i had recently been murdered, as wonderfully reported by the sorority girl’s sexy jailbait sister.

we were waiting for this bus, ironically in death valley, california, where apparently the recently dead go to prepare themselves for the ascension, the judgement and whatever comes after that.

kurt was humming.

“how often do you have to do this sort of thing?” i asked.

not often. they knew that i would be good match for you, though, so i said okay.

he went back to humming.

he looks younger than you’d think and i asked him about it and he said that after he shot his face off they pointed a magic wand at him and poof it was back.

“what are you humming?” i finally had to ask. it was killing me.

that new j.lo song. im just jenny, jenny on the block. i used to have a little, now i got a lot. im just jenny, jenny on the block.

kurdt was the one who said for us to kill our idols, right?

“are you enjoying heaven?”

yeah. my stomach doesnt hurt up there. nobody is yelling at me. i can just be normal. walk around. smoke. nobody gives me any shit. you can go into a bar, restaurant even, nobody gives you a dirty look. theres no “smoking” or “no smoking” sections. it’s civilized.

“are there any chores in heaven? things you have to do?”

you have to laugh on at least twelve different occasions before you go to bed. but thats not very hard. it’s super funny up there. people love cracking each other up. you also have to dance for at least 15 minutes a day. i usually get that out of the way as soon as i wake up.

“what did you dance to this morning?”

jenny on the block. then whitney’s “i wanna dance with somebody” then nelly “up in herre.”

“were you into r&b when you were alive?”

on earth i wasnt very much into that sort of music, but now i am big time.

i was starting to think i wasnt going to go to heaven at all.

i was starting to think it was all a very bad dream that was getting worse.

i thought maybe i was just gonna go straight to hell, when kurt started patting his knees with his palms and singing quietly

peggy sue, peggy sue,

oh, well, I love you gal, and I need you, peggy sue

and to be honest. part of it scared me. but then it really relaxed me and i started to float about a foot off the bench and kurt handed me a picture of him and his family taken around christmas time.

leaving those two is my biggest regret. if you put it in your pocket it will weigh you down until we get there.

i took it and put it in my front flannel pocket and it sent me down with a thud.

kurt floated a little but knew how to control it.

how come no one ever comments on your page, bro?

“i think they’re shy.”

maybe they dont like any of this.

“if they didnt like it, they’d say so. i just think they’re shy.” i said and then listened to kurt sing a little more.

gotham pictures

and drove out to death valley. the ride wasnt bad, it was just me and kurt and a few gangstas from the hood.

when the bus stopped kurt led me out.

before we can go any further you have to sit on the Regret Throne.

all i saw were a row of Port-A-Potties.

go in there, put down some paper on the seat, pull down your pants, and think about all of your regrets.

i did as instructed.

“i cant think of any.” i yelled.

i thought you said you were bummed that you never went to Prague?

“oh yeah.”

plop plop plo-plo-plo- SPLASH

“i think im done.” i told him.

did you ever have sex with anyone you wish you hadnt?

hmmmm. no. no, i dont think so.

think hard. if theres any regret in you, you wont be able to fly in heaven. it’s what seperates us from the birds.

plop plop plop.

what about some of the jobs you had?

sorta liked my jobs, kurt.

wish you had said some things, or not said some things, or quit earlier at some of them?

plop plop plop plo-plo-plo-plo-plo-plo-plo-plo-plo-thrrrrrrrrrrrrbbbbbbbbbbbbbbb plllllllllrbrbrbrbrbrbrbrb SPLASH

ok that was sick, tony

hey man, im just doing as the inventor of grunge is instructing me.

any girls you wish you had asked out?

the toilet exploded.

it was like a missle.

there were flames.

kurt hosed me off and handed me a towel. i tipped him a dollar and he opened the door of another port-a-john.

any records you bought you wish you handt? movies you saw? extended warrantees you bought?

another violent explosion.

my ass was starting to hurt.

kurt took the hose to me again and handed me another towel.

i gave him a $5, he gave me three ones in change.

i went into another port-a-potty and sat down.

sorry you didnt buy Amazon at 7 and sell at 100?

huge explosion. my ears began to ring.

kurt hosed me off, handed me a towel, i gave him the three ones. he gave me a squirt of cologne.

went into the last port-a-potty that remained.

sorry you didnt say good bye to anyone?

nah, not really.

wish you had asked for more money on your blog?

plop.

wish you had spell checked or proof read it before you posted?

pleep.

wish you had kissed more people’s asses so that they would link you?

plip.

wish you had gone to journalism school?

plop plop plop.

wish you had learned to play guitar?

