im typing you from the conceirge desk at the fabulous hotel. id tell you which one but its top secret. they dont have a computer room or an “office center” or a “business center” or anything along those lines but they do have a cool computer with a flat screen next to the conceirge for checking ones email, etc.

last night i got jacked at the kinkos. i thought i was paying $12/hr for internet access but when i was done they charged me $24/hr because i was sitting at “the design station”, whatever the hell that means.

funny thing about me is that i wont really argue about being overcharged if Black people are involved. especially in the big money world of Palm Springs.

i had so many things i could have told them like “well you told me to sit over there” and “this is why you will be working at Kinkos at midnight the rest of your life”. but i take it easy on my people.

someone has to.

plus im living a dream life.

if i were to travel the country and write about it, i would want to hook up some sort of arrangement with Kinkos i think because it is great to have something around 24/7 where i could get on the web whenever i wanted. for example what if my laptop broke or got stolen.

this hotel is great and when i get back i will upload pictures and tell you all about it.

in the meantime i hope my internet heroes will post a few more classic posts from the busblog’s near two-year run.

i would hate to have you bored wherever you are because i am taking a few days off here in the 100 degree dry heat.

its really spectacular here.

i dont know why i dont come out here more often, it really is a “short two-hour drive.”

caio!

i was trying to prove God to this buddist at the baja fresh and i saw my old boss signalling me from the salsa station.

my old fbi boss.

i excused myself and met him in the men’s room.

“long time, agent.”

“not that long, really, seems like yesterday.” i said.

“hows the xbi treating you?”

“the what?”

“ok, well, whatever. tony we want you back.”

“im touched.”

“we miss you and we need you.”

“you cant afford me.”

“what, are you suddenly materialist? has the xbi spoiled you?”

“it’s not money that i want.”

“figured as much, what do you want then?”

my old boss wasnt much of a negotiator, especially with me. all he would ever say is “no.”

“i want my old flying car back and i want to be a superagent, and i want my old territory back.”

“sorry kid, no can do. santa monica is taken.”

“yeah, i know, by your son-in-law. is he still in the hospital?”

“hal is back, he’s fine, thank you.”

“well, those are my terms, my fish tacos are getting cold.”

someone knocked on the door, my boss yelled, “one sec, buddy.” then he said, “we could get you your car.”

“and i want to pick my partner,” i added.

“next you’ll be telling me that you want to pick your boss.”

“get me santa monica back, and let me pick my partner and i’ll be happy with you as my boss.”

“boy, that’s a change.”

my boss always liked to get close to me and whisper in my ear. that never sat well with me, but i understood his motives.

he said, “i’ll see what i can do, agent. but your partner has to be someone from the bureau. none of those xbi hoodlums.”

i washed my hands with hot water and soap. my boss looked at his male pattern baldness and primped. i dried off with the papertowels and threw all but one in the trash and used the remaining towel to protect my soon-to-be fishy fingers and opened the door.

like a gentleman i allowed my boss to exit first.

he said thank you and as he passed, i attached a bug to the collar of his suit coat.

shit, who isnt?

long story short: there wasnt any “vacation” in maui. there wasnt any “san diego” departure.

there was a kidnapping of yours truly by a wanna-be cheerleader who all along was working for your favorite band of undercover crimefighting superheroes and i was dumb enough to fall for it.

so here i am typing you from the air conditioned kinkos in rancho mirage, california in the palm springs desert where they pipe in the easy listening (billy joel’s “new york state of mind”) and ding you twelve bucks an hour to use their computer and speedy internet so that i can tell you that you shouldnt trust anyone especially giggly cousins of gigglier superhotties when they ask you to remained blindfolded as they drive you out of hollywood.

turns out there was a unsolved crime in joshua tree that they knew i wouldnt go do unless i was tricked to go do so they tricked me.

and i cant tell you what it is because it involves something that i do not like and i dont want the whole wide world to know what i dont like.

