Everybody out there died, and we had to take over…

So. Joe Rogan is brilliant. And hilarious. And extremely underrated. Largely due to his notoriety from hosting Fear Factor. Which was a pretty stupid show.

Anyway, I’m watching a stand-up special of his from a while back that I hadn’t seen, and so I’m falling in love all over again. Every time I see this guy, he blows me away. He’s like… as smart as Bill Hicks, and almost as preachy… but waaaaay less abrasive and/or angry. Super fucking cool. So I was going to play this clip of the show that I went and found on youtube, but then I also found this other clip from the same show that explains his feelings on that terrible, aforementioned TV show. So I will put them both here, because they’re short.

And so this one is about grown-ups and et cetera, which is relevant to things I think about. You should just watch it. Because it’s awesome.

And he’s obsessed with space and monkeys and stuff. Pretty good, right? So I think I’ve got a friend-crush on him… Okay. Anyway. Point is. I like this guy. You should trust me. And you should like this guy, too. If you don’t already.

Okay. Well. I’m gonna go make some french toast now.  Bye!

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It’s demanding to defeat those evil machines…

1.) This is my 250th post!!

2.) This blog doesn’t look enough like outer space.

3.) I have a friend named Aje. She says stuff. One time, she said this stuff:

“You are the right person, this is the right time, you’ve paid your dues, you’re thinking the right thoughts, you’re doing the right things, and this very moment, you are exactly where you’re supposed to be… poised for the happiest time of your life.”

I liked when she said that. I believed her when she said that. I’m putting it down here so that I’ll remember to remember when she said that. Because I believed her back then, and I’d like to believe her again.

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Dripping Jack Daniels.

Remember I used to recommend shit, too?! Yeah, buddy. These are movies I’ve LOVED recently. I feel like they’re big in Portland but maybe not other places?

Go see these fuckers!

HESHER!! Fucking rules ass. This is probably my new favorite movie.

Another Earth. This was pretty trippy, and intense, and kinda just all-around fucked up.

I’m not going to sit here and give explanations of these films because I’m not a reviewer… I just have good taste in stuff, so you should trust me when I tell you these are good movies. Okay?

Last one…

Hobo with a Shotgun. Don’t fuck around. This is one of the greatest films ever made. I now have respect for Canada. Yeah, dudes.

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Hey, check out this dead body, dudes!

Well, if you fuckers keep egging me on and feeding my ego, you’re gonna keep on getting more of my bullshit.

I’m single. I haven’t had sex in 38 days (unless you count that five minutes last week where my ex-girlfriend sat on my cock for a few minutes, just long enough for me to realise that I’d rather be moving forwards than backwards). I’m pretty sure that I’m addicted to sex. Never understood that before, but my libido hasn’t always been like this.

It’s pretty fucked up to be as horny as a 15-year-old boy, while having the experience and stamina of a 30-year-old man… and still not doing anything interesting with my dick. This is the longest I’ve gone without sex in a few years. It hurts.

The cute girls that come into my job. Their white cotton summer dresses, and the dark-colored panties underneath that show me all of the contours I’ll never explore. The body of a woman with a good ass… it kills me. They come in with their men, smiling and picking out vegetables together, putting together a wonderful and adorable meal. They’re gonna go home and cook and then eat, and then they’re gonna do some dishes, and then they’re going to fuck like they mean it. That’s the thing that makes it harder: When people are cute enough to be cooking for each other, they are probably going home and sucking and fucking with a ferocity that you just can’t get in a one night stand or a fantasy.

Remember when I used to shove videos into the middle of my blog posts, because it was a fun things to do? Yeah, I remember that, too. Here is something from a great band called Tremendous Fucking:

Except this is the fucked up part. I don’t feel like writing anymore right now, because I just got distracted on youtube for an hour. Fuck! ANYWAY. This post is over. More later. Maybe.

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I don’t know what to call this.