SPLASH.

wish you had gotten married in your twenties?

no.

look down at your feet.

“what am i looking for?”

are they on the ground?

and what do you know, i was floating about an inch off the floor.

crazy.

i wiped, flushed, got out, and felt incredible.

me and kurt hung out at the bus stop waiting for the next bus.

“what was one of your regrets when you were here?”

i wish i had been a corporate spokesperson for someone.

“really?”

yeah, really. i was just shy.

listen missy

well what are we supposed to do?

well the bus doesnt come for another few hours, what would you like to do on you last day on Earth?

wow, kurt cobain, thats a tough question.

nothing bad can happen to your body, because you’re already dead you cant be judged for anything you do, and anything that you do will be wonderful.

okay i think i know what i’d like to do.

wanna go see your mom for the last time?

nah. i’ll see her later, im sure.

wanna see wrigley field for the last time?

nah, i bet they have one up in heaven.

oh i know, you probably want to go up to Isla Vista, huh?

nope. i want to do heroin with you, kurt, at the Playboy mansion and have a bunch of unprotected sex.

whoa nelly. none of the girls will be able to see you. you’re invisible, they wouldnt notice you even if you jumped up and down and yelled. and they wont be able to feel you either.

ah, im used to all that.

alright then, lets go.

they got good H up in H?

sure, but nobody does it.

why not?

people get high off life up there.

interesting concept. but arent they really getting high off death?

no, it’s eternal life. eternal death is the other place.

hell?

no, earth.

everything dies, baby thats a fact.

and maybe everything that dies some day comes back.

put your make up on

fix your hair up pretty

and meet me tonight

in paradise city.

3rd Leg

i will not make fun of the polish army. i will not make fun of the polish army.

hi. my name is tony.

sorry if everything has been dark and unpretty and loud and gross and something found inside hieronymus bosch’s junk drawer, but it has been my practice to excorcise any demons that might be haunting ones soul and the best way to do that is to shine a light on them real bright and name them and identify them and watch them shrink up and blow away like dust.

at least thats the story i tell myself.

pssst. i just got a call from the isla vista university press. the books are done. this might be a good time for those of you who havent bought one to buy one. after family and friends are taken care of there will probably only be 15 left so if you order one today or tomorrow i can guarantee that you will be getting them before Christmas.

click the picture of anna on the left.

ok, todays public service brought to you by the polish army.

friends. i love you so much. i hope you know that. and sometimes i look at who has linked me and i will go to your site and sometimes i will see who youre linking. and sometimes i will go to their site and i will suddenly find myself very intersted in the person writing and designing and taking pics of themselves, etc. and i want to find out more about that person but they dont have any info of themselves on their page and im inpatient cause im so damn old, but if they have a url that has their name or something that they registered, i will go to Register.com and i will type in their URL and i will click where it says “Taken” and that will give me all sorts of information.

more information than you probably want lurkers on the web to know. things like your home address and your phone number… and your zip code!

so heres how to get that stuff removed, go to Verisign, who bought network solutions, who probably owns your url. when you sign up with them they own the url, not you. quit signing up with them.

tell them to remove your personal info from the Whois. they may ask you for a different address. give them anything. the only time people use those addresses are when strangers want to buy your URL (which happens never) or when Verisign wants to tell you that your url is about to expire.

mark on your calander when its about to expire. put in a fake address. spammers and stalkers are the only ones who will properly use your info. get rid of it.

the address that i use? just some little apartment behind a sushi place that jeanine once lived near.

os, my “technical contact,” is using the 7-11 where he used to grow up in kentucky.

okay thats tony’s tip for the day.

xoxoxo

tony

meesh is back, and she has pictures

(Ice Cube)

[Brother J]

“Stalkin.. walkin in my big black boots” [repeat 2X]

[Ice Cube]

God damn, another fuckin payback with a twist

Them motherfuckers shot but the punks missed

Ice Cube is out-gunned, what is the outcome?

Will they do me like Malcolm?

Cause I bust styles, new styles, standin – strong!

While, others Run a Hundred Miles

But I never run, never will

Deal with the devil with my motherfuckin steel – BOOM!