but i had to deal with this fear. and no its not agrophobia and its not claustrophobia but its close to that and we drove into the golf course resort and she changed into something incredibly uncomfortable and she laid next to the fireplace which is ridiculous cuz here it is midnight and maybe its 87 degrees but its probably 90 and i said i cant do anything youre my sorta girl’s cousin. and she said youre not going to do anything to me youre going to do something for me and for the good of the people of palm desert.

and i said so whats the slutty outfit for?

and she said its for later.

people say things to me and a lot of times i have no idea what theyre saying. so i just go on.

so we went to where we had to perform superheroism and we did what we had to do and it didnt take very long. it was gross. let me leave it at that. it was gross. it was so gross as soon as i got back to the resort i ripped off my clothes and took a long long hot shower and put on shorts and a tshirt and threw the other clothes into the dumpster and had a quick double of baileys, no ice.

clipper girls cousin also took a shower and then slipped back into the terribly uncomfortable outfit and high heels and blew dried her hair and sprayed a little perfume on herself and sauntered into the living room and dimmed the lights and turned on some dexter gordon and gave me a couch dance and i said you do that a little too well and she said its one of my superpowers. and i said what is. and she said watch.

and sure enough within a minute, tops, i was puddy in her hands. i was willing to ruin everything that i had established with her cousin. and ive never felt this way about her before. and then just like that she dismounted and lit an american spirit and click i was out of the trance.

i said thats fucked up shit right there little girl.

she exhaled and said yup.

then she said, wanna be my new partner?

tif + kev + baseball blog + told ya Civ is crack

hey buddy.

uh, hi, kurt.

i dont really know how to say this to you, so i’ll just come right out and say it. youre dead.

pardon me?

ok, let me put it this way, knock knock.

heh. who’s there?

not you, because you’re dead.

can i ask you a question?

sure.

good, am i on acid?

no, youre dead.

how did i die?

i can tell you, but then i’d have to bring you back to life. ahahahahaha. sorry, little joke we tell.

what’s this hole in my chest?

thats where you were stabbed with a knife.

who the hell would stab me?

lots of people. there are those who are jealous of your talents. there are all the dads of the young girls you do. there are the sisters of the girls you do. there are the republicans who fear that you might go to law school and then run for office. theres bud selig, matt drudge, george bush. or any of the hundreds of criminals you sent to jail.

you know whats funny, kurt, youd think id be sad, but im not sad.

good.

but i will miss all my friends.

they’ll probably miss you too.

and i love the people of Earth.

theres people of Earth where you’re going.

yeah, but i liked life.

you did? you were always bitching about it. you were never satisfied with any of the girls you got. you were never pleased with where you lived or what you did for a living, or what you looked like, or what you wrote, or who you were. dont bullshit me, bro.

hmmm. i did like chris.

too little, too late, cubfan.

and i liked living on del playa.

youre going to a better place.

i am?

maybe.

what!

hopefully.

fuck.

hey i got in and i broke some major rules.

thats right, you killed yourself.

major faux pas, let me tell you.

how did you get in after something like that?

G-o-G.

whats that?

Grace of God. thats how everyone gets in.

what if you were super good?

doesnt matter, without the GoG you dont get in.

so, like, mother theresa?

God isnt crazy about the Catholics. little known fact. especially the ones who know better. they disobeyed the very last line in the Bible, “dont add anything to this text or else you will get all the curses written herein on your ass.”

thats not exactly what it says.

whatever.

damn, kurt, even in your afterlife you’re controversial.

ready to hit the road, pallie?

wow. im really dead?

dead as grunge.

and i have to leave this apartment behind?

you can haunt it if you want, but scaring people becomes dull. it’s pretty easy.

but its sorta messy, i’d hate to leave a mess.

trust me, dude, people are going to make a fortune eBaying your stuff. youve got some great shit here.