Well, okay. I got this email from a lady who reads my blog. She said some nice things, and then told me some other things, none of which is really anybody’s business. But I want to write about this thing that happened in the email, which is a thing that has happened to me in other places, too.

I always talk about how I hate words. I have said this too many times to be able to count. I want to be a writer, I want to be a musician, I want to start a cult… how could I possibly do any of these things without a better relationship with words? For me, it is the act of expressing… this is the part that makes me unhappy. Have you ever taken LSD? So, then, you know that place you get to in the trip, where you have understandings that go way out there, a lot farther than words could ever go, and you look around there and all you see is limitless beauty. When colors become so multi-faceted, nearly taking on their own semi-complex personalities, that it would be an injustice to try to give them a name.

I believe in the human mind. I think it’s a little sad that we are too slow in our respective evolutions to be able to find a way to do away with words altogether. But, then, on the other hand, words are all we have. Words are all I have, for now, until I figure out how to directly place my thoughts into other peoples’ brains.

Words are a cruelly crude substitute for thought. Like when the richest king in all of the land, he sends out this tragically inadequate little man, the poorest and least educated peasant in his kingdom, to deliver his messages to the people. These messages are supposed to convey REAL sentiment, they should move the people to ecstatic tears… but the man trying to convey the idea and the emotion, this man falls flat. This man is almost an insult. This man should know better than to even try. Yes. This example, from my perspective, is a prime reason that words deserve to be hated to some degree.

Even with music, it’s pretty ridiculous to use words. Not as bad as, say, writing a book or a political speech. But it’s still pretty fucking lame to put words in your music. I hate myself every time I do it, but I always feel like that’s all I can do. I don’t know, I’m also just being a retard right now. I mean, I’ve written a lot of songs with words in them, and I have probably done it mostly because, well, it’s a lot of fun. Sometimes. Other times, I’m compelled to express something, and hopelessly chop away at a song that will never mean anything to me, no matter how hard I try to make it mean something.

Words are like pissing in your own whiskey glass. A bitter and salty fuckery of a drink, an obscure and sad reminder of what that drink once was, what it could have been, what it could have meant to you and your future and the futures of those around you.

See, but here’s the problem: When your brain is making you crazy by chasing its own thoughts around and around, it can be really unhealthy to just sit around and let this happen. There needs to be some leakage somewhere. So. If you’re too lazy and unimaginative to paint or build something, you better sit the fuck down and write. Or talk. See, I talk to people a lot, too. And that helps. But I feel guilty about talking to people. MY brain doesn’t stop going just because we are starting to feel a little bored of hearing about it all. I’m aware that people have their own shit to deal with, and they probably don’t want to hear my shit. So. Writing is free therapy. Say whatever I want, whatever I need, because I don’t really have another choice.

Words are the lesser of two evils. The alternative, for me, is a series of nervous breakdowns. I mean, most likely. I mean, that’s how it was in the past, before I learned how to (sort of) fight back against my crazy.

Well, wait. This is a new thought that I’ve never had: What if I’m supposed to learn to just completely embrace words, and what if that’s the only way I’ll ever be able to “write” well, and what if that’s where all the real freedom comes from? What if I’m completely full of shit, and my so-called hatred for words is just a reflection of my fear of being a terrible writer? Fear of rejection, or whatever. What if all that this boils down to is a need for more confidence?

I want to write well. I want to get paid. I want to quit my shitty, corporate, indentured servitude. Fuck.

I suppose I can’t exactly hate words if I hope to make a decent living off of them……?

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Girl, that ain’t yo’ pizza.

I roll my pant legs up. My legs are pasty white, long dark hairs, but well-toned. Middle of July, feeling good to be back in Portland. The sky I’m sitting under, on the front porch, is crispy and hot and deliberate: the sun is trying to destroy me, cosmic population control. I am in love with that same diabolical sun.

