Thursday, July 17, 2008

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I'm looking through the aisles for something that will make me feel better, consumer therapy on the cheap in the 50% aisle. I'm answering the phone and not hanging up so you can tell me everything that you feel, so that you can distill in 2 minutes what used to be 24 hours. I am going far away with nothing to show from my quest when I get back. I have learned to turn off my brain when people talk and when the miles start to take their toll. If I listened to you, no one else cares. My drugs and my drink and my crutches and my lack of self awareness and my lack of self honesty and really, more like, just my lack of self. All I am is pixels on a screen. All I am is these words. These words don't need to listen and not hang up and still try to be polite and feel that slow, slow build of wetness to eyes when frustration wins out and you're given a backwards movie preview of what your movie used to be. Because that's all it is, movies. Scratchy voices scratch from vinyl scratch scratch, I'm on the porch late at night, beer in hand, door at side, smoke in fingers, laptop on lap, words in head. I promise myself every night, this night, I'll be asleep before 11, but then again, I get home after 11 anyways. I stay out late and keep no one waiting any more. Sing it with me, "The piano is firewood. Times Square is a dream." All night. Watching smoke curl around the evening sky and the moon play hide and seek. And no cicadas. They shut up finally. It's quiet, save for the hum of the streetlight shining down that I know I will never stand underneath even though it's close enough for me to touch. So these words fly out of my fingers like beer out of a green bottle made in a cave. I want to stand on the street and scream my song but everyone else is in bed and everyone else would wake up somebody else and my dog is pissing on everything he can because he's mad that the world took his balls and then his teeth. He's who I talk to. He said you know someday, you might learn how to say just fuck off. But I doubt it. I've only known you a few months. And I think this is who you are and you like it sometimes. I wish you didn't. And then I wish I hadn't smoked so much, because now my fucking dog is making me think too much. So I give him a bone and he shuts up, because I'd never tell him to shut up. I'm gonna stay up all night, he said, then he slumped over in his chair and dreamed about someone else's life.

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Dolly and Burt, you made it seem so simple. That a policeman and a madam can find love in a town that looks down on whores. Maybe it was because you had the option of breaking out into song whenever you wanted to.

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Wednesday, July 16, 2008

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People often ask, what superpower would you like to have?

Many people say flight.

I say flight sucks.

Reasons:
1. I have bad direction skills and often get lost driving. I'd have to follow highways to get anywhere and then chance being seen.

2. It is cold outside somedays. Imagine how much colder it is up in the sky. You'd have to wear a jacket over your spandex.

3. I look like poop in spandex.

4. Where would I keep my wallet?

5. I drop my cel phone a lot. Imagine if I dropped it while flying really high.

6. All my friends would call me to fly them home when they were drunk.

7. I'd fly when I was drunk.

Perhaps some other time, I will tell you why I don't want super strength. It's kind of like having a truck. Everyone asks you to help them move.

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All grenades know how to do is explode.

I see grenades and I say, wow, I want to lay down on these and maybe these grenades are different than all the other grenades and they won't explode.

Then, of course, because all they know how to do is explode, as we have established, I get blown apart and my legs are on one side and the rest of my body is in tattered pieces that will prevent me from having an open coffin funeral.

Boom. Boom. Bang.

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Monday, July 14, 2008

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We'll always have walnut cakes.

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I advise ordering the ninja rolls.

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For someone who has always had a plan and knew what he wanted to do, I am sitting here with no plan whatsoever. I have no idea what is going to happen. And if you asked me, I wouldn't even know what I want to happen.

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I've been in the same movie so many times, you think I'd have better lines. You'd think I'd know the plot twists well before they occur. But no, no. Like a 40s character actor who always plays the heavy, I go through the same tale and end up with the same end credits. It doesn't matter where it is, how long it lasts or who my supporting actors are. I mean, to be fair, I'm really awesome in my role. I bring it. But man, being typecast starts to suck after awhile. Maybe if I switch to TV or those new fangled color pictures things would be different. But then it'd happen every week instead of just occasionally. And you know, there are only many times you can play that last dramatic scene before the method acting takes it's toll on you.

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Thursday, July 03, 2008

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Alright.

Someone asked me why gay people speak effemenitely. Not in a homophobic way, because man, she’s super far, like in another galaxy from the homophobe galaxy.

At first, I said that they grew up watching Paul Lynde, Charles Nelson Reilly and Rip Tayor. However, she pointed out, very cleverly, that gay people existed before then and they were effemenite.

I had to put some thought into this.

The amygdala is what we call the “lizard brain,” descended from dinosaurs. Let’s not get into the Scopes Monkey Trial here. Just listen and go with the theory, please.

The dinosaurs all were effemenite. And most were gay, after awhile. I mean, look at T Rex's arms and limp wrists. This led to them becoming extinct.

The amygdala controls fear and is part of the old dinosaur brain. It also controls our survival ability.

As gay people must deal with so much prejudice, including being attacked, their lizard brain works much harder to help them survive. That's why they have a more pronounced lisp, recalling their ancestors.

After I came up with this theory, I saw this on wikipedia:

In 2008, researchers at the Karolinska Institute have employed MRI scans to demonstrate that the heterosexual male and homosexual female brains have nerve connections mostly in the right side of the amygdala.

My theory is now a fact.

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We believe in lizard aliens. We don't care if you do or do not. That said, what I want to know (and I assume she wants to know) is what did the lizard aliens do with young Eddie Murphy? Please give him back.