yeah somewhere in here i have a ticket stub from your last show in LA.

not anymore,

kurt cobain said and flashed me the stub and tucked it into the breast pocket of his raggedy flannel.

sk smith + spit on a stranger + science blog

Saturday, June 22, 2002

dawn is taking a poll on what fantasy she should write for the busblog, and more than a few women writers have asked me for an example as to what im looking for, but fortunately a decent submission was sent in this morning by ms. svensa swenson of eu claire, wisconsin:

pizza boy came home from a hard day of delivering pies.

his teen exgirlfriend was busy doing teen things,

his busty other exgirlfriend was drinking with her coworkers on the wesssssside,

his cuban lust affair was through with him, the nba cheerleaders were in maui recovering from the grueling season, so he figured he’d immediately change into his pajamas, turn off the phone, sip rum and watch hbo.

david spade’s “joe dirt” was scheduled to be broadcast.

as the microwave bell tinged that his frozen burrito was warmed, he heard a familiar knock at the back door.

a curvey tanned girl in her early twenties waved at the backdoor cam.

big smiles.

he opened the door, she came in, he didnt hug her she didnt hug him but in minutes they were on the couch

going at it.

just like they should.

pizza boy might not have been blessed with good looks, rich uncles or funky dance moves.

but he had been born with an uncanny memory of city streets and addresses

and an equally creepy way around a young woman’s body.

creepy good.

she didnt seem to mind that he was in his red flannel pajamas, that the ball game was on the tv, that porn was streaming on the computer, or that he didnt offer her any of the steaming hot chicken nuggets.

she didnt even notice the thirteen tiny sauce bowls on the coffee table with variety of dipping choices.

there was hot mustard, bleu cheese, ranch, salsa, hot sauce, bbq sauce, mc donalds sweet and sour, hunt’s catsup, soy sauce, zancau garlic paste, honey, lemon pepper, hummus, and what nugget isnt tastier than with a dab of ecstacy.

which our writhing guest was obviously in the throws of.

ting.

hot fudge was ready.

now this was a girl who hated body hair in the same way pizza boys hated rodents.

she had beautifully long hair hair, perfectly plucked eyebrow hair and three curls that our hero was up to his eyebrows in.

thanks to the internet, pizza boy had every great song ever recorded ever

stored in his sixty gigabyte hardrive which was connected to his only real extravagance, a two hundred watt mcintosh thx dolby home theatre whose speaker wires crept through all the walls of the small apartment including the far south wall where a pair of descretely placed infinity speakers hung beside the futon mattress of his hollywood crash pad.

she backed away and started doing things to him that will never be shown on national television

and he wondered why

he looked outside, it was the first night of summer, and he thought about all the things that he’d seen on national tv like death, lies, wars, tragedies, and wondered if he would ever see a young man and a young woman seriously get it on to a point where clothes were ripped off and clothes were pushed aside, and sounds were made, unmistakeable sounds, and both people were beautiful and said beautiful things to each other

and then

banged

hard and fast.

pizza boy knew he was the luckiest man in the world. he’d just gone to an astrologer who said that there was a good luck convention going on in his house. the astrologer said go to vegas, play every game there, play the lottery, smile at every hot babe you see and watch them All smile back.

and again the microwave tinged.

the girl returned with a second dish of hot fudge.

being that pizza boy was handcuffed

and gagged, he had a pretty good idea about what was going to happen next.

but as always, he was wrong

for, hark, what’s this?

is that a knock at his front door?

only the mail man knocks at that door and it was now nearly midnight.

the girl gave the steaming fudge another stir and hopped up and skipped to the door, a blur of white cotton panties, little tennis socks with the fuzzy ball above the heel,

ponytail.

she came back holding the hand of her miniskirted

highheeled best friend

who’d always wanted to meet the world greatest

pizza boy,

who couldnt take his eyes

off of her glittered

black leathered

choker.