Before, I was in Carol’s car, driving home up 15th, laughing to myself about Norman Fuckin’ Rockwell, watching all of the well-adjusted white folk: some looking cute on their bikes, some of them training in earnest for their would-be marathons and half-marathons, an array of colorful others walking slowly– looking up, smiles full of gratitude.

This is a beautiful day, and I’m thinking it’s going to be a beautiful night. It’s the start of PDX POP NOW! Always a good time, right? Whatever, I’m stoked. We’ll see what happens. For now, however, I have a few hours and a painfully empty belly to kill. Problem is, just a little while ago, I stopped by a friend’s house to buy a bag of weed. So now I’m way too stoney to be walking around in the middle of the day, trying to cop a chimichanga somewhere. Oh shit… Lonesome’s Pizza is on my speed-dial.

Think about this: Bacon, crispy sliced potatoes, walnuts, ricotta, mozzarella, and a healthy dose of fresh rosemary… on a fucking pizza. I am a stupid New York pizza snob, and I generally whine and moan about the pizza here in Portland. This one particular pie, the one I just described, from Lonesome’s… to me, it is a bit of heaven on earth. If they made one big enough, I would lay down and sleep naked on this pizza. Yep. I would do that. I’ve got to admit, if it were with the right woman, I would probably make sweet love on top of (or wrapped up like a sleeping bag in) this particular pizza. Then there could be a party, where everyone gets together and eats the sinned-in pizza afterwards, grinning and chortling and stuffing their faces. The guy on the phone says my food will be here in an hour. Can’t wait.

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Welcome Home, Indian!

I am the most lucky human I know. Last time I wrote, I was a mess. And then I got better. And then, a week from yesterday, the girl came back from Thailand and dumped me. She set me free. Anyway, here is what’s happening:

I’m going to see The Flaming Lips for my 30th birthday in 46 days!!
I’m single, and about to go on a date, today!
I have a computer now, and I’m writing more and more every day…
Computer’s internet doesn’t work at home, so I’m trying to get out to the cafe more.
I got drunk and essentially destroyed the guitar I’ve been using.
Someone gave me a keyboard!!
I really like birds and squirrels!!!

Yep. This is all good news. Be patient with me, folks. I AM COMING BACK. I will publish this bitch, and then give you a post I wrote last week. Whatever. Fuck you. Stay tuned.

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All the unborn chicken voices in my head.

