job, but what my knives lacked in size, my heart made up in....um....heart. i jumped upon its scaly writhing body, the rain all but blinding me, and making it's skin more wet and slippery than a girl who has just been kissed by johnny depp. i skated my way up to its large head, the size of an all new Classic Mini Cooper, and threw my knives into it's eye, causing it to bow it's head in pain. when the head was close to my wet and aching body, i punched it, right in the forehead, just like i wanna do to all the fucktards who piss me off on a daily basis, and the force of that one blow, with all the pent up anger and frustration, felled the beast, rendering it more helpless than gary coleman playing one on one hoops against shaq.

i don't know which happened first, the death of the evil beast or the stopping of the rain and the emergence of the beautiful sun, but all at once, as if wakened from a dream, i realized the snake was dead, all its minions were slowly....for lack of a better term, "melting" into the ground, and the sky was clearing up like a teen ending his awkward acne years.

other than that, i had a pretty boring ass day.

i'm not responding to the comments cause i am not (in my fucked up little mind) really blogging just yet, all this doesn't count. so don't take it personal. i am actually thinking of disabling comments for a few reasons: 1 - i'm too lazy to respond; B - i dont' want people to feel obligated to say something and comment, it takes pressure off, can't you just read and enjoy; and thirdly, it feels (in my fucked up little mind) like a competition and becomes some sort of quota thing. that said i want to keep the comments so anyone who wants to comment can, if you want to tell me i am wrong or give your opinion on something, i don't want to impede that. so i might disable comments for a bit, until i am full on blogging in october. then again, maybe not. whatever.

so my new thing, when people say "thank you" i like to reply "mastercard" because, mastercard is so worldly and so welcome, so instead of saying "you're welcome" i can say "mastercard" and not only say you are welcome but compliment them on thier worldliness. most people don't get it though, which gives me the extra fun of explaining it, cause really, the fun is in the explanation.....

my other new thing at work is to sign all my work related emails "yours in christ, my name." i am not poking fun at christians or any of that, i am poking fun at the dumb tags people use, and to do that would throw everyone off. they would wonder if i turned born again or what was going on, and they couldnt' complain or stop me cause that would be some kind of religious persecution or whatever, and it can't be offensive to anyone, except maybe a satanist, and i dont' think we have any of those, although i wouldn't be surprised......


and i know i've said this before, but the blogging here will be intermitent, until october, when i am hopefully settled and ready and rarin to go.....

the loblolly pine is my favorite tree

you know the hotel bar they used in the movie "lost in translation"? that little jazz bar? i drank there. a friend of mine, joe mama, is leaving, so crusty mcfuckstain and i took him there for a goodbye cocktail. getting there was like indiana jones and the temple of booze. we had to solve some riddles, fight some pygmies, i had to use my bad ass animal tracking skills, we had to swing on vines across chasms when the rope bridge broke, etc etc, but we made it, and it was worth it, totaly.

we know where it is, it's on the 52nd floor of the park hyatt in shinjuku, and we knew what building the hotel is in (the hotel is in a huge ass office building), but once inside the building, we had to ascend to the bar, which proved a bit daunting. after a series of escalator rides that lead nowhere, we got on the trail, and had to walk a circuitous path, through a small boutique deli/bakery, through various lobbies, through some extremely cool and wierd library, or a room that looked like a library, it was like like the map room in lara croft's mansion, take two different elevators, and finally, we were there. it was spectacular.

the elevator doors opened and i swear i heard that "ah ahhh" angels sing on tv when someone opens up a treasure chest or gets a good idea. we were greeted by over freindly ass kissing staff, and, since we were there before 8 p.m. we didn't have to pay the $20 per person cover charge (bonus!). we rat pack-ed it, martinis and manhattens, (we each only had one, all drinks cost 17 dollors) listend to piped in jazz, took pictures sitting at the table and of the drinks (artistically crafted and swank as swank can be) , looked at the commanding view, etc etc. it was a real moment. and that was the thing....it was a moment.

the business guy (round eye gaijin) a few tables over eating and drinking, he most likely barely took notice of his surroundings, it was another hotel restaurant/bar for him. he was on an expense account, or he was used to the prices, but he probably didn't think anything of a $17 dollar drink, or a jazz bar on the 52nd floor. he was most likely used to that level of lifestyle, and it had become common place, everyday.

when you get a mcludicrous burger and super size fries at mcdonald's, it's not a noteworthy event, you are just getting a burger. you don't notice the tile floors, the smell of the cooking oil, piped in crappy music, whatever. and why should you? it's a common event. that is what this place is to some people, a common event. so "success" has it's price, you get so used to a certain quality that you no longer take pleasure in it, or appreciate it, it becomes routine, it loses it's "holy crap look at us!" feeling. i'm sure a daily diet of that tends to warp the sense of self being and worth and causes some to lose touch with the hard cold reality.

or maybe they do take pleasure in it, and it is not routine. maybe they enjoy it and appreiciate it as much as regular people do. i mean, really, swanky or not, it *is* just a bar on the 52nd floor.

