Thursday, July 31, 2008


number twenty five entered the game with a wave of butterflies in his stomach.
he knew that this first time out was do or die.
this was the careere maker.
ultimately, this would be the game that decided his life.
would he get married? would he have kids?
would he be able to live a life with some kind of meaning?
or would number twenty five crash and burn like the 24 before him. this was the time. the time of men.
the whistle blew, and he started to fuck...


The wind on the bridge crashes into a semi.  Like a thunderbox.  Clyde walks the streets on the most torrential day of many years.  Gluten-free assholes and high priced wicker.  Why anybody would pay 50-plus dollars for wicker is beyond him.  Can the economy possibly support such faggotry?  Is this the kind of question that should be blowing through his mind on such a gusty day? 


Smokes are his solace.  So many stupid choices in life and it all comes down to a brand of cigs. 


“That’s America, baby,” the gas station attendant says.  “Choice.  We all choose whether we wanna’ die with lights or menthols.”


The wind is the only thing on Clyde’s mind as he takes another drag from a newly-opened pack.  The wind and its relation to the busty dumpling he met at the party the night before.


Wednesday, July 30, 2008


I am sorry. I have been lost, lost in a sea of effervescent thoughts
and crystallized doubts. I hesitate because of fear, and fear is also
what keeps me on the path.



He broke the seal and began the test. it seemed to go on forever.
82 years.
then he died.
everyone finishes the same way.
not everyone passes, though...


Cats will play with anything.
They’re not finicky enough to resist. 
Take this dynamite for example. 
Or this open flame. 
Or even this old Atari 2600. 
Man, look at him go. 
My last cat never got that far on Pitfall 2.


Tuesday, July 29, 2008


he thought to himself as he lay there besides her, his fingers still moist with her womanly juices-
he thought how easy it would be to poison her.
somehow, that made him love her even more.


           In this rarely-seen director’s cut, the nerds of the comic book convention don’t just get back at their oppressors, they actually murder them.  This cut was seen only twice as part of a test screening at the old Klondike.  After both screenings, the crowd unanimously agreed that the ending was a bit harsh.  The brutality of the murders was one thing.  The fact that the massacre lasted for 35 minutes was another.

         In the end, the character of Deerdorfe was softened just enough to make him not ‘loose it.’  And, along with the elimination of the bloodbath ending, the title reflected the tamer, softer, more urbane tone of the film.

         “Goofball Squad” grossed $700 million on its opening weekend and became the 3rd highest grossing film of all time.


Monday, July 28, 2008


that didn't go the way I planned...


All of the first dates sweaty affairs. 
Nerves and heat. 
That’s all I remember of them. 
The rush came over me like a thousand spider bites on my forehead,
heating up. 
I attribute all of my failed, romantic exploits to the heat. 
The sweatier on the first day, the bigger the inevitable train wreck.

It makes me nauseous
to think of all the wasted perspiration.


Sunday, July 27, 2008

Prayer for those in a rut (26)

i'm going to bed. i've done all that i can today to forget that tomorrow will suck, so i might as well go to be so I can face it. this is all my fault, granted, but i don't have to like it- i mean, when have i paid enough?

i don't want to wake up and hate the day. i want to wake and rock. wake and rock.


Callousness.  That’s what it is.  Sheer callousness.  We’re not calling the man evil.  We’re not even calling him a bad man.  It’s callousness, plain and simple.  His way with people, you see?  I mean, can’t any of you see that?  If the Committee nominates him as team leader, you might as well say good-bye to this team as it is.  That’s all we’re saying.


Okay, does anybody else feel the same as the Lurker?  Anyone?  We have a nomination on the floor, people.  If no one else can give due cause why Red Razor isn’t fit to take over as team leader, well, then the motion carries.  Anyone?  Going once?  Going twice.  Fine, then.  Let it be here noted that as of this hour, Red Razor is the new team leader of the Freedom Committee.  Now, onto other business.


Well, thanks a fucking lot, you Goddamned cowards!  We just ushered in Hitler into this place!  We all talked about this!  Every last one of you bitched and moaned about this bastard!  All of you coming to me for advise or moping about how shitty the guy was to you!  ‘Oh, Lurker, how do we get Razor out of here?’ ‘Oh, Lurker, he’s awful!’ Well, fuck all of you bozos!  I’m walking!  ‘Cause evidently I’m the only smart one left!


Lurker, please!  Sit down.  It’s officially been decided.  Let’s not make too big a thing out of this.


Fuck you, Harold!  I’m joining the Army of Evil.  At least they know how to get things done!


Saturday, July 26, 2008


what is up with that giant bird?
oh shit! a giant clam!
this place is fucked! try to get Sinbad on the pnone again, so he can save us.
"Here I'm is! Booty, booty. Booty!"
No! Not that sinbad! why do you even have his number!?


