Tag Archives: moving

Sounds made up.

Things are so hectic right now. Not only do I have work every day at six am, but I have to get the rest of my stuff boxed up, read six or seven books, write out some plot synopses, finish off this roll of film, defeat an arch-foe or two, fill out this sketchbook, do the laundry, find an apartment, and our Revengerists Compound was bombarded sometime last night by dreaded space Cosbium-14. And I can’t shower today because my dad is grouting.

But tomorrow I am going to the zoo. The same zoo where a tiger escaped and killed a man, where a snow leopard and a polar bear almost escaped in the past week. Since it most likely won’t get published by the several newpapers I submitted it to, here is the article I wrote (unedited in blog form) concerning the tiger. I want to reiterate: we don’t get mad a pie for being delicious.

I had a dream the night of the attack, long before I could know of it, that a tiger escaped from the zoo. But at the end of that dream, I was eaten alive by a hippopotamus. Then I come to find out that the contractors who fucked up the tiger thing are also responsible for the grizzly bears and the hippos. A hippo has a vertical leap of twenty-eight inches. We’ll all see what happens.

Also: If a baby giraffe runs into a wall and kills itself, then that baby giraffe did not deserve to live. Giraffes are lame. End of story.


NOTE to Future-Breshvic: This Cosbium thing might have put us into an alternate timeline and gang aft agley all our best laid plans. I don’t remember anything being made mention of it when I was in the future, but maybe it was just such a minor setback it wasn’t worth mentioning. Then again, maybe our timelines are so far removed from the ethos of psychohistory that you and I shall never meet, in fact, are DOOMED. Questions. Comments. Concerns. An ashtray. And a paddle ball game. Remote Control. These Matches. And this lamp. And the chair. And my dog.


It was the blurst of times!?

It’s while staring for endless hours upon the unsettling toothy grin and singular crazy eye of Joel Osteen that I find myself thinking.. “I wish I had some jetpants.”

I need an apartment. Who’da thunk I’da needed a place to, like, permanente live? Whodey?

Rest in Peace, Joe Nuxhall. I hope I remember our secret handshake when I get up to heaven. Oh, who am I kidding. I’m not going to heaven. It’s made of marshmallows and they don’t want me there because they want me to be sad. Who fucking needs them, anywise? Forget ’em, Joe. You’re better’n them, anyhow. I’ll meet you on a neutral astral plane and we can give our play-by-play commentary of the Apocalyptic war between heaven-and-hell whilst discussing our favorite iced cremes and those down-home JTM stekes now on sale at your local Kroger-brand-Kroger-store.

If you’re not Joe and/or you’re not in heaven then don’t read that last part. It… it’s personal.

I’m talkin’ to YOU Norman Mailer.

You Must Be Logged-In to do That!

This is the first city I’ve lived in where I feel consistently happy that I’m not dead yet on a regular basis. So that’s saying somethin’. Not only that but I think I really like it here. The food, the weather, the scenery… beautiful California women of all shapes and colors.. but more importantly the food. SweetChristonaCriscuitCracker! The food!

What do the rest of you in them other cities do when you feel upset that life is grinding out the useless parts of the lemon (like zest)? Because when I get down in the fjord about where I am on this long strange trip, I walk down to the pier, buy a churro, and stand as high as I can on whatever rotting piece of board I can balance myself on. There I can feel the cool sweeping air in my face as a luminescent orange blaze sets ’round the back of a gigantic gleaming skyline, crafted by expert artisans over numerous decades. A deep blue sky fades to black aether streaked with the purpleorangeandpink of wispy clouds stretched long by a bay breeze. And I hear the creak of a wet dock, and the clang of passing ships, and the cries of ravenous gulls and communal sea lions. I breathe in the salty mist of untamed waters, and the smell of cooking by a dozen or so mingling cultures. And the cinnamonsugarsnack crunches lightly between grinding molars and warms my insides before I retire to a seafood dinner, a chilled Anchor Steam brew, and a dream-filled night thinking about stars reflecting off of the sea.

