Soundtrack to the most tragic character I never made up on purpose

He is alone in a watchtower. Fog whistling in. Thoughts of big-bearded women in his head, gypsies dancing. Deep circles under his eyes, sunken, cigar smoke. A goatee like a thicket of ants. His wife has left him, he loves his kids on auto-pilot, he taught them to love God, he is sexually distraught for a mechanic. He's exploding cigarettes. Jameson forgot the egg nog. Greasy-kneed cargo pants. White and sad with a twelve-pack at his sneakers. There are no Christmas lights here, it's black. Jaundice headache starving. Blasting broken blues music and head banging weepily to it, long blonde slithers up and down. Bony shoulders. He's there overnight and his t-shirt is stained.

Hemingway wrote, "It is awfully easy to be hard-boiled about everything in the daytime, but at night it is another thing."

I will be honest

I watched this whole thing. All 21 minutes. Even through the theme song. It's unbearable, and this guy is never getting laid. He was pretty upset by the graphics in the 1980s.

However... biblical video games are fantastic. Biblical Candy Land, Noah first-person slingshooting cattle to death, Mother Mary carrying towers of soldiers on her head, Mother Mary throwing baby Moses in the water, true or false quizzes without questions...

Be gentle

I am going to be a brilliant filmmaker too. This was a very low budget production.



Edit: Hey xtranormal.com where's my blockbuster hit?? Banned.

Nothing personal

Our feelings of love are adequate in quality and quantity. I consider us a satisfactory match. You are a sufficient lover. We will competently pass another 365 days. I look forward to demonstrating these emotions again in the future. Thanks in advance for your consideration.

Regards,

Lay low, Celine

I go to a website to stream "Last Time Around" by Lay Low, and I click on the play button, and then it's Celine Dion's "Because You Loved Me."

What's the worst lag I've ever had? Trying to click the PAUSE II button on that fucking song. It could not have been worse if it was Shania Twain. The hourglass endured all the way to "You touched my hand, I could touch the sky."

I am always the last to know

Once upon a time, there was this guy I dated off and on. Tall and gangly and, despite his braces smelling like putrefying lo mein all the time, a handsome and charming fellow when he was not cackling. I do not miss your cackle. You did lose the braces and start brushing, though, and that was kind of you.

And it is to you I will continue to delegate this message. From me.

I GET IT NOW!!!!!!!!! I learned today what it is you've been trying to do all these years, flopping around on your heels like a trained seal and quivering those wild jelly bones all over the place. It is called the C-Walk. You may have heard of this if you are not white and sheltered and busy with Joan Baez records.

I apologize. It's a dance.





You didn't look like that... That's a nice thing to say, right?

What a hot opera

The Barber of Seville is coming to Denver:




Starring Saruman



And a hot guy


I am in love with the little drummer boy. So. Hey there, little drummer boy. Hey.

Farmer's Market Etiquette

1. Don't ask if there is vegetable oil in the bread. Maybe instead ask, "What oils do you use to make your bread?" If you ask, "Do you use vegetable oil in your bread?" you will indubitably receive one of three responses: "Uhhh ughhhhh I don't know," "Do we put what? Do we put WHAT?" or just a dirty look and an indiscernible twitch of the head. Organic ingredients could be things like organic vegetable oil, and Martha's Homemade Whole Grain may contain diammonium phosphate (fire retardant, cigarette additive), but fuck you for wanting to know. Fuck you consumer. Those are their babies in those bread baskets, you're trying to buy someone's babies.


2. Avoid tomato stands operated by short-haired gray-haired witches. They are all high. The lycopene turns their chemicals to assholes, makes them ignore you for ten minutes and then throw empty plastic bags in your face. Ask them if there's any vegetable oil in their tomatoes.


3. Be extremely nice to the people with the roasted chile peppers. They are the only friendly producers until you get to the cupcakes, and young girls teach you things, like the scratches mean a hotter pepper.


4. Ask from where their produce hails if they do not specify. I found out a lot of the things sold at one farmer's market in Colorado comes from Mexico.