until her twin sister slammed the door, stormed through the apartment

clomping over the hardwood

with her cowgirl boots,

crashed past the two x’ing girls,

and ripped off his whippedcream covered

strawberry stained leather gag.

and i try so hard not to talk about my work on here because its a serious job and dangerous and important, and because i just dont think that its good form to talk about the people who are around you most of your day, not because theyre not important but because thats where you make your money, thats what pays the rent, thats what keeps the tivo activated and the dsl on.

and if there was a day that i wanted to write about my job and how great i worked and how little i was respected for it this would be the day.

but since nothing in here is true i could tell you how work really was today, and how i was a master at my job and how the girls flirted with me, and how i cheered up the sad and how i bitched slapped the bad, and how they have player of the day awards and today after a long long time of waiting, i got one and everyone cheered and i got to dig into the bucket of change and i got to buy lots of candy and chips and soda out of the machine and i got to pick what the good night music was going to be, and after i did everyone danced and the prettiest girl told me that she had voted for me five weeks straight.

and if you could really tell the truth in a blog and since im no different than anyone i could tell you that the xbi made a mistake with the maui tickets not a bad mistake just a little one. that for some reason the tickets didnt fly us out of lax, that we were being sent to maui from san diego. but it was ok. and i would have to rent a car, but it was fine. i didnt care. i rented the car, i hung out with karisa and watched tv quietly with her door open and her cats playing and then falling asleep, and then i went to my lawyers house and then i just drove around la listening to talk radio and wishing i wasnt so alone and woe is me.

which of course is ridiculous because my phone rings off the hook and its this one then its that one. my friend came over and told me that i should go through my phone machine one day if i thought i was so alone and he clicked the button and it was one great friend, then another, then a rock star, then a young girl begging me to pick up the phone and then a hottie and then two hotties, and then someone wanting to make a movie with me, and then someone wanting to make a tv show with me, and then someone from canada, and then my fired maid, and then ashley and then ashley and then ashley.

most people would be satisfied with that but im looking for more. im looking for this phone call from that person saying this thing. or this plea from this girl wanting this thing. its fucked up. worse is that people are saying those things just not the ones i want. worse is that i know better than all of this. that i do know how to bring it up a notch in every avenue of my existence. if this guy is saying why arent you being this i think to myself if i was that letter-of-the-law i would have turned you in years ago. but i let things slide.

i let things slide for a long time. i give people chances. i give them second chances. some people i give a ton of chances and one day their chances are up. even then i say do this and alls well and they wont do it. some of them wont do it for years, and when they do they do it so half heartedly you wonder why they even bothered.

i was insulted today and when i said so the woman didnt even seem phased, and certainly didnt apologize. and i hardly ever let those things bother me. but today i did Let it bother me and i tried to stop it but it was seeping over me like spilt oil across a marble floor. like baby piss across a dinner table. like cats in a rat factory.

anna kournikova has been calling. i dont answer. she asks me why im not happy for her. she reminds me that i told her i wanted her to find true love. but now we get into personal business and all i have to say america is i have plenty of reason not to return her phone calls although it was pretty cool getting a telegraph so i did have to send her a reply to that.

anyway sometimes when you stand alone you will be shot at. call it friendly fire call it a comeback call it my day to experience the fuct up, all i know is it wasnt fun even though my astrology begged me to enjoy it.

today i will and i should look back and enjoy the fact that i got to see karisa today after far too long and i got to talk to rene who wants to see a movie with me and i got to help out ashley even though she will look at it as me being mean.

and i got to drive a new car around a pretty sweet town.

my town.

which i’ll miss while im away.

hollywood.

madpony shops victorias secret

all i keep singing in my head is that justin timberlake song.

i want to rock your bod-ay

please stay.

once again the devil has invaded the friendly confines of my gray matter and i am victimized in his name.