          Clyde finally got his wish on his 38th birthday.  It’s the wish he’d made for years, but this year it manifested itself.  He’d always wanted to have a birthday where, somehow, every birthday present he’d ever gotten could suddenly appear before him (along with whatever lame presents he’d be getting on the year that it happens).  And this year he got his wish.  Somehow a hole had ripped in both time and space and, coincidentally, linked his current space in time with every single July 7th he’d ever celebrated.  Every G.I. Joe action figure, every Star Wars playset, every record, cassette or stereo he’d ever gotten.  There.  Right in the middle of his living room amidst the paltry collection of gift certificates and ties and books he’d gotten on this day.  And sadly, he reveled in his fortune instead of thinking about the younger version of himself, who would not be having a happy birthday in each year that these toys were ripped from, one by one.  A younger Clyde who would be without these things.  Clyde didn’t care about his younger self.  He simply sprawled out in the middle of his living room, clutching his favorite, two foot tall Shogun Warrior as his heart stopped beating.


Friday, July 25, 2008


i had a cooking show once.
it was pretty awesome.
i made all sorts do you call em'?

i put them on meats and pastas.
meats AND pastas!

i know.


Windswept hair and white teeth and all the hip clothes in the world couldn’t help Darren become any less dead when the hail of bullets ripped through his suped-up Cadi.  All of the #1’s awarded for ‘Hottest Bod,’ ‘Sexiest Newcomer’ or ‘Nicest Ass’ in all of the gossip rags over the past year of his quick incline were null and void once his heart stopped beating.  Certainly his greatest trait – those drop-dead baby blues – was on display before the coroner arrived.  They stared straight up into the sky, which was barely matched by their radiance.  That tight six-pack does him very little good either.  Luckily the $290 button down he wore didn’t clash with the bullet holes and all the blood that gushed from it.  Wow, there was a lot of blood.  Oh, what a waste.  Not of talent.  God, no.  His most important trait.  His beauty.  Shit, I hate the fact that the ugly people have another victory under their belts.  They haven’t won yet, Darren.  I swear to you.  It’s time to do something drastic.  Like firebomb another DMV or a Denny’s.


Thursday, July 24, 2008

Lil' Gojira (29)

there was a godzilla in the sink.
it was trying to get at me- fire lazers at me.
i kept running the hot water until it washed doen the drain, then i sprayed some lysol in there.
those godzillas always get in when Chris comes uo to visit.
when i open the door, they get in and run around the floor.
i hate then.


                Rough day?

            Yeah, I don’t want to talk about it.  It was fucking Cloudmaster.

            Jesus.  He still pulling that fake Russian accent thing?

            I guess.  I really didn’t stick around long enough to get an earful.

            So, you just let him loose?

            Can I eat?  I didn’t want to talk about it!

            Honey, I know Cloudmaster’s a lightweight when it comes to the Freedom Committee’s rogues gallery, but you can’t just ignore him.  He’s willing to hurt somebody.

            Don’t know think I know that?

            Yes!  Of course you do.

            I left a couple of kids to take care of him.  It’s fine!

            Kids?  What kids?  Which kids?

            I don’t know.  Red Razor’s sidekick and some other little asshole.

            Are you serious?

            They’re reserve Committee members!

            Kid Razor’s 12 years old!  13, tops!

            Well, nobody else was showing up!  I put the call out!  What else was I supposed to do?

            Kick the shit out of Cloudmaster!  That’s your job!

            How the fuck am I supposed to kick the shit out of a guy who floats around in an automated cloud?  Huh?  You tell me that!

            I don’t know, Jerry.  That’s what you’re supposed to figure out.

            You’re right.  You’re right!  I’ll just go back out there . . .

            Well, no!  Wait!  Finish your lasagna!  Jesus!

            Goddammit, Liz!  What the fuck?  You want me to go back out there, but you want me to eat here!  How am I supposed to do that?

            Settle down!  Remember your blood pressure!

            You treat me like such a child sometimes.  I thought you’d be happy that I made it home – on time, might I add – for lasagna night!

             I am, Jerry.  I really am.  Finish your lasagna.

            God, why do we do this?

            It’s not even a fight, Jerry.  Really!

            Why do we dress up like kids on Halloween and beat the snot out of idiots who are just as stupid as us?

            Ugh!  That again.

            Yes, “that again!”  It’s a valid question, Liz!

            Jerry, I’m serious.  Finish the fucking lasagna.

            Yes, dear.


Wednesday, July 23, 2008


the project was related to population control.
it didn't have an official name, only a number- 30.
the government was not related, at least, not the puppet democracy that most Americans were fooled by.
all the right shadow groups had signed off, then disavowed the plan.
no one was sure what the other was doing. this was the plan.
here is what we know for sure

T f d.

t r d 6. 48


homes. In addition,

lxxxxxxxxxxxxxxo taken.