I’m here to get drunk. Posted up at a bar called The Hilt. Immediately upon walking in, a girl says to the bartender, while looking in my direction, “Well, how about I buy his drink?” I thought, this is going to be a good day. The barmaid declines, hag that she is, shatters my dream of free booze. No idea what happened or why. Still convinced this could be a great day. A great day after a series of bad ones.
Nothing bad can come from getting shitty drunk before 5pm. It’s always a great idea. I’ve also decided that it might be time to broaden my horizons and start drinking when I’m in a bad mood. I’ve never done much of that; not since high school days, those olden times of constant woe. If I wasn’t going to drink through my bad moods at that stage of my life, I’d never have drank at all.
But fuck it. I’m here. I’m 29. I have money to burn. Lie. That was a lie. I’m a poor fucker. But. Today, I am going to be whatever I want to be. Which, so far, is drunk. Started with a pint of Rainier and a glass of Jim Beam, blatantly ignoring the huger pangs in my empty belly. So far, so good.
This place needs a fucking jukebox. A free one, even. I may need to migrate to a less cozy bar, though, to find the elusive free jukebox. I just like this place, The Hilt, because it’s empty and a little bit cramped and cave-like. But the music is definitely a problem. Oh shit. Not anymore!!
See? Another indication that I am the God of my own private universe: I was JUST thinking about my craving for Lou Reed’s voice, and then appears on the speakers like a beacon of hope, The Velvet Underground song, Rock ‘n’ Roll. My favorite bad-time song of all time.
I want to fuck something today. Something pretty. With a big ass. Never know if or when that might happen. But the pain, the week I was complaining about, is mostly due to lady problems. I am basically retarded: always falling head over heels for a girl who wants to destroy me. Or I do the opposite, which is easier: falling slightly head over heels for a girl that I will eventually go on to destroy. This time, sadly, it was the former, and not the latter.
The sound of a group of people laughing makes me want to be sick. Only sometimes. Like my walk home from work the last few nights. Sweaty, smelly, physically exhausted, emotionally drained and battered. I walk down the side street, parallel to Broadway, walking a block behind the bars. The laughing girls. Why are they laughing? Life is painful. I assume they laugh because they’re too stupid to find within themselves the urge to cry. I have the urge to cry, vomit, murder, all of it. That’s my week. There’s a good chance that that was last week, too.
The only thing getting me through right now (besides that big thing I’m choosing to discount, that always keeps me floating and somewhat grateful and contented) is the knowledge that I actually have a few friends that love me, friends that I love back. Well, no. I mean, I guess. Truth is, I’ve probably always known that I’m going to be alright. I’ve been determined, if only subconsciously, to be better than my parents. Which means I have to live til age 60, stay out of jail, avoid having children, keep my addictions in check, and figure out a way not to be so fucking dramatically sad. I’m on track.
Turning 30 in 73 days. Thirty years old. That’s an accomplishment for someone like me. Coulda been, woulda been, shoulda been dead… a long fucking time ago. God damn, I was born a heroin baby, yeah? And I’ve gone on to be 29 and 3/4 years old, and I am able to pay rent and the power bill and my phone bill and wha wha wha… even though I’d always rather do drugs and stay in and hate myself and hate you and hate everyone that may or may not be standing around wherever they’re standing. I’m fucking awesome for not being dead yet, is my point.
My other point is that I like Wilco, and I want to fuck something pretty. I want to fuck while listening to Wilco. No, no, it would be better if we listened to The Cars.

Do you guys miss my blogging? This little ditty proves that I’m CLEARLY a very talented writer, yes? I have a way with words.

Mmmm, what now? I want to write things that make people hate me, make them shake their head is disbelief and disgust. I want to write about how many times I’ve been told I have a perfect cock. I want to write about my fantasy, the one where I find a girl I like enough to eat her out on her period. I’ve never done this. But I want to. I want clumpy blood on my face, mixed with my saliva, and her pussy juices. I want that. I want you to know that I want that. And I want to be hated for all of this.
I would start going to therapy again, or something, but I’d prefer to keep indulging these parts of me. I want to fuck a cute bartender, all of my ex-girlfriend’s hipster coworkers, I want to fuck Lovely Rita Meter Maid, I want to get a blowjob from Paul McCartney’s corpse. I want to start a holy war. I suppose it would help if I believed in something, but I don’t really.
You know, that’s a thing… it’s pretty hard to be out here, completely without faith, nothing waiting for me. I don’t believe in any big blue tunnel into the afterlife; I don’t believe in much of anything.
The only two things that I really, truly believe in: We are all going to be okay; Donovan (Leitch) is probably the best songwriter in the history of pop music. So… I mean, when a person has a true, A TRUE understanding of these two things… there’s no thing too depressing, because everything is overcomable… able to be overcome.
White people with dreadlocks, and groups of females who piss/shit together… these people are not as lucky as I. These are the kinds of people milling around my bar right now. This is, by the way, my bar. I’ve only been here maybe 4 times now, including today, but it’s my favorite place in the neighborhood. Pool table, mostly good music, Big Buck Hunter, house-infused things (I had some crazy CRAZY gin-infused whiskey drink last time, delish) smoking areas, lots of chicks here. I suspect some of these chicks have vaginas that I’d like to get acquainted with. So, all in all, I’m mostly happy here.

I just had a ten minute conversation with a girl named Laurie, from Texas. She is 40, she just moved here. I asked her about Daniel Johnston. I wonder how much she will change while here in Portland. We have Bowie playing in the bar. Life is okay. We’re all okay. I have to stop writing. I have to go fuck something.