clippergirl’s cousin is emailing me asking that i use her real name but nothing in this thing is true, plus if i used her real name then all youd have to do is a quickie little google search and voila find her sisters name in the clipper press guide. so no thanks little girl.

everyone is talking about getting tanned on the white sand but i just read something in The Week that talks about skin cancer and now im all paranoid.

they said that we should be careful about laying underneath a sun which is just a huge orgy of nuclear gangbangs going on releasing crazy gas and radiation and our sun tans because its sorta freaking out.

they said that the whole sun tan thing came when Somebody Chanel stepped off an airplane in like 1930 or some shit and she looked amazing. as if black people havent been naturally looking amazing since the dawn of man. as if latin people havent looked amazing since the day after the dawn. as if every single pale swedish intern who sends me an 8×10 glossy with a resume doesnt look amazing.

f tans.

f skin cancer.

thank God for bronzers and g strings. i love a lot of you people and i want you to hang around a little longer.

in other news yesterday my man vaine brought over the Zeppelin dvd and blew me away.

there was no band like Zep before or since.

im am born again now to that band.

i will buy a dvd player just because of those discs.

watch me.

azarok + malate mail + friendster

i have been off my game for quite some time now. thats not to say that ive had any game to begin with, but the luck has definitely run out and ive exhausted all the resources to plagiarize from.

coincidentally clipper girl found out that her timeshare in maui had a few extra days on it and invited me out there if i could get a cheap plane ticket.

thanks to the good people at the xbi travel agency i was able to purloin a first class roundtrip dealie that gets my ass out of here late-lunch-ish returning early sunday morning in time for church.

clipper girls cousin will be accompanying me.

shes a gemini and you know how i feel around gemini girls.

i heart them.

a long time ago there was an fbi training session that i was exposed to that was super psychological and emotional and spirtual and newagey and all that wrapped up in one disguised as tank battle game in the middle of death valley.

we learned how to drive and shoot tanks and we even learned a little about ourselves along the way.

one of our instructors was a buddhist monk. zen buddhism. i learned a lot about zen poetry from that man and i appreciate it.

he said that americans, especially american superheros often relied on their reactive skills more than their meditative skills. he suggested that we didnt prepare our minds as well as we had prepared our bodies before we went on our assignments.

so before we climbed into our tanks he had us sit in front of the tank, cross-legged, and think to ourselves what our purpose of entering the tank was going to be.

he asked us to meditate on what experience we wanted to take away from the exercise and what we were willing to give to the process.

lots of us thought it was a load of shit but he could read our minds and bitchslapped us and reprimanded us.

the purpose of entering a tank isnt to blow up every evil motherfucker alive, he told us. each mission has a totally unique desired result and very few assignments in life require the death of our adversaries.

the xbi isnt so crazy about the training i got in that desert but it has stuck with me and when i board the hawaiian airliner and take my first sip of rum n coke i will close my eyes for a few minutes and clear out any distracting thoughts and i will meditate on what i want to accomplish in maui, other than clippergirl’s cousin.

one thing is i want to come back strong to the blog.

the other thing is i want to figure out what i want to be doing professionally. as in soon. as in by this summer or right near the end of it. cuz this xbi stuff, as nice as it is that theyre sending me away ha ha is hurting my soul and it affects my blogging.

and we cant have any of that.

malaho.

totally awesome + greg vaine, baby photographer + moxie

and before you ask, no, thats not punk rock.

not only that but it would make me not want to go to that alleged pizzeria.

im sorry but i do not want my punkers being human billboards for middle of the road consumerism.

do you?

i live in one of the hotbeds of counterculturalism and the punk rockers are pretty scarce, i dont want them dressed up as subway sandwiches, i dont want them selling batteries out of baby carriages, i dont want to see them passing out free samples of breath mints.

i want them where theyre supposed to be: sitting on their asses, with their hands out, in cute little groups, dressing better than i ever will in a million years.

has this planet completely lost its mind?