5. Or maybe just don't go to farmer's markets in places called Cherry Creek, Maple Grovington, Chancellor Brook Esquire. 5. Maybe go to smaller farmer's markets. 5. Like ones in districts of suburbs with Olde or Little in the title. Here will be local farmers with local bounty, and it will be less volcanic with rude rich folk stepping on your toes and shoving you out of the way to get to the celery. The producers are friendly, you can have open informative chats, and they take great pride in what they have to offer.
Note: The woman with the $200/carton duck eggs will sell you jalapenos, and when you tell her you do not eat eggs, she will become extremely offended. "Well, WELP, there goes your protein," she will huff at you. This will be comical to you, and you will respect her obsessive unabashed passion for bird eggs.


Long ago, our ancestors were selling cigarettes at the Bedrock farmer's market:

Why are you hiding under all that water there?

This is the most unnatural thing that has ever made my heart skip. It's beautiful, but I don't know if it's right. Humans say, I don't know if it's right, but it's beautiful.


Kuroshio Sea - 2nd Largest Aquarium Tank in the World - Watch more Funny Videos


It will come to worse, but if the complete end of the natural order as we know it is in my time, I hope all the iron aviaries and the elephant rings are at the very least still homes to lush creatures who don't know to want any more.

Also I love the guy in the bottom right that sees the camera and suddenly can't stop flailing around like Ichabod Crane. Everyone else is so mellow. But this shining star... That's why common people don't even deserve to be extras. Okay, Yellow Shirt Guy, but just... walk to the ATM.

I want to know what ad agency Coca Cola uses

At the coffee shop this week, I was interviewed by Remax.com because the cameraman liked my bag:


They opened with, "Have you ever thought about owning a house?" So I opened with something like, "Not in fucking Colorado."
My perkiness had mislead them. I was hyper and smiling and cynical throughout.
They moved on to fill in the blanks:
Money is... trouble.
Newspapers are... dying.
Technology is... trouble.
They wanted to know what I thought of my generation, and I told them we were disappointing, and they looked so alarmed that I added, "But I have hope?"
Listen: I do not have hope. In us. Maybe in myself.
They asked what I searched for most on the internet, and I said something like oh definitions to interesting words I don't know.
They asked me what my favorite song was, and I said "I graduated early so that was my favorite part," because I somehow misheard them to say "How was your senior year?"

Remax is so crestfallen with me. When the video of my interview hits their website, they'll probably only keep the part where I said "I like Bob Edwards" and cut the rest. Or keep the favorite song moment followed by a mash-up of all my different twitchy wild flailing gestures so I look disabled.

The ironic part about it? If they would have interviewed me on something related to selling houses*, like, what did I think of my neighborhood? I would have told them that I love living in Capitol Hill. I love the city. I love my century-old apartment building, the brick, the courtyard, the backyard, the garden, my overprotective manager who ushers me away from drunk men under arrest and flexes muscle at my boyfriend before he knows it's my boyfriend waiting suspiciously for me on the steps.
I would have said that I find the history in the vines and thatched rooftops of the unique old houses, mansions, all around me to be rich, breathtaking, especially in the summer when the green trees are pushing up everywhere. They would know riding my bike among fellow bikers -- cute girls on old-fashioned bikes and guys wearing nerd helmets -- gives you a really great sense of anonymous community, like a movie theatre where you're all seated away from one another and all laughing in unison. They would walk short distances to the places up and down 13th Ave that I recommend: City O City, the vegan bakery/bar with the orgasmic sweet potato cinnamon rolls and buffalo seitan wraps; The Gelato Spot, best flavors being the soy chai tea and the Oreo and the chocolate chile; Buffalo Exchange, the priciest thrift store until you hit Boulder, where you could actually find another Buffalo Exchange, and that never stops me from buying Lewis Carroll skirts from both Buffalo Exchanges when I can. The art museum is only a few blocks away, and the Clyfford Still exhibit was the best.


Now they'll only know the one coffee shop across the street where they asked me instead to name the top three or five places I liked to shop online, and I said nowhere I guess, and they asked if I was brand-loyal to anyone, and I said no, and they asked what google ads I was most attracted to, and I said I did not like advertising -- after another horror-struck quiver of the woman's huge eyes, I added not for merchandise anyway but I do like music.


And now I am remembering that I love Coke commercials. I could never drink the stuff, it burns my throat like bad urine, but their advertising is very amazing. Good job, billionaire scum! You find evocative artists and buy their souls.









Argentina




The eighties





*Obviously not "would I buy a house" because give me a break. I'm not trapping myself anywhere.



