so i let the dogs in, turned off the dss that keeps cutting in and out, and popped in a tape of the sopranos from the second season.

its the one where christafah has that strange sausage dream.

it might even be the first season cuz tony’s mom is still on there and the kids look pretty young.

people laugh at me for having crap in my wood pile, but who’s laughing now? i have two old chairs crackling in the fire right now, a new string of christmas lights over the hearth, and a toasty little den where im writing you as the dogs growl at shadows unaccustomed to being in the house at this hour. and all i can think of is you.

things have changed a lot since i first met you. the saddest being that instead of chasing my rum shots with coke, i now see diet pepsi bottles around instead of that familiar red logo. ive sold out in ways id never imagined.

this very nice lady was asking me the other day about taking acid and why she’s never done it and one of the reasons was because she was afraid of flashbacks.

sometimes i get flashbacks about you.

they dont tell you when youre little that true love will haunt you and follow you around years after its gone. not just trippy little trails of a magical time, but full on bursts of feelings that release the endorphins and trigger the synapses and spin the wheels of madame lady luck that line up jackpot, jackpot, jackpot.

jackpot.

but i havent even been in love for so long.

jackpot.

but im just walking through the woods with the neighbor lady doing nothing but moshing around in the mud with our boots on squishing in the puddles.

jackpot.

who goes there? noone. no really, who the fuck goes there? no one. seriously come out come out.

listen to those waves. watch those shadows. crank up the beasties as we do donuts in the mud slicked zuma parkinglot laughing and nearly rolling her land rover with leather appointments and a moonroof that lets in just enough light thru the raindropped glass to give the interior the appearance of a discoball from a junior high sadie hawkins dance.

jackpot.

just like with acid, weed will bring on the probability of a flashback of the heart. and just like with acid, im so alone without you.

she calls me before i go to sleep and it’s nice to talk to someone on a night like this with a voice like hers with stories like yours and legs like in seventh grade when i first appreciated my first sports illustrated bikini issue i just stared at those pictures and then at sears catalogues and jcpenny’s and high school sitting on the bench of the basketball team watching the cheerleaders trying to figure out the mystery, all that porn, all those girlfriends, all the college girls, trade show girls, dot com girls, post dot com girls, and now blogger babes. youd think after 109 years i wouldnt be as fascinated any more but in some ways its worse.

they sit on their pulpit and preach against booze and gambling and things that will alter your mind and theres nothing worse than a pretty girl to make you question your beliefs. nothing like a hottie to make you flinch. nothing like sisters to turn you into some other asshole hundreds of times worse than you.

nothing like brains to make you dumb.

dawn olsen + chuck olsen + kate sullivan

on the blog panel discussion last night about self-censorship. theres a few things that i don’t type on this blog because im pretty sure that nothing good will come of it. and that’s politics and the Bible.

i also don’t write about my workplace, my employer, my coworkers, the real job that i do, my neighbors, my family, the private lives of my excellent friends, things im planning to do in the near future, art, writing, my real fears, how my bowels move, my mp3 collection, the other girls who i date, many of the other blogs that i read, all the tv that i watch, how i hate my phone that does nothing but ring, my secret life, or my ever-growing baseball card collection.

so even though there was debate about how good of a question it was, it was actually pretty decent.

one reason i don’t write about those things is because its important for my friends to trust me. it’s also important for me to continue to find themes and details that are so general that they could apply in any situation.

its hard to explain, but instead of talking about a certain point in the Bible and concluding that Christianity is the way to go, i find it much less annoying just to stick with what i found interesting in the story, relate it to something contemporary and leave my fucking judgements to myself where they belong.

people write about dylans so-called Christian albums like they know something but they don’t. they don’t if theyre calling three or four of his records Christian.

some of his best songs are the full-on gospel tunes like “shot of love” and “saved” but tunes like “jokerman” actually have just as much biblical references, and yet Infidels is rarely pigeon-holed as one of his Christian albums. but who cares. i don’t.

and i don’t write about work cuz that’s just stupid. and any guy who writes about the girls he dates is not only asking for trouble, but he’s just not being cool. we still live in a world where getting naked and being loving freaks people out, so chill, shakespeare.

im just as shocked as the next guy each time a new girl pulls up her skirt, but the daily blog isnt really the right place to document those things. is it?