Media try to do me

But I was a BoyN the Hood before the movie

Call me nigga, bigger than a spook,

But you the one that voted for Duke,

motherfucker.

White man, is somethin I tried to study

But I got my hands bloody.

They said I could sing like a Jaybird

But nigga, don’t say the J-word

I thought they was buggin

cause to us Uncle Sam is Hitler without an oven

Burnin our black skin

Buy my neighborhood – then push the crack in

Doin us wrong from the first day

And don’t understand why a nigga got an AK

Callin me an African-American

like everything is fair again,

shit.

Devil, you got to get the shit right I’m black

Blacker than a trillion midnights

Don’t Believe the Hype was said in ’88

by the great Chuck D, now they’re tryin to fuck me

“.. with No Vaseline

Just a match and a little bit of gasoline..” – HUH!

It’s a great day for genocide (What’s that?)

That’s the day all the niggaz died

They killed JFK in ’63

So what the fuck you think they’ll do to me?

But I’m the O.G. and I bust back (boom boom)

Bust back (Boom boom!) peel a cap (BOOM BOOM!)

Gimme room in the fire of the sun

Here the mack come, here the black come,

watch Jack run!

Motherfuckers can’t gank me

Fuck a devil, fuck a rebel, and a yankee

Overrun and put the Presidency

After needin that, I’m down wit O.P.P.

I met Farrakhan and had dinner

And you ask if I’m a five-percenter, well…

No, but I go where the brothers go

Down with Compton Mosque # 54

Made a little dough, still got a sister on my elbow.

Did Ice Cube sell out? You say, “Hell no!”

A black woman is my manager, not in the kitchen

So could you please stop bitchin?

[Brother J]

“Stalkin.. walkin in my big black boots”

[Cube]

Yeah, yeah..

“But when will they shoot?”

[Brother J]

“Stalkin.. walkin in my big black boots”

[Cube] Yeah, yeah..

“But when will they shoot?”

[automatic gunfire]

You missed, and didn’t hit Da Lench Mob either

“Guerillas in the Mist..” without Jungle Fever

But I got the fever for the flava of a cracker

Not a Pringle, bust the single, here’s my new jingle

“Stalkin.. walkin in my big black boots”

The KKK has got three-piece suits

Using niggaz like turkey shoots

My motto is Treat ‘Em Like a Prostitute

Now if I say no violence, devil, you won’t respect mine

Fuck the dumb shit – and get my Tec-9

And if they approach us

A-ight, a-ight – I bury those cockroaches

And if you can’t deal with my Kill at Will

Here’s a new gift to get – try my Death Certificate

Amerikkka’s Most, Amerikkka’s burnt – it’s like toast

Like Jordan, I’m goin coast to coast

Dribblin the funk here comes the nigga

with the motherfuckin monster dunk, get off me punk!

“Jordan.. watch Jordan,

aiyyo yo watch Jordan .. YES!”

[M.J.]

“You better eat your Wheaties”

[Brother J]

“Stalkin.. walkin in my big black boots”

[Cube] Yeah, yeah..

“But when will they shoot?”

Darryl Gates got the studio surrounded

Cause he don’t like the niggaz that I’m down with

Motherfucker wanna do us

Cause I like Nat, Huey, Malcolm, and Louis

Most got done by a black man’s bullet

Give a trigger to a nigga and watch him pull it

Negro assass-in

I’ma dig a ditch, bitch, and throw yo’ ass in

When they shoot, no, it won’t be a cracker

They use somebody much blacker

What I do? I called up the Geto Boys crew

Cause My Mind’s Playing Tricks On Me too

Never died, surround my crib

and F.O.I. makin sure nobody creep when I sleep

Keep a 9 millimeter in my Jeep – PEEP!