The ‘other’ Chris was not the ‘real’ Chris.  We let him enter the apartment anyway and use the bathroom.  When he came out, he told us the stories of Iraq and comas and purple hearts.  Everybody wondered how the ‘other’ Chris got into our party and I didn’t have the heart to tell them that it was me.  I had to take the ‘other’ Chris up to the roof to smoke with the ‘real’ Chris in order to get rid of him.


We got rid of him, but he’s got my number in his phone, so I expect a call any day now.


The firewater flavored with watermelon gives me a silver tongue. I can speak like a fucking Toastmaster and get rid of just about any Chris that comes my way when I have the juice in me.


Tuesday, July 22, 2008

You didn’t have to be stupid

I have a dream that one day someone will rise up and wipe the idiots
from the face of the planet. The stark justice of my side arm will
punish those too stupid to live. I would look down from my pedestal
and laugh. The wind would course around me, shifting dust and trash.
My boot propped defiantly upon the skulls of those who have c crossed
me will be iconic. When they call out to me between sobs and tears
asking, "Why?" I will only have one response.

"You didn't have to be stupid."


The first person into the room you shoot, immediately.
the second peron in, you force to sit with the dead body for a while. then you start to question them. if they still give you shit, you point the gun at their head.
"you want what he got?"
they'll say no, unles they're a tough guy.
the thing is, this plan is flawed by the fact that the first guy in may be the one with the info.
then, here is what you do:
shoot the second guy, then find a person from each of their families. force them into the trunk, then drive to the bodies.
make the family members go into the room. with the bodies.
make them watch you shit.


            Dr. Brainstorm’s teeth made a clinking sound as they hit the sidewalk next to the broken-down, smoking mecha-walker he had previously occupied.

            “Get up, shitbag,” Red Razor said with a growl.

            “Wait a minute.  Wait a minute,” Brainstorm replied, trying to kill time as he regained his balance.  “Fine, fine.  I’ll go quietly.  Just let me get acclimated.”

            Razor slammed the toe of his boot into Brainstorm’s gut, sending the teeth-spitter back onto the pavement.  Crowds had already gathered, but by now the cheers for Red Razor had died down.

            “I said get up, shitbag,” repeated Red Razor, this time with more animosity.

            Blood coughed out of Brainstorm’s mouth as he gasped for air, holding his stomach.  He began to stand again, his knees wobbling.

            “Alright,” he wheezed,” Alright, just don’t . . .”

            With that, Razor kicked him back into submission.  As Brainstorm lay there on the street next to his mecha-walker and his teeth, the crowd stood there, stunned.  No one did anything to stop this.  And it went on for another hour.






Monday, July 21, 2008

Got any sauce for that?

It was so good. It was awesome.

What was?

The tacos, man. The tacos.

I hear that tacos are an aphrodisiac in China.

That's stupid.

I know, but so is your mom.


Riot Act Prime (32)

Joe: Also known as brother subliminal. Special reaper on charge from the angel of death her cute little self, taskedto take out the right people, that is, those that refuse to come quietly. he also leads Riot Act.

Johnny Haunted House: The teams science officer and second in command. has the ability to produce fully realized haunted house from thin air, thouh he rarely does it anymore.

Hillary; Also known as Monster Girl. takes care of hitting the big things- mainly monsters. when she's not a sweet 14 year old girl, she is normally an 8 foot tall , green and scaly, creature bashing dynamo. there is evidence that she can grow larger, and possiby breath lazers.

Trent: Trentenkhamen is an adroid member of the team. he is the weapons steward. previously, he was part of a n android army waiting in an orbitting satelite to bring forth the reign of Cryothep, unfrozen mummy from the future. but that didn't work out- yet.

Ethan: Ethan is Joe's best friend, possibly the smartest member of the team, and an asian fighting Cock. he doesn't fight other chickens, but dogs and larger animals.


Coarse winds on the bridge and the Charger still hasn’t sold.  You smoke that last cigarette down to its very core.  Toss out the lines and they’re spent just like change.  And the girl that you love gets much wiser than you, like a kite that’s been trapped in a cage.  Books on sports and barbells and differing points of view.  The street out your window might as well be a dragstrip.  Run-ins with lawmen, you punch the clock hard.  Happiest you’ve ever been, but it’s so Goddamned hard.  So, the cherry pops off and it’s time to go in.  Is this really the life?  Drunken college girls stagger from the door that you enter.  And the steps seem one story more each time that you climb them.  Now the smokes are all gone, but tomorrow’s another.  When the ball rolls, it starts all over again.


Sunday, July 20, 2008


The last time I was held down on the hood of a cop car and asked to
calm down was the last time I saw her. Yes, she was dressed all in
dark blue, packing heat, and cuffing me, but we had a connection. She
even told me her name. Miranda Write. It could have been Writes. I
don't know.

