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.
Posted in Current Events, Dreams, Journal
Tagged cosbium, dreams, escape, future, moving, news, Revengerists, san francisco, tiger
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.
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!!
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.
WREEE-ETCH! Myspace gives me the sick-to-my-tumtums.
Leaving for Point Cordial 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.
Posted in Journal
Tagged Battles, moving
I left Gotham last Saturday after a bitchin’ party, and now I am on the first leg of my journey, which is anticlimactically in Fawcett City 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 the Ash Worlds, then Point Cordial for a few months while I save up some cash, then I wander to New Orleans, Phoenix, Los Angeles, San Francisco, Sacramende, 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.
Usually, when shit hits the fan, I just stand back and enjoy the abstract art. It’s kind of hard to do, however, when some of that art is all over you.
I hate to see good friends of mine break apart, either through neglect, as is the case with one household of friends that I deeply and sincerely love, or through animosity and distrust as is with the other. Love is never to strong a word to use when it comes to your friends. I do not let friendships die easily. I try my damnedest to keep in contact with a number of people from as far back as second grade, from Phoenix, Arizona and Wahiawa, Hawaii to Cardiff, Wales. Anyone whom I have befriended in my short tenure as a mortal upon this spinning globe who attempts to contact me will be met with enthusiasm and rejoice. So it pains me deeply when those that I love drift away.
This goes back pretty far. Not only was a raised with this philosophy, but I’ve also seen that neither of my parents socialize much, and never do I want to resign myself to that fate. Also, a very good friend of mine, Matt Fisher, moved to Kentucky long ago and I have never heard from him since. Many dear friends of mine have passed away, or do not return emails. But more importantly, I don’t like it when two mutual friends of mine suddenly get angry over something petty with each other, like money, or a woman, or housing, and this sort of shit starts to go down. Fuck that. You’re old enough to know better.
I realize that I’m being very ambiguous, though I have no reason to. I suppose I want to conceal names to protect the innocent, even though if these people peruse my pages they will know damned well who I’m referring to.
Not only that, but I face housing expulsion soon, possible starvation, and at the very least the far displacement of the woman I love. These are all my fault however, so when shit hits the fan its a little hypocritical to complain when you were the monkey flinging the poo.