disposable roses

she was a moon faced assasin of the soul, and why she chose him as her victim will never be known. perhaps she saw him as an easy target. he was, after all, like an egg: a tough looking exterior that was in truth fragile, and hid a soft center, as opposed to her being more like a peach: soft and sweet on the outside, hiding a gnarled, hard, bitter pit in her core.

she caught him on a rebound, and ensnared him in a trap so well devised he allowed himself to believe the lie that he wanted to end up with her in the first place. for years he tried to get rid of her. he told her outright it would end, but she would turn it around and he before he knew what happened, he would stay. he was unfaithful (but how can you be unfaithful to someone you don't really belong to anyway?) on numerous occasions, but out of "love" she always forgave him, showing how magnanimous she was to all who saw, when all he saw was a more vulpine creature each day. she would taunt him, hiding behind a joke, asking him why he stayed with her when he could have left anytime. but when he brought up leaving, she made sure it never happened.

how could he tell others she was cursed, evil, a parasite thriving off of his misery. they both had jobs that required business trips of up to three months, so they spent a good portion of each year seperated. these were brief respites to him, mini oasis in a desert of lonliness and despair. during these times he would flourish, lose weight, become strong and healthy, happy, enjoy hobbies, but when they were reunited, he would gain weight, get sick, anything he enjoyed ususally came to an end. he suddenly didn't have time for his hobbies or friends, his passions and pursuites, and although she would encourage him to continue, he could feel her will preventing any such nonsense. he often walked around humming a lilting tune, others thought he was happy, but only he knew it was a threnody to himself.

she would walk into the room and only then he would bang his head on an open cabinet that was closed moments ago, or if he were frying dinner the oil would spurt and burn him only when she entered the room. he would only get hurt when she was around, he would ruin a meal he had cooked perfectly numerous times before, or break something he cherished. she was bad luck, pure and tangible. her evil would seep into his dreams as she slept comfortably next to him. in the morning, he would awake sick and tired, and she would be refreshed.

but who would believe him? who could he tell this to? how do you tell people who have replaced thier religion and belief in the supernatural with science and skeptisism that you are married to a succubus? you don't.

and so he didn't, knowing that he could never leave. even if he managed to just up and walk out one day, change his name and move to south america, he knew her jealousy and hunger for his suffering would follow him to the farthest nook and cranny of the globe.

and so he smiled, and joked, and accepted his life on the cross, because really, how do you fight against something only you know exists?

SUNDAY MONEY by Jeff MacGreggor

Boogity boogity boogity, let's go reading!

So a guy who isn't really a hardore NASCAR fan at all ups and buys a motorhome and he and his wife (who sounds like the coolest chick on the planet) follow the NASCAR circuit like hippies following the greatful dead.

the book is a travel narrative based around stockcar racing, with the history of the sport and organization, anecdotes, interviews, and a regular guy's view of the culture. the less you know about NASCAR, the better, you will learn all about it. as long as you don't absolutely despise the sport, you will probably enjoy the hell out of this book.

the author is quite unbiased. he doesn't just praise NASCAR, he tells the good and the bad, and gives some insight into the whole shebang that touches on things i never even thought about, like how, weather you like it or not, if you buy anything at your supermarket, you are linked to NASCAR.

the book is well written, funny, poetic at times, and i honestly felt like i was living in his motorhome with him and travelling right there with him. the only people i might not reccommend this book to are the hardcore fans, who already know just about everything this guy talks about, but then again, they might enjoy this guy's opinion and experiences, so yeah, i would reccommend it to everyone i talk to. yeehaw!

scrotum if you got em

i know this guy with this smoking hot korean girlfriend who make him korean food and she is way sexy, even though she is a bit petite, and i tend to like a bit more meat on the bone....and i thought, damn, if i had a korean girlfriend, then i could be having crazy hot mad sex with a korean chick *AND* i could eat korean food a lot. then i thought, i wonder if korean guys in korea ever tell thier freinds "dude, i got to have crazy hot mad sex with this korean chick, and then she made me tasty korean food."

angry monkeys flicking feces

motherfucking cocksmoking bastards, the lot of em'

it turns out, i fucked up on the haloscan, and when i fixed it, i lost all comments. so when you come here and don't see your comments, don't get all upset or any of that, it has nothing to do with anything, other than i had to make some changes and i lost what i had. no need to re-comment or any of that. ok? ok.

still in the "getting settled" stages. i have much to say, but i'm kind of saving it up. it will leak out eventually.

i call my co-worker "Crusty McFuckstain" and have lots to gripe out him. you will get to read it all soon enough.

i am drunk right now.

felicitous collisions

many cultures, asian and some european, have that thing where you take off your shoes before entering a house, which makes a whole lotta sense really. you dont' want to track the dirt and mud and crap from outside all over your nice carpets or floors, do you tough guy? no, you don't. so it makes damn good sense. this, of course, has led to a higher sock market than, say, hawaii has, where they only wear flip flops.