no.

the blog is about love.

most people read these things during work hours. and during the daily grind, it’s my belief that sweet things are better to discuss than spicy ones.

but i don’t really believe that either.

the truth is, i censor myself because i worry about the people who pay me now and the people who will pay me later.

even though it says nothing in here is true, what if someone wanted to hire me and either didn’t read that or didn’t get it and thought i was this type of person or that type of person.

im all types of people.

just like everyone is.

at the party last night i talked to one friend who got back from the willie nelson concert and two friends who got back from the holst opera.

anyhow, i censor myself, and i probably should censor myself more often, but at some point who really gives a fuck, some flukey crazy shit happens on the web sending a virus through the wrong combo of servers and this happy little accident gets deleted justlikethat, so we should all just live for the day and say what we wanna say. right?

hot chick, maybe twenty, called me this afternoon and asked if i wanted to meet her at her place and i said no i said i wanted to watch the grammys so she invited herself over and i said hi and she said you look taller on the web and i said hi and she said i like your hairdo and she came in and the place was still dirty from last night and she said i like your place and i said thanks, i had downloaded led zeppelin three all on one mpthree and she said nice bathroom and i said thanks and she pushed me up against he door and kissed me hard putting a hand on my head and the other hand on my chest and stuck her hips right up against mine.

the phone rang and i ignored it. she didn’t let go of me as we spilled into the hallway and down on the hard wood robert plant was talking about no quarter and the curtains blew in the santa anas perfect day for bananna fish she had the best perfume on one day i should learn whats what i thought and she just wanted to make out it felt like because she didn’t really grope the way young girls normally do and she was having fun just getting in the right positions for things to be rubbing the right way against stuff and her clothes were all on and im old that’s the truth because when i was sixteen there would have been no way for me to stand straight up after rolling around like that with a girl who was wearing what this girl was wearing which wasnt much people.

the battle of evermore was next and she grabbed my hand and guided it and i wonder about kids in highschools these days i mean are cheerleaders trimming their she bit my tongue and i was back thinking of her, college girl, grad school i think she told me, which is funny because i grammar so badly that i cant believe that she goes to a private school and can still appreciate whatever the hell it is that im doing and whatever i was doing was the right thing because she didn’t want me to move and there was a time when i woulda moved anyway but i grew up and she got in her little rhythm and breathed right in my ear and kept her eyes closed and licked her lips quickly and breathed through her mouth glossy from success and announced to my fucking block that she was coming and then followed up on her prediction.

wrapped in a down comforter now focused on the rain song i didn’t say anything to her as she caught her breath and the television flickered in the next room.

and she took my hand and kissed it and put it near her breast and i could feel her heart racing and then she pushed it lower

past her pierced belly ring

past her stubbly shaved

and she asked me for no other reason than to just break the silence

do you like bush

and i said i think hes a fucking joke.

and she put back on her dress, hopped into her convertible, and drove back to wherever those girls all live.

buffoonery + marc brown + lago

to knock out the black rhino, Clifford Etienne, who was ranked #31 in the world. etienne had a record of 24-1 going into the bout.

ive always been a fan of tyson’s and im thrilled that he’s not going away quietly.

im also thrilled to have gone to last night’s blogger panel, on the hills above hollywood in the mark goodson theatre at the american film institute.

i feel at home in institutions.

blogger is going down in ten minutes so i have to make this quick, like tyson, so here’s what i remember.

layne welch emannuelle heather eugene luke cathy rishawn and mickey put on a good show, and i dont know what people are saying about the merlot being bad, i drank it up and it was free and i thank whoever poured it for me.

the kids seemed to like my bald head and took pictures and made me feel good about myself, which is a pretty tough trick, so thank you. many took pictures, so expect to see them on the web throughout my campaign to become the next president of the united states. they’re pretty incriminating.

i met lots of nice people like howard owens and his lovely bride who want to hook me up with a big breasted sista in berkeley, but since i like closer to burbank, i told them they should consider my buddy over at allaboutgeorge.

i also met joh3n and his buddy and his buddy’s wife who gave me ten bucks after she told me that she had to ride the busses when she was at asu, and i told her that its not really a have-to, its a get-to in that if i cant find a ride home in someones car i can catch the bus and it allows me to drink free merlot in gatherings such as these.