Riot Act earth 5 (33)

Mystic Maverick: Old west buckaroo and gunslinger that weilds magic rather than pistols

The Conductor: Using the posers of Blackest Alchemy, the connducter is able to control all things locomotive

Apollo Commanche: Thrown here from a far flung future where the Redman still rules North America, the Astronaught uses his technology to fight for good alongside the paleface as he tries to find a way home.

Old Joe: Rogue prospector Old Joe uses his cunning to lead the team and his genius at prospecting to procure all the pieces of the golden crown of Montexumaqual


          The bruiser pulled me from my own apartment and into the foul-smelling hallway while the smaller cops looked on.  I could feel the odd confusion in my face as I was frisked.  That non-threatening face I’d make whenever I didn’t want trouble or felt like I was being misrepresented.  The face of diffusion.  A face of pity in the lost hope that maybe the one doing me wrong would feel sorry for this sad sack, this stupefied manchild.

            It’s surprising how things get compressed in your mind, even when it’s happening.  It happened so fast.  The first thought was back taxes I hadn’t paid.  But the neurons fired across my brain and synapses fired.  “They don’t send cops when you’ve evaded the IRS.”  The one thing that didn’t occur to me when it happened was that I could be the pigeon in all of this.  Without explanation, proof or motive, I was being fingered.  A patsy.  These things were going through my girl’s mind as she stood in our doorway, watching it all unfold, aghast.

            I don’t know which nimwit in this building thought they heard me beating her.  I could understand if we were watching something that might’ve flooded out into the hall other than ‘Spellbound.’

            The one thing I do know is that the lesbian sociopath below us in 202 is getting a golf club up her ass.


Saturday, July 19, 2008

The Queen calls

They say it's a come back, but I really don't think I ever left. Sure
I dropped off the face of the planet for a while. No one heard from
me, but I was here. I was watching. Observing. I knew the time would
come and I would need to finish my work. It isn't pretty work, but
work that must be accomplished never the less. The Green Queen demands
it. She calls for blood and I must obey. She is the most jealous of
all the eight queens.
Judgment for you has been swift. The time is now foul beast!


the bacteria could feel her around itself- clipping coupons, jogging, watching Grey's Anatomy. it tried to multiply enough to kill her, but it didn't work. this one was a fighter.

it decided that there was only one thing to do.

it began the treacherous journey to her brain


Sikumi knew that $500 was a lot of money.  Even back then.  There were always rumors around the Kyoto streets that spun through the air on autumn breezes.  Sikumi had heard of the red van that housed the crew of the wildly successful ‘Sweet Dumplings Surprise Gang’ TV show.  They’d spot a willful, young girl on a corner or near a bus stop and drag her into the red van, practically out of her shoes, it was such a hurry.  The sexed-up, teasing antics that would go on inside the red van would make the girl not only $500 richer, but either shame her or propel her to the heights of stardom.  It all depended on what sometimes sick, sometimes pleasurable act she would have to perform in front of the red van’s inner camera.  And how the city of Kyoto voted on the next day, of course.  The acts she’d seen on ‘Sweet Dumplings’ at times shocked her mother into crying hysterics and caused her father to have to leave the room.  But Sikumi couldn’t take her eyes off the TV.


With her white, thigh-high stockings, her cute ponytails, her thick Manga boots, her Budaha facepaint and her Hodonai skirt on, they’ve got to take notice of her on Moriyama Street.  It’s such a nice day.  Where is that red van?


Friday, July 18, 2008


the bacteria was growing inside her. there wasn't much she could do. she could feel it crawling around inside her veins. it was a scratch he couldn't itch; a pain she couldn't soothe. this was it. she was near mad from the pain at this point.

she wanted to die.


Ms. Tuckett’s yard was never to be played on.  No cutting through to Jimmy Dowling’s.  No bike riding.  No playing in her yard.  It was never worth playing on when her gold, tan Caddy wasn’t there anyway.  One forceful game of ‘Swing the Statue’ would leave you bruised and bleeding from the quill-like grass that she’d obviously planted in that yard of hers.  There was a purpose to it all.  The oblong way her house was positioned on the corner of O’Hara and Bloom.  The strange, bumpy cement in her driveway.  And more specifically, that hard, sharp grass.


When her curlered head would poke out of the back window, she wasn’t scolding us, she was warning us.  But was that it?  Was she just looking out for our safety because she knew that her grass could potentially bleed us dry?  I don’t know.


What I do know is that during a nightly game of ‘Spotlight,’ hers was the only yard that nobody would ever check.  It’s where I always hid out and stared hypnotized at that white glow that burned from her bedroom.


I bet she never slept in those curlers.


Thursday, July 17, 2008

Riot Act roster: Earth 3 (36)

Joe: man with the power to control the dead. works with a secret religious sect. leader of the team.