once again, i must blame the president.

if the economy was better these kids would be getting handouts from the young and olde alike, obviously noone has any codder for me brotha and now look what you have.

why doesnt nike just have him wear a tshirt that says nike on it?

why doesnt someone give him ten bucks to mow their lawn?

why doesnt abecrombie and fuck just get him a cute little office and a window and a laptop and make him vice president of suck my nuts – it’s all equally wrong and ridiculous.

and good pizzerias dont need to advertise – with signs!

no i dont want to buy a slice from some well meaning bleeding heart who is taking the rock right out of punk by bribing the kids with what they so love: attention and greasey cheese.

im not someone who you’d consider a hisser.

sometimes i’ll be at the pictures and a preview of a bad movie will come on and when its over some in the crowd will hiss.

it usually catches me by suprise, but when it happens i can often see their point.

if i passed by a punker with a placard i would not only hiss but id spraypaint sellout on his pants. look how clean that fuckers pants are.

obviously this man dresses this way to attract girls and congratulations, melvin, youve got your girl. but youve sold out on an ideal that goes back to the 20th century. maybe even further.

punk rock is about eating pizza from a dumpster or stealing it from a yuppie, certainly not earning it you tweaking tard.

its all that radiohead youre listening to. makes you soft.

if youre going to sell out, do it in a big way. not for a slice of za, a big cup of mountain dew and a few bucks.

extra cheese on that mothafucka and shit.

you can only sell your soul a few times, punk rockers.

make it count

and quit being so boring.

instapundit + bukkake + 44 days until her 17th birthday + mr. doc searls of santa barbara

which basart reminds us is the anniversary of the day that Tribune Corp. bought the Cubs from the Wrigley family for a paltry $20.5 million back in 1981 (back when $20.5 million was a lot of money), this will be my last post of the day.

but not before we get this in:

fuck you, Tribune Corp.

from your whiny announcers, to weak infielders, to your general ignorance of all things baseball i raise my middle fingers to your ivory towers and i wish monkeypox onto your most private of areas.

you took a national landmark, a local treasure, a sports jewel and you have wiped your dirty ass with it.

yes the cubs are good right now due to some timely hitting and a handful of young pitchers – pitchers that cost you a million or two, tops.

yes you got us the best manager in baseball after the frisco giants showed him to the door. leftovers. good leftovers, but leftovers none the less. still, thank you. you coulda fucked that up. but you didn’t. a gift landed in your lap and you didn’t squash it. nice work.

but you have done very little else for the cubs in the 23 years that you have slumlorded over my favorite team and for that i curse you and the things you hold dear.

i would say more rude things but my mommys on vacation this week and i understand that she might be reading this post especially since she too loves the cubs and wrigley field.

die you motherfuckers, die.

if you want a baseball team to have as a playtoy, go buy the sox. give the Cubs back to the people. the people deserve better.

how can you let a big fat windbag like George Steinbrenner just cherry pick the planet for the latest stars while you sit around counting your gazillions as the Cubs flounder and the little northside kids weep?

why would you want to do that?

alex gonzales and his clutch home runs helped the Cubs start off the season with some great late-inning wins. but in the last month he is barely hitting .214.

want to do something for the city of chicago? trade him for Miguel Tejada. right now. those dumbass A’s will go for it, and guess what, the Yankees have an all-star shortstop And an all-star second baseman, so this will get you half way there. dumbasses.

god i hate you.

while youre at it trade Mark Bellhorn, Kyle Farnsworth, and Juan Cruz for Frank Catalanotto and Kelvim Escobar. the blue jays don’t know what on earth they’re doing and they’ll be shocked that the cubs are giving up two fresh arms for one.

but this is our chance. this is our season. its now or never. especially the way you seem intent on burning out the arms of mark prior and kerry wood.

do this and i wont hate you.

as much.

perfect gallows + mad pony + crispy duck