Dear Burnie: they made me call you on camera because they wanted a shot of me on my iPhone, and I'm sorry I forgot I have your face as a picture ID and now you have to thank me for making you a movie star, too.

I would be the creepiest wedding DJ

Hire me for your creepy wedding. Here's a sample of my work for the ladies:






From my Wedding DJ Catalogue:

Some of the weddings I've done in the past:

I don't care about the song

But the video is great.

Then I'll fucking do it

I had no idea Roseanne Barr sang backup for Black Kids:

An entry from the future

January 01, 2017: 8:35pm:

Swing You Sinners!

At my mother's today, I saw and heard the worst cat in history imprisoned in the living room. She was mewing, which is a sound from hell, and the doors were wobbling. The BEST cat in history was sitting on the other side, looking placidly at the door, my prideful unimpressed Mufasa. His eyes were neither pleading nor troubled; it was more like, "Why though?" Eventually, he walked away. I followed him past the wobbling doors and up the stairs to take a shower, because fuck that cat, I hope it chokes on the couch.


I haven't showered at my mom's in ages. When I turned the water on, the stream felt brutal to me, a delicious forceful steady punch. My shower at home is more of a dribble, like a dying dog. It made me wonder about how I live. I am sure others have pressure deficiencies with their showerheads, and I know I have brothers and sisters out there who must choose between freezer burn and The Melting Point (because "pleasant" is a make-believe temperature Amen).


But do others become too generous with the application of shaving cream on one leg, and in a panicked effort to conserve, start rubbing their legs together in the shower like a grasshopper? Do people murder fruit flies with foaming bathroom cleaner because they forgot there was a yam behind the coffee maker? Do they usher house flies in groups of three out of the front door by means of the light in the hall (do not leave your window open in the summer)? Do I have kin in the viciously sputtering water heater that turns on when it is 75* outside, but lies dormant through the roasting 20* waking hours until my sleepy icicle eyes begin to droop because BY GEORGE this is the premium stage for a hurricane? when you're exhausted from the flies, and the foreigners hooting drunk lullabies and hate crimes outside your window, which, honestly, is the best part about anything?


Well I could be drinking mud water, and so could you, so grow up.











I never told anybody about that cat. It's cool.








Update, May 30th 2009: "because BY GEORGE this is the premium stage for a hurricane?" What a stupid fucking sentence. I wrote it and after only a month it took me a long minute to understand it.

Mood: overstimulated

I am not sure what chain of events lead me to Omegle.com, but I went there...


You're now chatting with a random stranger. Say hi!
Stranger: hi
You: It says I can share personal details if I like
Stranger: asl?
You have disconnected.



You're now chatting with a random stranger. Say hi!
Stranger: hi ow are you
You: Have you ever dropped your cell phone in water?
Stranger: hi how are you today?
Stranger: yes i have
You: That is how I am doing
Stranger: ah ok
Stranger: so
Stranger: what happened
You have disconnected.



You're now chatting with a random stranger. Say hi!
You: Yeah
Your conversational partner has disconnected.

My dewey-eyed Disney bride, what has tried swapping your blood with formaldehyde?

Monsters?

dijo el Sombrerero loco

I would really like to see Sileni. And for everyone I know to listen to My Hands Burn by Nataly Dawn, via her Myspace: /natalydawn.

NAPS ARE SAD

On days where you are alone in your apartment and have enough time to dedicate eleven and a half hours to In Cold Blood, start to finish, boring longwinded 150-page conclusion included
when you realize everybody is an asshole and you are only close to one person on the planet who's not your mother
laughing at even Robert Downey Jr.'s impressions of Charlie Chaplin onscreen
watching Flight of the Conchords episodes three and four on alternate repeat
and all you've had to eat this day is Flamin' Hot Cheetos and a super chocolate chip cookie
and you're on Livejournal
after painting a painfully Easter-colored owl shaped like a Christmas tree
3am:


that's loneliness, folks.

I wrote this letter to a friend

It is called Flower, and it might seem boring, but it is the most stimulating damn thing I have ever know. You move the controller up and down and over your continental shoulder to steer this one petal with the wind, and as you heal more fields/gorges/what the fuck, your tail begins to cluster bigger and longer with all differently colored flower petals (and the flowers make different instrumental sounds as you bloom them).












I know, it's kind've a guy thing. Anyway the point of this post is for you to find the grammar mistake.

hole