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I devoted my life to art, so I said, "Hey, money, I don't think we can date any more." We aren't even friends. Sometimes money drives by my house late at night and screams and calls me a whore. Money calls and hangs up, but I can hear money crying and sobbing and trying to get out some words, stuck in money's throat.

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Anticipation is the best moments of all. Waiting for a text. Or an IM. The part where the rollercoaster gets to the top and you hang and wait and wait and woah. Those moments, time becomes liquid mercury and flows in it's own way.

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I don't wanna be here. Don't wanna stay here.

I have no appetite for work. Nothing seems like it's worth writing about. I sit and stare out the window and look at the clock and realize that real life is like high school, only without the hope that life will be better when you move out of your parents' house. It is, don't get me wrong. But you can't eat for free and you have to clean up your own messes.

There are roads that need driven down. And I am stuck at a red light.

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Wednesday, July 02, 2008

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My memories of fair rides always involve 70s rock. Boston blaring. Or maybe Foreigner. Acne riddled teens running hand in hand with cotton candy all over their lipstick smeared faces. Mirrors won by tossing darts through balloons. Frogs hit with hammers and launched into the air. Meet me under the giant chicken. The grandstand, I fell off it once. It was a dream that I got to live. Wrestling in the fair. And then I walked bruised and bloody and demanded a fresh squeezed lemonade.

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I wonder sometimes if the places we want to go will be the places we want to go when we get there. That fantasy is better than reality. The Cuba of my dreams, filled with old cars and dancing probably doesn't exist. You go to the sideshow and it's all the same voice blaring from speakers, the same tired speech over and over. Nothing real. They even took the bits that you love and reduced it to efficiency and outsourcing. But somewhere out there, there are places that make your jaw drop. And we'll find them. In the middle of sameness and black and white generics, we will find a phantasmagoria of hues and fun.

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Tuesday, July 01, 2008

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Red eyes meet and it's just too much. No one knows what to say. And there's nothing to say. It's shelved. It's put away for good. You asked me to believe. You asked me to have faith. And I do. In this fucked up misfit world, there aren't many things I believe in. So I will try. I will do my best. We ain't going west for awhile. We got three other directions. And I'm done with making the road end and the obstacles bigger. Right now, it's all being patient. Right now, I am typing these words and I would much rather be writing about praying mantises with baby heads. So that's it. Let's do this. Let's rock this bitch. Keep me in check. Bust my balls. I'll start doing the same. We ain't gonna make it out of this world alive, but we're gonna make people remember who we were. And then it will fall to the children of the future to carry the tale of Billy Zapka in Perkins within their fragile hearts.

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I was lost in alternate worlds and potential futures and I didn't even realize I took the on ramp so fast. Spinning whirl screech. Scream. It's all cool I said. It's all cool. It's all going to be cool. I was trying to convince myself. I was really trying to think how to save you. We stopped and hearts raced. And not in a good way. We drove away alive. Don't we always?

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Stomp dust cheer.

I see you smile as the glittery hat is worn.

Piano drink joke.

We catch eyes and it makes my heart glad.

Beautiful dream ballad.

I try and hold my eyes shut to hold it all back.

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I want to see colors. I am tired of the monochromatic way that I view the world. I am tired of shutting down all possibility just so that I can have closure. I just want to see the world from the windows of a Grand Wagoneer.

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I say things when I really am thinking the exact opposite. I bend over backwards when I want someone to meet me halfway. See, I've never been honest with myself. So that's where the lies start. Because you say, everything is ok, so you can survive. You say it to yourself so much, you start saying it to other people. And before you know it, you'll deny burning sandwiches. The real truth? I don't want to be the prince of lies any more. I want to say exactly how I feel and not worry about how it makes people feel. Because the little white lies end up with me beating a dead horse so hard it comes alive again and I freak out and have to beat it to death again. It makes me hold people hostage. It makes everything eggshells. I just have to remind myself. Just speak your mind. Just say what you feel. Don't sugarcoat it.

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I was waiting for a happy song and it was then that I realized that there are no happy Tom Waits songs.

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I am glad that I can be close by for life changing moments.

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I have such interesting encounters in Wal-Mart. That's why I keep coming back. I found this bottle of Cialis in the parking lot. Empty. Did someone take a whole bottle and walk around with a 19 day erection?

Last night I was in line and I ran out of laundry, so I was buying new shorts. Because I can make shorts last for 3 days. That's my uniform. Shorts and a witty t-shirt. Hipster. Anyways...

This lady was all in blue, and body wise, appeared attractive. Until you got to her leathery face and weird nose. And then you realized how blue her outfit was and she had on one of those glittery hats you only see old ladies wear to bingo. And then she said, "Ehh shorts!" and I related my laundry issues and she said, "Heh I do the same."

Now, when you are reading that, please read it in a high pitched bird voice. She then lost track of her words and began telling her son my story and he kept telling her to shut up. Then I noticed her toes.

Her big toes went the whole way across the top of her feet, laterally. Her feet look like that had been bound when she was young. They were just all over the place, but symmetrical. I could not look away but I did. I didn't want to talk to her about her feet.

The other night, it was 5 AM and I had on a shirt that said Rock and Roll 1979. So the guy starts telling me about how he saw The Pretenders on acid and now he's clean and has God and asked me if I had God in my life. Maybe he was an angel that looked like a biker. Maybe I've given up on everything and it was a sign. But I had an armload full of stuff and just wanted to go home.

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