Not that I’m bragging.

Okay. I’m bragging. I do like to brag.

O yeh, plus I gotz de new Heroes Season One on DVDz. Breathe it in suckaz, cuz I roxors more than you an’ its so minty fresh the trees is dying. Now I like as needs Extras Seasons 1-2, Venture Brothers Season 2, Flight of the Conchords Season 1 (not out yet), and any other shit that might be lyin’ around. O WAIT. I need one of those… um… *snaps fingers* JOBS first. Like the ones where people give you money to show up every day. Yeh. I know what they are! I saw one in a newspaper once.

Forward into the past!!

And now you know… the REST of the story

Here I am in lovely California, San Francisco. Home of rice, as I understand. Monster.com tells me that job opportunities abound from Pixar to Lucasarts and a lot of other places that don’t make you wear a tie either. But most importantly; I’m finally in a place that I can understand, finally in a place where I feel at home, finally in a place where the toilet paper isn’t hung in the improper underhand fashion. YOU PHILISTINES! YOU PHYLLIS DILLERS!

I am finally rid of that irksome Radioshack manager once and for all! Rather than train me the way a manager is supposed to do, she weighted me with inaccurate information, ignored most of her employees questions most of the time (I suspect she was either too lazy or too ignorant to find answers in her melon-head), exhibited an inappropriate disdain for an honestly likable customer base, shifted her responsibilities while resting her underworked ass at the back computer looking up WWE videos of her flame Batista, had no sense of sportsmanship, workmanship, duty, or ethics, but had replaced them with empty company lines, excuse-making, blank stares, unnerving stories about her WeightWatchers meetings (that didn’t seem to be working), and a relentless use of a baby voice in almost any situation. As for the poor customers and humble employees I left behind to face that rolling Tiananmen Square tank, ‘For those about to die, I salute you!’

Aside: I can’t believe I spelled Tiananmen right the first time. Groovy.

Yippy-kay-yay mother-fuckers.

I need to brush up on my Greek (so go find a Greek and brush up on him!)

WREEE-ETCH! Myspace gives me the sick-to-my-tumtums.

Leaving for Cincinnati tomorrow. Hopefully I can earn enough money from there to move along to my next destination, whatever that may be.

What is this world coming to? I can’t just walk into the internet and buy whatever I want for absolutely free?! I want one of those face snorkels you’ve read about in that television show we all watched as childrens. You know. The Snorks?

I hope I get to fight a shark to the death.


I left Pittsburgh last Saturday after a bitchin’ party, and now I am on the first leg of my journey, which is anticlimactically in Columbus, Ohio at my cousin and his fiancee’s apartment. They’re the best family a guy could have, but I hope not to stay too long; my allergies are driving me nuts, and I really want to keep-a movin’. From here it is to Ashville, then Cincinnati for a few months while I save up some cash, then I wander to New Orleans, Phoenix, Los Angeles, San Francisco, and thus my time-traveling road trip buddies Commodore Bob and Lee can meet up and we can continue the real trip. These two are like brothers to me, and I hope this all works out how I plan, because its not as if I have any real expectations.

That’s all for today.

A brief history of time (abridged as it relates to me)

Those of you that know me reasonably well know that I do not like to be ridiculed when it comes to the whole ‘Jew’ thing. Not because it’s insensitive, and not because I’ve heard it my whole life, and not because of the whole NAACP, ADL discrimination reasoning. Just that, “I’m not fucking Jewish!” I am, but I’m not at the same time. I neither practice Judaism, (I loves me some bacon) and my parents are both converted practicing Catholics, (in that they bitch all the time) and since my mother is in no way shape or form Jewish, being welsh, and the Hebrew people are a matrilineal people, then fuck it.