Casketman: Strong man of the team. named for his past fighting with caskets- that is, ounching caskets that were launched at him in the ring.

Monster Girl: Stricken with a horribly bisabling facial diseas. she's the computer whiz

Sin Simian: the 500 lbs gorilla- literally. Genius intelligent ape, former science officer. currently incarcerated for multiple murders. had taken to wearing the skinned face of a young girl over his own.


                Upon watching it again, some 20 years later, I’m still left with questions: 

Why did Swayze even bother with Baby when Baby’s mom and sister were so bangably hot?

Why is every stupid song in this flick so anachronistic?  Would “She’s Like the Wind” have really sounded like that in the 60’s or whenever the fuck this was supposed to take place? 

Were we really so repressed as a society that kids weren’t allowed to ‘grind’ to their favorite Solomon Burke song?  Yes, they were ‘dirty dancing,’ but they weren’t ‘dirty fucking.’

And why didn’t Orbach just shoot all of those dirty greasers in the face and end that shit?

          I don’t know.  Maybe I’m missing the whole point of the movie (if there ever was one).  I guess I like it better when it was called ‘Grease.’


Wednesday, July 16, 2008


she was afraid to say anything to her father about what happened at dinner.
they just drove in slience, through the neighborhood.
it was quiet and dark. everyone was either in bed of preparing to be.
she still smelled like clam chowder.
he never looked at her, and she just stared from the window.
they didn't have far to go now...
she was nervous, her stomach rumbled. she knw that she should say something. she felt she had to patch things up.
if she didn't, they'd go to bed angry and this fight would hang over them for weeks.
this was what needed to happend- she neede to talk to him like an adult, and apologize. maybe then he'd apologize as well. he stared at the road ahead and continued silently. the road began to blur.
there was a rining i his ears. it got louder and louder...


               The Con Job Pizza delivery sign hangs half magnetized onto the side of Geo Prism as it pulls near the back end of the bus stop in front of Ollie’s apartment building.

            “Where’s Aaron?” Ollie asks, retrieving a $20 bill from his pocket and leaving the bus stop bench that reads ‘No Longer in Service’ in bright yellow on the backing.

            Thad, a gawky, mullet head, steps from around the driver’s side, leaving the Prism idling, pizza box in his hand.  He seems all too comfortable in his Con Job Pizza uniform, a black and white striped outfit reminiscent of a 1930’s convict.

            “Aw, he’s in Milwaukee,” Thad says.  “Grandad had a stroke or something.”

            “Shit.  When’s he, uh . . . gonna’ be back, you think?”

            “I dunno’, man.  Sounded bad.”

            The two stand there as the Norwegian death metal from the Prism drowns out the passing traffic.

            “That’s, uh . . $13.50,” Thad says meekly.

            “Yeah.  Wait.”

            Ollie stares up the busy street, glaring far off into the distance, beyond where the bridge connects Deerdorfe to Loon Way.

            “Shit,” Ollie sighs.

            “It’s $13.50.”

            “Yeah, yeah.  I know,” Ollie says handing over a 20.  “Just gimme’ back three.”

            Thad hands him the Con Job Pizza box, three dollars and starts to head back to the Prism.

            “Hey, thanks,” Thad says.

            “Wait!,” Ollie yells.  He starts back over to the bus stop bench.  “You wanna’ stick around for a little bit?  Hang out?”

            “Oh, jeez.  I don’t know.  I gotta’ . . .”

            “Cause that’s what me and Aaron usually do.”

            Thad laughs nervously.

            “No, really,” Ollie exclaims.  “It’s one me.”  He sits on the bench.  “Thing is, we always sit here, eat some pizza and wait for this gorgeous, little, retro girl to come up Deerdorfe on her bike.  It’s like clockwork.  I’m sorry, I don’t know your name.”

            “It’s Thad.”

            “Thad?  Really?”

            “Yeah.  Why?”

            “No.  No reason.  I’m Ollie.”

            “Yeah, I know.  Aaron’s mentioned you before.”

            “He has?”

            “Yeah.  He said the same thing you just told me.  You guys sit here and eat a Con Job, waiting for some girl in 70’s clothes to come peddling by.  Yeah.  He’s told me.”


            “Naw.  I gotta’ girlfriend, so . . “

            “Well, so do I!”

            “Naw, I gotta’ get back to work.  Um, thanks though.”

            With that, Thad hops in and drives away.  The Prism spits gray smoke from the tailpipe, bathing Ollie in it as it putters away.  Ollie’s eyes fix upon every biker that passes.  He looks at his watch.

            “She’s late,” he thinks.

            He opens the Con Job Pizza box and stares down into its shiny, drippy contents.  He wonders if Aaron’s grandfather is alright and if, somehow, Aaron’s not being here at the bus stop somehow jiggled the universe out of whack.