well, wouldn't it be cool if there was a culture where you removed your pants when you entered a house? you come in, take off your pants, and have dinner, hang out, whatever. first off, i think it would help to bond with others a whole lot quicker, cause you would be so much more comfortable. also, it would be great for me to show off my cool skull and crossbones boxer shorts that glow in the dark. why do i have such cool boxer shorts anyway? no one sees them but me. if there was a culture that took off thier pants when you were inside the house, then i can flaunt my kick ass underwear, and the underwear market would soar like never before.

but what about those who prefer to go commando? well, there have been many a day where i walked out the door singing tom petty's "free fallin" using the words "free ballin" let me tell you, and i think that if i were to visit a house in a culture where i would have to take off my pants, that culture would probably be used to it, and going commando would be no big deal. nudity and genitalia swingin in the wind would be as commonplace as tits on a european beach, no big deal.

of course, then there is the whole "i don't wanna go over to bill's house, his floor is dirty and his carpet is nasty, and i dont' wear underwear, and the last time i was there i left with cheeto crumbs on my ass. so there is that whole side of the dynamic.

the other cool thing is, it would be hard to hide stuff, so if you are freinds with a kleptomaniac, you wouldn't feel as suspicious. and if you are a mob guy, you would be able to tell if the guy has a gun on his ankle or down his pants. also, you don't have to worry about spilling things on your pants and staining them, or getting them all wrinkled.

anyway, i still think it would be cool to take off your pants when you enter a house. but for now, i will enjoy at least taking my shoes off. really, it's a great idea and i don't know why everyone doesn't do it.

FREAKONOMICS, by Levitt and Dubner

if i told you the reason for the drop in crime was actually the legalization of abortion, you'd be all offended and incredulous. if i told you a gang that deals in crack is set up exactly like corporate america, just like macdonalds, or that the ku klux klan and real estate agents are comparable when viewed from their motives, you would think i was nuttier than the log of poop you flushed this morning.

well, self proclaimed "weakest guy in the world," super nerd steven levitt, can prove it. so, IN YOUR FACE, nay sayers. if nerds were cool, this guy would be brad pitt, johnny depp, and the lead singer of social distortion all rolled up into one. he uses economic principles, tools, and theories to find out what is really going on with things we take for granted or don't even think about.

how about this: all that crap you are doing as a parent is mostly a waste of time, and the little stuff you aren't even thinking about is what is shaping your child. whaddya think about that, smart guy? using alien technology (not really, but it might as well be to me) levitt, an economist who doesn't care about the economy or money or any of that crap, whips up algorithms and other mad science crap like martha stewart whips up sunday brunch, and uses assloads of data to back up his claims. ASSLOADS i tell ya...

the guy either can't write, or has no desire to write, so the book is actually written, or co-written at least, by stephen dubner (a tale of two steves), some new york journalist guy. the book is well and clearly written, entertaining, easily understood by morons like me, and makes me question the current logic about things, like why parents name their kids stupid ass names, and what effect it has on their overall outcome (explained in the book). if more books were written like this, more people would read.

i would definitely recommend this book, in a second, without a thought, to anyone who would listen. you don't' have to like, care about, or understand economics, it has nothing to do with econ at all. it has to do with the world that you deal with every freaking day of your life. the book gets your brain to get off it's ass, take a brisk jog around the park, maybe do a few reps on the lat pulldown machine, and you feel better for it when you are done.

the journey of a thousand miles begins with going to the bathroom first

you know how gandalf the grey fell into the big pit o' fire and was "lost" and emerged as gandalf the white, different but the same, transformed, etc etc? you know how annakin transformed into darth, and even though there was a bit of annakin left deep inside, he was different, but the same? you don't? so i am the geek here? well, anyway, they did, take my word for it, and so have i. the netwielding gladiator was me, and there is still a large part of him in me, but that persona is finished. i am different now. the kick ass page made by deek and helped by indeterminancy and everyone is wonderful, but i don't want that name back, i'm done with it. you all can do with it as you desire. it can stay up, it can be used, rock on with your bad selves, i am no longer he.

i don't want to start and stop and start and stop, i hate being jerked around, and i don't want to be the guy who does the jerking around either. by the end of this month, i may have to stop writing for about a month and i don't want to do that. on the other foot, i got shit i want to say. i have'nt told anyone about this yet, but since i have had three comments (one was deleted when i changed names and started the haloscan) i know the word is out. i'm not trying to hide, i just don't want a false start, i wanted to make sure i would be around when it started. i will not have a sitemeter, so i have no idea how many or who visit this site.

the other conundrum is thus.....i have two sites, this and "impaled teen productions." i was gonna use this as a place to do just book and film and other reviews, writing about bikes and cycling and such. the impaled teen bit was gonna be my main blog, with the day to day crap and ideas and stories and such. but i don't want two blogs, i just want one. i shall save the other one, i think, and use this one primarily, at least for now.

so here is the deal....if you happen to stop by and find this or whatever, feel free to tell whoever you want to, no problem. but i will write here sporadically, or maybe not at all, not for a while. i will resume full on no kidding late september/mid october, before halloween.

so this is an unofficial start. this is like the dress rehearsal, the product tests, the stretch before the run. i'm not saying anything about this place, not yet, but if you read this and you feel like telling whoever, go on, i don't mind. but i am not fully ready to rock out with my cock out, not just yet.