I prefer to be called… a Hawaiian. My father, like me, made a foolish decision once to join the military. The only difference being, he was actually asked to follow through on it, being a bit more trim. As such, he was asked to live in either Anchorage, Alaska, or Wahiawa, Hawaii. We all know what happened, let’s not play those games, and until the age of three I was the prettiest hale baby on that isle. When the term abruptly ended, however, I was transferred. Keep in mind, babies who move at a young age are doubly affected, especially boys, as they had already been ejected from their original homestead a mere nine months after conceiving of it. What kind of fucking lease is that? So we moved, and while I like to blame my parents for taking me from the loveliest place on the planet, a place people dream about living, to a relative shithole, well, I have to say that I understand. Without military-sponsored housing, it would have been practically impossible to continue to exist on that high cost-of-living, unless we worked our asses off in the pineapple fields and ate palm fronds every day, which I hear makes you sick. So I left at the age of three, so don’t ask me to speak any Hawaiian, don’t ask me to hula, don’t ask me if I’ve ever been to a luau, but you can ask me for a lei.

And we moved to Cincinnati, where there are still race riots, police brutality, discrimination, and the necessity for a civil rights movement. The city ignores this, however, by trying to book Bill Cosby as a guest, (or when that fails, Orenthal James Simpson) and building a cultural respect center. Not only that, but sometimes cows get loose and nobody knows what the fuck to do. I suppose there is some relief, in the fact that we gave the key to the city to a baseball player with a constant hamstring breakage, and gave him a parade based solely on who his daddy was. You see, Mark Twain said it best “If the end of the world were tomorrow, I’d like to live in Cincinnati, it wouldn’t happen there for another forty years.”

After getting my superpowers, I saw my refuge. I went off to college, to the spectacular city of Pittsburgh, in a faraway land. At the very least the most aptly named city, Pittsburgh boasts more septic water main breaks a year, raining down shit upon the city, than the rest of the United States combined, but enough about the Pirates. I went back home once, and sat staring at the stars, and my friend (a practical brother) Mike said to me, “what the fuck are you doing that for?” He didn’t realize you see, that in Pittsburgh, there ARE no stars in the sky. Either obscured or simply nonexistent, we have a sky of mottled grey and reeking of past deaths in mines and train machinery.

But before I went off to college, and several times before that, in fact, I was able to go to New Orleans. After graduation, but before college itself a span of a mere month in my case, I was able to traverse that city on my complete own, going to show the level of independence my parents grant me. I loved it. I love that city. I can’t say it enough times, I love that city. I think I love that city more than I have ever loved a woman, but that just goes to show how many of THEM have ever really been worth it.

I love its downtown, I love its boroughs, I love its denizens, I love its architecture, I love its history, I love its little dimples, I love its smell, its music, and sweet merciful God in heaven, I love its food!

That is all gone now.

I will never be able to convey to you how much I truly love that city, when I have loved no other city in my life, that is, after the age of three. I wish it were the same, that it had never happened, because I want more people to fall in love with it the way I did. Love is the most precious thing, and apparently, the most fragile.

It is silly for me to wish it hadn’t happened. That accomplishes nothing. It DID happen. Now it is time to DO something about it.

But I hesitate, you see, to use past tense verbs such as “I loved that city.” That city still exists. Granted, fifty feet underwater, but it still exists. The people are scattered, dead, or worse, trapped. The food is gone and the music is still. The architecture slowly rots under sewage and saltwater. Septic dangers of tetanus linger around every puddle and hidden jagged piece of metal. The Superdome, a lovely and apparently very sound structure, houses now the refugees of that terrible storm, breathing in only each other’s sweat, blood, anticipation, and fear.

I’m making calls to the Red Cross, as I encourage anyone else to do, not just for N’awlins but for Mobil and other areas damaged. Their lines are busy now, but keep trying. I cannot give any money, or blankets, or food, as I don’t have any of my own to give, but I do have two things; time and labor. I would like to go there now, if they’ll have me, and I apologize for not coming back for this next quarter of school, if that’s what it takes, but its something I want to do, and those of you that know me know that I only EVER do anything because I WANT to. It just so happens that, sometimes, what I WANT to do coincides with what I NEED to do.