            “She’s never late.”


Tuesday, July 15, 2008


where are we? we waited for three hours like he asked, now i say we get out of hear and figure out where we are.

he's out there waiting, and if we leave this room he'll kill us for sure. i'm not moving.

i haven't heard a sound, a peep in hours. he's gone. do you really think he'd wait out there for three hours just so he could kill us?

i don't know. i don't intend to find out.


do what you want. I'm not moving.


Johnny Greenutzz had no real occupation.  Odd jobs occasionally, but nothing permanent.  He was known to rock the party and rock the party right.  He played a mean drum and when the drum was not readily available, he did his dance – a strange hybrid of the James Brown strut and the Flavor Flav jive.  Then, just about every move from ‘Ice Cream Castle’-era Time.  Apart from the dancing and drumming, his only other talent was acting.  Greenutzz starred in a number of indie films back when that was a novel idea.


Greenutzz was a jack of all trades and master of none.  Which made it even more weird when he decided he wanted to pursue crimefighting.


Those damn kids

"Ehg? What did you say youngster?" The old man asked as he rocked
slowly on the front porch.

"We wanted to know about the vampires," One of several young boys
called up to the porch.

"No vampires. No werewolves. No mummies. No nuttin," He said with a
wave of his hand.

"What about the rumors?"

"No rumors, just facts."

"What are the facts old man?" another boy called out.

So swift the boys didn't see it, the old man lashed out with his
cane, and popped the boy across the leg. The boy cried out in pain.
"The facts are that I will kick all your asses if you aren't careful."

Monday, July 14, 2008


they ate all they could and then they rested.
the woods were all around them. they couldn't wait to slepp it all off.
the squirels and the raccoons. the salamanders.
they ate really well.
but now it was time to sleep- to dream about their nutty forest adventures.
they were not bears. not anymore...

Tears of joy

"Wanna time travel?"


"I know how to do it."


"Well what?"

"Well, tell me."

"I would, but it will kill you."


"No really, I would have to kill you."



            The Gorgeous Goofball is an ever-present fixture in the acting community.  He is generally in his 20’s to 30’s and about as dumb as a bag of rocks.  However, calling him talentless is being a bit shortsighted.  The one thing he has mastered in his short years is the ability to ‘wow’ a casting director.  He’s that Jim Carrey-esque type.  A chiseled jaw line, slightly muscular in the right places, but not too muscular.  Always in whatever’s fashionable that season.  But most importantly, he does everything he can to make the casting person laugh, even if it’s a lame impression of an SNL character from five years ago.  He ‘pops,’ he ‘locks,’ he finds a way to work in a pratfall when seemingly appropriate.  All of these types of attempts shield the fact that there’s nothing truly behind any of this.  And the casting director eats it up with a spoon (especially if the casting director is female).  “Oh, he’s cute AND funny,” she thinks.  “Whatta’ catch!  Wonder if he’s single.”

            But when the real work is in front of him, when he really needs to nail that role, he falls short.  Again, he’s not talentless, he simply lacks any sort of originality, especially if the role calls for comedy.  He is a shell, a shill.  His act is, in a sense, like his existence.  Hollow.  Sadly, he never heard the expression, “Comedy isn’t hard.  It’s just hard for the idiots.”

            All of his bits are store-bought and secondhand.  And the casting director will wonder what happened between his hilarious audition and the finished product.  Or she’ll be so snowed by the Gorgeous Goofball’s good looks that it won’t really matter anyway.  The finished product will be weakened because when one is gorgeous and seemingly funny as hell to those who don’t know what the concepts of ‘gorgeous’ or ‘funny’ actually mean, maybe the final product deserves to suffer.


Sunday, July 13, 2008


no one would buy the macaroni Death Star model he'd built as a child. there are just somethings that are meant to be gawked at at a yard sale rater than bought. he was a little sad that no one cared about all the work he'd put into the model. whaen all was said and done, his wife tossed it in the trash just like she said she would. he wanted to go and get it, but restrained himself. this wasn't the fight he wanted tonight.
now, everything from his childhood had been lost, sold, given away, or thrown out.
the Death Star was the last bit of his past. What would the next 30 years hold?
sad, nude, suicide.


The Grazer is that strange, quite contradictory actor type.  He is absolutely talentless, yet auditions for everything and has the perfect headshot and resume.  He is a social retard and pariah, yet has a large social network of community actors that he considers friends.  He is completely ignored while being invited to all of the actory parties.  In short, he is an abnormality. 

The Grazer is one of those actors who auditions for everything in town, even if he is absolutely not right for the role.  He aims at 1,000 targets, and when he happens to hit one bull’s eye, he considers this an accomplishment.  He generally gets a role because he is either A) a fixture on a tired community that is short of good actors or B) he browbeats the director/producer/stage manager with so much inane, socially awkward repartee that they are bullied into casting him. 

