It is so strange that August and October are only seperated by a month. It's like brothers who are nothing alike.

Wait! One more! It's like a music video for Mountain Dew.

Transformers 2 is the biggest piece of shit I've ever smelled. It's sound affects over shitty computer illustrated animation over skanky bronzeration over one young, Jew-ish kid who's just trying to seem natural in a world made of green screen and 12 second snippets of the worst music I've ever avoided hearing. I won't even mention the ghettobots. It's like a seven layer dip of masturbatory waste.

And the creators are all rich.

And I am not.

I should have listened to Saville. He said he'd rather go to bed.

Remember when people were counting down the days til the Olsens twins were legal? I remembered that just now and it really tickled me.

I have freckles. Maybe not in the traditional, redheaded sense, but I think I'd still call them freckles. There is a dusting of maybe 40 little spots across my face. Particularly around my mouth. I find that to be strange. My own knowledge of said freckles is completely due to two people:

1. The crackheadish woman who lived off first street in Yakima who used to babysit me. She said to me, "I love that beauty mark. It reminds me of Cindy Crawford." I was maybe 8 or 9 and I looked in the mirror and for the first time I saw the mark she was referring to. It was extra tiny then and is much bigger now. *

2. My friend's sister, Stephanie who I have always know to have a bit of magic to her. She said "Oh my god. You have freckles on your lips. That's so cute I could fucking bite you," and I looked in the mirror and realized I did have many tiny dots on my lips. And wondered if it was cancer.

That is all.

*I think it's best if I die young. My freckles are growing, and that can't be good.

Once, I hooked up with a kid who was nerdy and seemed deep and told me he was a teacher. For some reason, I wrote down all the dirty details in plain, scientific wording in this journal I was keeping at the time. It's good that I did or I probably would have let the whiskey carry the whole experience into that booze-induced blackout/shame-induced block out place. Anyway, I was trying to sleep tonight and his name popped into my head and I googled him and-surprise!- he's an artist and a photographer. I bet we would've liked each other if we didn't show each other the things we showed each other so early on.

My Spirit, Animal Style

Halloween. It's upon us. What will I be? In staying with my theme of woodland creatures, I was thinking something like this:

or this:

or even this:


Then I stumbled upon this website, www.northfur.ca/ which may as well be called somepeopletakethingstoofar.com. Not to be confused with girlswithflattops.com which is not really a website, but should be. Anyway, here's some of the horror:

What is this????




Why is it that costumes that are meant to look like fun friendly animals end up looking so much scarier than scary costumes? I'd rather end up in an abandoned elevator shaft with Chucky, Jason, Mrs. Gorf, and an army of rapists in that ghost mask from Scream than this guy and his blatant disregard for all things cute:


Gross.

A man named Michael Jackson was staying at a hotel I may or may not work for. He was not The Michael Jackson, but he was A Michael Jackson. He was a tall, black man in his late 40's-early 50's and was nice. He was having dinner with his friend whose name happened to be Josh Groban. We joked about their names (Michael got a lot more shit for his name than Josh did, obviously, because nobody knows who the fuck Josh Groban is) and then we all went about our respective business. A couple weeks later another man named Michael Jackson died. It was big news, since this Michael Jackson was arguably the most famous person in the world. Some people sang, danced, donned shiny gloves. Some people mourned, claimed to see the late pop-star's face in the clouds. Some people said the phrase 'the late pop-star' a whole fucking lot. Some people just tried to ignore all the carrying-ons. Amongst all the chatter and nonstop barrage of The Michael Jackson's entire musical catalog, if you looked past all the youtube videos of inmates doing Thriller and the poorly designed tribute t-shirts and lighters and hats and seat covers, somewhere in the middle of America, another Michael Jackson had a weird couple of days.





(Also, Michael Jackson was, for months, the name of Saville's imaginary friend. He has since befriended a new eerily-named invisible creature, James Brown. I am not making this up.)


((This post is dedicated to all the girls out there who just want to have regular hair, regular waist-to-hip ratios, regular lives but live in the shadow of someone else who bears the same name. Keep your heads up, Beyonces of the world. Keep your heads up.))

Glares, Small Dough?

Where am I?

Here's a hint: The number of beers on tap divided by the number of boys in plaid equals 213, which is both the area code in which this spot is located and the time of day I found myself shitfaced from a extra bubblegummy, bananarific hef.

Where's Geraldo?

Here's a fun game: Where was this photo taken? Hint: It's really, really easy if you know LA.



Hmm. Considering the how the males within my chosen peer-group have a pension for covering receeding hairlines with fedoras, beanies ala Zissou, and a plethora of different shaggy haircuts, maybe I should reconsider changing the name of this post to Bears Baldo. Not that this particular kid was bald. I'm just saying. Also, as far as I know, there is no one named Geraldo in this picture. I figured I should note that before anyone spent hours looking for the one Waldo without a shoe or the one early 30's freelancer at the Pho spot without a beard.







Fuck. I spoiled the game.

There is something so pathetic about insomnia. What kind of asshole is incapable of the simplest task ever, an activity so easy a baby could do it?

B

Hey.

Remember that time we went karaoking in Williamsburg and I overdid it and someone dedicated Where Is My Mind to me because all of the things we associate with humanistic behavior had been replaced within me by something feral? And remember how when you came out of the bar I was standing proud on top of a van, like a lady mountain goat? And remember how I refused to be talked down until the owners came? And remember how they weren't even mad but weren't entertained either? Remember that tiny glimmer of smiling disappointment in their eyes, like my mom had found her way from one coast to the other at 3am just to make me feel bad?

Thanks for still being down.




W

P.S. When the man held my hand to help me off of his van, I knew what a stripper feels while collecting the cash after her dance.

For Saville.

(With a special thanks to Elmo and Mr. Paul 'If You Weren't Already Married..' Rudd.)

Signs

I saw this and thought "You don't know me."

Flat Red

Lens flare/aura

Ari

Done