By the way. All of this is null and void if Carol would just admit to loving me. I would pretty much drop my entire everything for this one. But. I don’t think she wants me to love her. Or maybe she does. We’re not gonna really know the truth until she gets back from Thailand at the end of the month. But, eventually, we’re gonna find out something or other.

Anyway. Some ladies are gonna buy me a beer and join me at my table. So I have to go. But I do love this blog, I know I should use it some more, and I will, when I can. I love you. See you later.

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My blog turned a year old recently, and I didn’t even wish myself a happy anniversary! What a shithead, right?

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Don’t be afraid, you’re already dead.

God, I really suck at the follow-through business, no? I think I haven’t written on this fucking blog since the end of January maybe? Asshole, I am.

Anyway, sitting at a different library now, with the same ol’ time limit. Hurry, hurry.

My life has been what is keeping me away from computers. It has all been strange and beautiful as usual. Where now, with the writing? I should be coming up with funny anecdotes about the odd encounters I have with people, yes? I mean, it’s best to write about the human condition, I think; perhaps social dynamic is the cornerstone of said human condition.

But I think, sadly, hilariously, that I want to write about ME!! I, ME, ME, MINE.

Uhh… Haha. Not much to say on the subject. Well, no, that’s not entirely true. I’m just… preoccupied. Obsessed, really. The whole “growing up” thing is still happening. And I’m really actually doing it, in ways, and so I keep obsessing over new avenues that my newfound maturity can navigate. Basically, I’m still a retarded shithead, but I’m trying.

There are pages in a tiny notebook of mine that are ridiculous. Grocery lists. Budget plan. Blah blah. But I like it.

I’ve moved into a new house. In the beginning of March. Roommates and stuff. It’s a pretty great house, so far (save for the possible potential throat-punching of a particular part-time drunkenly antagonistic female roommate… but she’s moving in two weeks, so let’s hope the problem disappears on its own).

There’s a front porch that’s more like a deck with a roof over it, chairs, tables, ashtrays. There’s a back yard and gardens and compost heap and a goddamn pear tree. I can see the West Hills (and the top of some bridge, can’t discern which) from the window in my room.

I’m making art out of furniture, but I’ve still not written a song since being back in Portland. Five months. Ideas, yes. But no complete pieces. LAAAME.

Whatever, though, shit has been weird. I mean, I finally have a place to sleep that isn’t a couch in my friends’ living room. Shit, I have a door that LOCKS. And I’ve been locking the fuck out of it, just because I can.

THE POINT, however, is that things are settling down for me. Finally.

Mmmmmmm… what else?

Oh, right, the Apocalypse. Yep. That’s coming soon to a window near you. If we learned anything at all from Back to the Future, it’s that you DON’T FUCK WITH THE LIBYANS.

And I didn’t have my blog before the last U.S. presidential election, but I was telling people that whole time that Obama is going to turn out to be the Antichrist. Which, to be honest, I later changed my mind on when I saw Jesse Jackson crying happy tears on election night. But. Fuck it. I’m changing my mind back.

I will survive the Apocalypse, though, and finally have some peace and quiet so I can READ. I will read all the books on Earth, and I will have them all to myself. Ummm…

Right, right. So. I’m probably gonna scrap this blog at some point, and start a new one. I need anonimity. Realising that part of my problem is that I can’t be all-the-way honest on this blog anymore. Too many real people from my life have access to it.

I am far more me than I care to reveal to everyone I know. So. Sorry ’bout that. But I really need to be able to VENT, and I can’t do that here. Not to the fullest of my abilities.

So… Yeah. I don’t know.

Of course, I will be back again. Eventually. Maybe I’ll have many blogs. Shit, I may even start writing on Trickster Syndicate again. Maybe I won’t do a fucking thing. Maybe I will stay focused on what’s actually happening right now, rather than focusing on retelling everything to a sea of quiet faces behind computer moniters.

Anyway. I am still alive.

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