The Grazer has an encyclopedic knowledge of all things theatre/film/TV.  Sadly, he will talk to a person blue with exhaustion on such topics.  Even sadder, the fact that the Grazer knows all of the major players in ‘Julius Caesar’ won’t change the fact that he’s so hopelessly bad that he’ll still accept the role of ‘Guard 3’ simply so that he can be in the production and thereby make every cast member miserable in the dressing room by going on and on about trivia that no one but him cares about.


Saturday, July 12, 2008


they would say that he was charming, that he got whatever he wanted. they'd give it to him, too, because he was good.
he went from town to town honing his craft. the other bachelors had settled down, but he was still at it. he went from place to place breaking hearts and leaving a trail of well satisfied yet lonely and lovesick old maids in his wake.
he literally fucked the shit out of them.
thus begins the secong age of the bachelors creed!


The Ancient Mariner is that grizzled, old bastard who’s been treading the boards since your parents were kids.  They remember him from touring productions at their colleges or rare TV appearances where they give actors two minutes to feebly perform a scene from a show they’re currently in.  Sad, but they all have to do it at least once.  Your parents have seen him in countless productions and often seek out a show he’s in.  These days he’s like Hackman.  He’s old and good in everything (according to your parents).  In the theatre community, he is a mainstay.  He’s old and crotchety, and for every name-dropping story he tells about this production or that, there’s bound to be two more behind them that are just as boring.  Sure, he gets all the King Lears and Uncle Vanyas, but maybe he’s due.  After all, he’s only getting cast these days for one (if not all) of the following reasons:

            1.  He was one of the few people his age that never ‘gave up the ghost’ – while other actors his age got real jobs in their 30’s and 40’s, he kept at it.  “Quitters,” he would think at the time.  “Guess they never were true actors (AKA participants in real life).”

            2.  He never went union – and why should he have?  “Anybody who’s gone Equity or SAG is nothing but a sell-out,” he would think every once and a while.  “Who needs ‘um?”  And by staying ‘community,’ he thereby stayed connected to ‘real’ or ‘fringe’ theatre.  In a way, keeping his ‘street cred’ (AKA inability to be seen by union houses or other union actors as ‘castable’ once he reached his 40’s without his ‘card’).

            3.  He outlived his competition – if it’s not 1 or 2, it’s usually 3, the hardest fact of them all.  Given the right genes/environment/health choices, the Ancient Mariner will usually outlive a huge majority of actors, given that most of them smoke.

Generally, the Ancient Mariner would have played Lear an average of three times before his liver shuts down.






Friday, July 11, 2008

it wants the heart when it wants the heart (42)

i needed that heart.
he was a decent man as far as i could tell. he'd been married, but it just didn't work out.
now he was living alone and working day to day at a job he could hardly stand with people he could hardly tolerate.
still, there was something about him... his heart. i needed it.


Our bikes went into space.  Specifically, they went to a galaxy far, far away.  Or so little Christopher thought. 

We made sure he couldn’t see us as we topped O’Hara Drive.  We’d hit the top of the hill, exchange stories about how gullible the kid was or what was on HBO the night before and make sure we stayed gone long enough for him to think we’d actually flown into space.  After the appropriate amount of time, we’d come barreling down O’Hara, top speed, and stop where Christopher sat on a curb around O’Hara and Bloom. 

I never could figure out if Christopher was just slow or the fact that our over-inflated tales of getting into adventures with Han Solo and playing holographic chess with Chewbacca were so well crafted that he fell for them hook, line and sinker.  Or maybe he just wanted to believe us so badly that he let the lies pour over him without a fight.  Like all of us back in those pre-"Return of the Jedi" days, we just wanted more "Star Wars," no matter where it was coming from.  One thing was for sure, Christopher was enraptured by our tales of traveling to Dagobah and Hoth.  To hell with the fact that it was not only supposed to be far, far away, but it was clearly “a long time ago” (if we were to believe the opening credits).  And to hell with the fact that it only took us 20 odd minutes per journey on bikes that were clearly not designed for space travel.  Christopher always bought it.  As much joy as it brought not only him, but us, I started to hate him for being so fucking gullible. 

Maybe Christopher was a lot smarter than any of us actually suspected.  Maybe he was the one in control the whole time.


Thursday, July 10, 2008


there was a time whne he was afraid of rain.
his mother knew it was an irrational fear, but she tried to protect him from the drops.
when he was older, he'd laugh at this childhood malady.
when did it start?
he couldn't remember. his mother didn't recall.
janet liked him, but something was holding her back.
maybe at the farmers market. maybe there she could finally talk to him.
maybe one day they'd be together.
it was harder than she thought.
she was afraid of rain.
just like he was, but she was real about it.
not in childhood, but now.
they could run through summer showers or oicnic in the sprinkles.
yet, they would be in love, deeply, one day.