last night i did have a companion who was mostly sober and totally hot and hung in there with me as we partied until three or four am over at the rabbit’s spectacular bacholorette pad about a mile north of me. the cops showed up at two but only to rub my head.

i saw charlie and his wife(?) and bassart and shannon and axel and his wife and my attorney and her wife and ben. his wife was tired from seeing willie nelson at the wiltern.

los angeles was beautiful last night and it would have been nice if you had all been there.

my advice to the next panel: less guests, no more talk about the importance of blogs, why we blog, or hits. more talk about creative processes, innovations, predictions, and breaking down boundaries.

xeni and reverse cowgirl were there too looking punk rock and being as killer as they appear on the video stream.

yours in rock,

tony

35. dancing

chris called me this morning telling me she was on her way over to the westside pavillion to see the jullianne moore movie. i told her that the academy would just send it over, and she said she wanted to see it on the big screen.

i said cool, and she asked me to order the quiet american for later and i said ok.

then the phone rang again and it was a very famous fashion model.

famous in certain circles, i guess because whenever we’re out drinking and smoking people always ask her her name and when she tells them they go, “ooooooh yeah! thats right!”

of course it’s right, tourist.

she confided in me that she hasnt had sex in months. months and months.

i said what about bro?

she said, me and bro dont do it. he doesnt like to wear condoms and youve convinced me that i probably shouldnt have sex without a condom. ever.

and i was all, but i thought you…

she said, we do everything but.

i said, youve been doing everything but for this whole time?

she said yep.

and in some way i thought it was terribly sexy.

she said, i can get on top of him and totally get off fully clothed.

then i told her to shhhhh. i told her she was killing me.

then karisa called to ask me if i was getting coachella tickets.

whos playing coachella?

just the beastie boys, queens of the stoneage, the donnas, n*e*r*d, blur, blue man group, the red hot chili peppers, the white stripes, sonic youth, g love, ben folds, johnny marr, the soundtrack of our lives, and dirty vegas.

and about twenty other bands.

it’s two days in the desert on some huge polo fields outside of palm springs. $141.

chris already got two hotel rooms 9 miles away. a bunch of people are going to pack in there.

i told karisa that id pass. im too old for that shit.

she said just drop some acid or something.

i told her acid? im straight edge.

and she laughed.

she fell over from laughing so hard.

34. paul

ev’s page is still huge on daypop, but jason shellen has the pictures you’ve been looking for.

meanwhile, christopher scheer’s blog is getting some mighty impressive coverage.

what’s also impressive is the constant flow of flow into the busblog car fund. if things continue to go as they are, we’ll raise $16k in three and a half years. thats the light at the end of the tunnel. and you know what? i think thats awesome.

and finally, i agree with sarah crabtree who says that heather is a better writer than me. heather gets the quote of the week with this one that she says of her own Rabbit blog:

“I write stupid shit and post it, end of story.”

and i was quite self-absorbed.

so much so i didnt mention that there will be another Blogger panel discussion here in Hollywood. this one is tonight! Saturday night.

the american cinema foundation seems to be hosting this shin-dig. it’s free, it’s hosted by LA’s own Cathy Seipp and stars America’s newest newspapermen, Ken Layne and Matt Welch, UCLA law professor and incredible pizza maker Eugene Volokh, Mickey Kaus who gets paid to blog, Luke Ford who swears he isnt interested in porn any more, my bro from Forbes RiShawn Biddle, Heather Havrilesky who hopefully will put a cam on her page, and the sexiest import from france since the Emmanuelle series of fine films Emmanuelle Richard.

very little can convince me to leave my house on a saturday night, but this might.

oh look it’s free.

and theres drinking afterwards.

if i can score a hot date perhaps i will make it after all.

annessa

means you

was because the marines didn’t like my haircut.

which is ironic because now my hair is shorter than theirs.

the marines aren’t really the bosses of the xbi, but they have a lot of influence because somehow they are considered the voice of reason in our opera of castaways.

my argument has always been that if the marines knew what they were talking about they’d be fbi not xbi, but since i didn’t come from the ranks of the military, or the cops, and because i was a college boy, and a poetry major at that, pretty much nobody listens to me in these matters.

so when they saw me stroll in with a shaved head, they began their whispering and i was invited into the glass meeting room in the center of the building.

