besides the obvious.

first being that it was shown on my television within minutes of being taken.

like it’s a trophy.

like “we finally got em”

like you did something hard or something.

i’ll tell you when you can feel proud, if thats what youre trying to feel.

feel proud when youre able to prove he fondled that young boy.

cant dust his lil’n

far as i know you dont have any video or eye witnesses.

all youre going to end up with is his word against his word

no proof

no evidence

unlike molestation of a female, what on earth could you retrieve from a scientific examination of a young boy weeks after the alleged assault?

and if one or two or a thousand kids come forward and say that that pretty young chinese woman in the picture did to them, it isnt evidence that he touched that kid that night at the neverland ranch.

pardon me from distancing myself from the hysterical, but nobody should be sent to jail for something as unforgivable as sexual abuse of a child solely on an accusation.

smile when you have some evidence, gentlemen, and give a man time to take his escalade to his jet before you lift high the mugshot to the slobbering press as if it was the ear of the most mighty bull.

what is the rush?

michael jackson didnt do anything to you.

and as unbelievable as you might think that it could be, but he might not have done anything to anyone else either.

you show your cards when you sneer at a press conference

you out yourself when you make sure that the press can get a picture of the handcuffed king of pop

and if you believe in karma, you fuck yourself when you break land speed records to release what is probably the most embarrassing and unflattering photograph anyone could ever wind up taken.

humiliation does not become you.

innocent until proven guilty might just be the core of what makes america the greatest country in the world which would make you rotten to the core if you deny a man that right.

freaky as the fucker may be.

my most favorite county is in the public eye

dont make me go up there and remind you what santa barabara is supposed to be

which is class.

espns pardon the interruption was on fire today.

as was my girl flagrant, which if nick denton is serious, should hire as his travel blogger.

me, i’m holding out for the fleshbot blogger auditons

but then there are days like these, when you’re waiting on the bus, filming trees, when i say oh shucks this guy really IS tuned in to something bigger than the projection of his ego. i like you on street corners…

Anonymouse

yeah, i get fucked up comments sometimes too. people have no sense. people dont know how to say things in a nice and polite way.

i wonder why they have to be that way and then i think its maybe cuz theyre bummed out that i bash their political party, or their favorite talk show host, or their favorite blogger named drudge.

or maybe they just weren’t raised right.

for example, how is smacking me going to do anything but get you ten smacks back? how is it going to teach me a lesson about my alleged ego?

i hate anonymous comment-leavers cuz theyre gutless, and gutless people shouldnt be listened to because theyre probably lying.

people who are telling the truth, ESPECIALLY in a blog, or in the comments of the blog, have nothing to fear.

liars need to worry.

and people who think that they can run around and smack people seriously need to worry.

let me tell you a few things about my ego, busbloggers. i have none.

i have zero self-esteem.

dont take that the wrong way, its not a woe-is-me zero self esteem, its a “im not good enough to make it to the next level, but i can kick your ass” thing.

it’s twisted.

one reason i like blogger so much is because i get to use it to write better, to practice.

i think i would be a great arts and entertainment section editor. i was a great editor. i love bringing people together and thinking up story ideas and touching up stories and managing the process.

as a writer i think im a not-boring blogger, but i think im way too punkrock for the mass media, and thats fine with me. it would be great if somewhere in journalism there might be a little sliver that i could fit into, but if not then cool.

but i have no ego. i think im ok.

i am shocked when people say otherwise and im supershocked when i see all the hits that i get.

ive said this before.

i’ll probably say it again.

meanwhile, if any of you have anything to say, use your name, link your email or web page, and if you feel like smacking me while im waiting for a bus, if i was you, id think twice, cuz i might be xbi after all.

raymi + xeni + blamb

guest-write a post on the busblog.

usually i say no. for kitty bukkake i say yes. always

Hi Tony, thanks for having me over.

I bought gray-blue corduroys and picked up takeout special from Hard Times Pizza, and here, in the new pants, I’m trying to eat dinner at my desk in my emptyish apartment, alone, with a cold.

I don’t even want pizza, but I couldn’t stomach lunch. Don’t feel like running either. Hard Times.

A crap year for my family, 2003.

So much, my superstitious mother won’t say goodbye at the end of a phone conversation. Only buona sera. She has been calling every night to see whether I’ve recovered yet, from this and that. Tonight I picked up as I came through the door, having just driven home through Griffith Park while the DWP was testing the light festival. I sobbed the distance.

Sorry but I did.

She asked what was wrong. “Same as yesterday Ma, but with holiday anxiety.” I have presents I can’t give. Things could be good but they aren’t.

I have an art career I would envy if it weren’t my own, but I still can’t get out of bed until twenty minutes before I have to be at my job. When I am sad I can either eat or sleep but not both. This time I sleep.

I wish I could talk to my Dad too, for some unconditional love, male perspective. There’s a fantasy. He’ll be 60 next week. I will call him. I will hold my breath for the duration. If I could just call Garrison Keillor, or Harrison Ford instead. Or Dr. Phil or Ellen. I don’t know.

Here’s a reality show: Suicide Island. Seven contestants, each on an island, alone.

Last one to kill himself dies.

Rusty told me I would not have survived the year if it had come four years ago. There’s my Thanksgiving toast. No, I’ll say I found a ten-dollar bill on the street last week, because that’s also true. And my life got bigger this year. I am grateful for that and the ten bucks.

I just went to Amoeba and spent more money, I had to get out of the house, in my pants, it’s not retail therapy, I haven’t done that in years. Got some Peaches, got some Wilco, some Elliott Smith, Kings of Convenience, Paula Kelley, got X’s Los Angeles reissued with bonus tracks.

Have I told you I have the greatest friends? Nope, still Kitty. Tony has them too. Mine are on grief detail. They are better than Dr. Phil.

“You can’t make a dog behave like a chicken no matter how much corn you feed it.” Right? We are what we are and that’s all. But I like dogs and chickens.

And corn.

Corny corn, like silver linings and hope and the magic of affection and endurance.

Love just don’t quit, so hard to see from where we sit.

Buona sera,

Kitty.