           T-Roy rested his hand under his pillow, thinking of a myriad of things.  The high cost of gas, the father he wished he’d known, the smell of his girl Cheri, the absence of dub reggae in the music scene, the Badlands, the repo man he’d dodged, the increasing number of children he’d spawned across this great country of his, the dwindling bullets in the chamber, the price of milk, the new set of spinning hubcaps, the night wind, the fire in his heart, the novel he planned to write after all of this was over.

       T-Roy’s world was a never-ending push pop.  No wonder he couldn’t sleep.


Wednesday, July 9, 2008

lb for lb (44)

there was a tingle and then a light.
the hammer turned on them all, and before they knew it, it was golden.
very golden.
automatic, like that daddy!
no one could wait to se the prism turn.
the hammer had done all he could.
now was the time of the carefree life.
they liked Prince. the dug trent D'Arby.
they wished they'd been around for the first time the albums had dropped.
they were children. they didn't know.
they only had what the Hammer had given them.
was it enough to make life begin again?
did they know that tey were dead?
the Hammer would tell them when they were ready.
if they were ever ready.


Nowon, the enigmatic frontman of Queasy Yakuza, was clearly diminishing from not only the band, but also the public spotlight and his own life.


When his bandmates in QY couldn’t take his schizophrenic ramblings and distancing techniques, they decided not to ring him up for that infamous Nowon-less gig at the Harrison Auditorium.


After that, the Yakuza reached new heights of success with their first non-Nowon album, “Cupboard of Calamity.”


Nowon’s solo career stalled after one self-titled album.  Following this monumental flop, he took up his first love:  painting.  But as Queasy Yakuza took off into more daring and lucrative directions, Nowon became more disenchanted with his own happiness outside of the band.


He was found in his garage – dead – with the car running.  This was the same day that “Cupboard” went multi-platinum.



I'm flexing for you.


Cuz you like it.

I know, but do you?

No, but I love you.


Tuesday, July 8, 2008


dead owner.
careway. trinket. lion. deuce.


 Okay, I accidentally did TWO yesterday, but I'm not resting on my laurels. So, here's one for today anyway.

The blue room of the Maloney place always freaked us out.  The biggest house on the clock, the Maloney’s house was.  One of those that was built at least 30 years after any house in the neighborhood.  Tacky, out of place, alien.  Like it was plopped down by a jokester god, right on top of a historical landmark.


There were always stories about the Maloney’s themselves.  Old money family, strange nightowls, even a story that involved their oldest boy, Scott, going insane in the high school lunchroom, leaping onto tables, whacking off on the head cheerleader’s square pizza.  I suspected that none of these things had much validity (besides the old money), but the blue room was as real as a snakebite.


We’d pass by day or night and the light of the blue room would cast an eerie blanket on Bloom Street.  It’s weird because all of their other windows (all eight of them) had long, white curtains, keeping prying eyes away.  But the blue room was always visible and glowing.


Monday, July 7, 2008

Biggest story ever! (46)

their line of Gonzo (that means alternative and on the fly) p.o.v. adult films called "Make it look like an accident" were brilliant in their simplicity. The camera man would follow a seemingly innocent and unaware woman around on her errands: bills. groceries. the wash. the cleaners. picking billy up from school. the post office. dropping billy off at soccer. the nail salon...
and when she least expected it. he'd yell "Oops!" and cum...AT her.\it was brilliant in it's simplicity. the media caught on and the film was played in the finest art houses. not since Deep Throat had a porno graphic film enjoyed such crossover success as art.
"Oops!" became a popular catchphrase and inside joke among the knowiratti (people in the know...)
it was brilliant.
The copycats began almost immediately. not in film, but in people being stalked all day, then cum upon.
it was a dirty year. a dirty, art house, cum covered year...


Funnel Javelin Park opens tomorrow, Dad!  Can we go?  Please??  Please, please, please, pleeeeeeeeeeease!!  They’ve got the biggest mudslide in the world!  The Muckraker!  It drops 40 feet straight down with mud and debris and dead bodies, just like a real mudslide!  There’s a roller coaster there called Killtaker Acres that actually stops your heart for 10 seconds!  It’s got, like, 50 corkscrew turns in a row!  No, it’s safe!

And there’s an adult-themed park there, too. For you and mom.  Yeah, they have dirty movies and you can go to their Valley of the Blow-Up Dolls ride!  Good, I’ll start the car.



This was his first adult, big boy job.  401K, full health and dental, untouchable, inner office pieces of ass.  It was one of those times where he waited for the other shoe to drop.  A layoff, death in the family, tsunami, crippling disease.  Yet nothing happened.  He kept his first adult job for the rest of his life.  He died old and happy.  This time, there was no other shoe.