nice hairdo, agent.

why, thank you.

any special reason for the change?

nope.

what inspired all of this?

nothing, really.

nothing?

well ive been thinking about dying it red for the longest time but i figured just shaving it would be way easier.

red, huh?

yeah, but i figured it would be hard to be undercover with bright red hair.

none of these answers sat well with them. so you know what they did? they grounded me.

which meant they grounded Chopper One.

funny thing about the top secret underground movements of the xbi, nothing is so very secret. later last night there was an old fashioned car chase.

where do you think this guy ran around in?

hollywood?

home of Chopper One?

they don’t call it organized crime for nothing. but here’s how they do things with the local cops. they get one guy, typically an illegal who is due to go back to whatever country he’s from. they put him in a car and let him get chased by the cops. then they get a bunch of cops and helicopters to follow him.

then they do some gnarly ass shit on the other side of town.

car chase in hollywood, some nasty shit is probably going down in long beach. but normally you don’t see car chases in hollywood because chopper one would pounce on the illegal, smash his car and then jet over to the LBC before the networks even get their birds in the air.

i was bummed out yesterday because there was a major disturbance in the balance of power, all due to my stupid hair cut.

needless to say this morning we were given some information about goings on in riverside last night at the exact same time as the car chase in west hollywood.

so guess who’s back from being grounded?

33. gunge

the subastral lilipad

ken + matt + dick =

if the new york times was better

and weekly

and surrounded by palm trees

los angeles examiner

of all the things that i love about the internet, the number one thing that i love is you.

pedro started his day at the gas station like he always did, with a quick trip to the repair bay in the back where they kept the mop and the bucket and the soap and the bong.

got everything together and cleaned the mens room and then the womans room.

then he put the mop and bucket back and flipped over the signs to read Full Serve, asked the white girl in the booth if the gas prices are right and she told them that she changed them at 5.

it was six a.m.

he filled up his water bottle with pink windshield wiper fluid, unfolded his clean blue long handtowel and tucked it into his backpocket, leaned up against a gas pump and tried to watch the sun come up but was disturbed by the bell of the day’s first motorist.

pedro worked with 7 other guys. it was an all full-serve gas station in beverly hills.

the power window zoomed down and a man who looked strangely familiar to charles bronson hissed, “super,” and handed over an american express platinum card.

black chevy tahoe. up high. no bumper stickers. no valet stubs. no jack in the box antenna ball.

pedro unscrewed the gas cap, put the hose into the side of the truck, remembered to click Super Unleaded, clicked the trigger into the lock, stepped over the hose and walked the card up to the cashier window and slid it into the slot.

the white girl saw the name on the credit card and flinched and then strained out at the tahoe at pump four.

pedro returned to the car. he walked happily because he is so fucking positive about everything it would make you puke.

he removed the squeegee from the bin. one of the fellas had just completed his morning chore of cleaning the bins, filling them with hot soapy water and hanging them back on the islands.

just as he was about to throw the sponge edge on to the windshield he heard and then saw the driver’s side window zoom down, noticed the motion of the hand slitting the throat, as a director would if he was yelling “cut,” and pedro froze in mid motion.

unfortunately, the momentum of the squeegee produced a wad of hot soapy water which was flung directly on the center of the newly-detailed windshield.

the wipers began, two straight squirts of blue wiperfluid shot perfectly from under the hood onto the glass, went left to right once, twice and then back under. that quick. no streaks and then the water evaporated.

the driver’s window zoomed back up.

pedro returned the squeegee to the bin. checked out the truck from afar, returned to the driver’s window and pointed at the hood.

he heard it click. unlocked.

reached under, lifted it up and saw absolute perfection.

lots of computerized boxes and wires and steel and hard plastic, and all so clean.

a little man appeared out of radiator overflow reservoir and tipped his top hat at pedro. the little man was about six inches tall.

“just top off the wiper fluid,” the man said, bowed, and hopped back into the empty plastic tank.

pedro topped it off, finished up with charles bronson, and returned to the cashier booth with the signed credit card receipt.

the white girl chewing gum in the bullet proof glass booth took the receipt from pedro and smiled at him.

so he squirted a little window cleaner right above her voice box slit and returned his bottle to it’s holster, otherwise known as his back pocket.

manny wiped it off a minute later.

buffoonery