When I roll, I gots to roll deep

Ain’t goin out cheap

Met the MADD Circle on Cypress Hill cause it’s so steep

They’ll never get me, they’ll never hit me

Motherfuck that shit JD

Now I’m relaxed

Grab the St. Ide’s brew so I can max

Sittin by the window cause it’s so fuckin hot

and then I heard a shot

boom.

kool keith

it’s at the intersection of wilshire and vermont. by the way, i love each of you and i hope youre having a pleasant day.

if you are taking a train south and you want to go west you get off at wilshire and go down the stairs and within a few minutes, if the timing is as it should be, the train going west will arrive.

sometimes the train gets there just as youre hitting the bottom stair. thats like a sweet little kiss on the cheek from the one you love.

because there is only this one transfer spot in the entire los angeles subway system (there are a few others but they dont count) if the train downstairs is a little fast and the conductor can see a whole group of people running down the stairs, he will wait, as that is not only polite, but professional and reasonable, because after two stops the westbound train takes a 10 minute break and turns around and goes east.

so waiting 1 minute for the commuters to catch their last train at 8:40am isnt much of a big deal.

unless, of course, you are the wastoid who decided to watch us decend the staircase waving our arms and pull away as we hit the platform.

hi train driver.

im gonna get you.

im gonna go to heaven and the angel on duty is going to give me a tour of the place and once we’ve completed the gauntlet of blowjobs from playmates around the galaxy, and after we sled down the chocolate chip cookie dough ice cream mountain and after we soak in the hot tub of love and make out with every nfl cheerleader one at a time in their former bodies and after we’re given our superbodies and golden afros and assigned our flying skateboards and ac/dc bottle openers i know, i know someone is going to whisper in my ear, “who do you want us to fuck up, royally.”

and i will pick you, subway man.

and trust me when i tell you that i had some extra time this morning to think of what i would like to do to you. and i have a pretty good relationship with my imagination, if you havent noticed.

so as youre being given papercuts forced to watch your mother get it from the entire cook county correctional community with baking soda falling from the sky like snow, know that thats just the appitizer of this miniseries of miseries that i will oversee happening to your person.

because then your daughter will appear.

and she will walk up to you.

and she will bend down on all fours.

and the lights will dim and the spotlights will hit and then twirl around in a frenzy and the smoke machine and the confetti and the midgets and the midget clowns and the big band and the stuido audience will all be revealed from behind the curtain, and two high fashion models will make their way to a mystery curtain.

they will look at the camera and make hand gestures and the curtain will part and out will come a nice big hairy buffalo.

and from that curtain to your daughter will be a very narrow walkway.

and tied to the papercut chair will be you.

and while you watch your daughter get mounted doggystyle, thanks to the help of the beautiful fashion models who lead the willing buffalo with ease, she will look up at you with equal parts pleasure and horrfying pain.

the buffalo, reknowned for being infected with an unusually large amount of hiv, has recently aquired mad cow disease, and snorts phlem with each thrust which drips and hangs and finally lands on stringly tendrils atop your daughter’s bowtied ponytail.

then comes the rhino.

so your daughter flips over, spreads her legs, and throws her head back so you can see her eyes, covered in spit snot and buffalo drool. nipples pointed at the sky, audience cheering, baking soda falling, paper cuts slicing, rats gnawing, paranah tank lowering, trapeze girls swinging, you might let out a scream of mercy.

mercy?

your job, the thing that you get paid to do, metro operator, the thing that buys your little girl those barrettes, and those skirts, and those little socks, and her book bag, and powers the lights that wrap your christmas tree, is to pick up people in the subway and drop them off at their stop.

simplest job in america and you get paid at least $60k and work just 4 days a week.

and your daughter will help the rhino in. theres no lube in hell. and she will say

wow this one is hairier than the last one.

and a light will shine from behind the curtain and you will see every animal from noahs ark

two by two

patiently waiting their turn.

full of hate

oprah?

tony, mariah and i are concerned about you.

save your concern.

seriously, you seem very angry lately. would you like to talk about it?

i wouldnt know what to say. im not angry right now, if that makes you feel better.

that makes me pleased. yes, but tony, please start thinking about your future. you want to be successful right?

i’d rather be good.

you can be both. dont you know that?

which one of you two are both?

see, theres that anger again. why the rap lyrics?

cuz theyre good.

dont you know that you are shooting yourself in the foot with those? there are people out there who really like your writing who just will not link to your page if they know that theyre going to send their readers to a hateful, foul-mouthed, ghetto site with poor spelling and bad grammar and topics that do not befit a family audience.

oh well.

dont you want your friend the instapundit to link to you?

instapundit linked to an article defining sodomy yesterday, are you saying the geto boys is worse than sodomy?

the geto boys is worse than everything. im guessing that thats exactly why you put them on your page.

i put them on there because that song is fabulous. ive listened to it nearly every day since it first came out. pat whalen, jeff’s brother, got it at the nexus way back when and one night we stayed up all night listening to it laughing and being blown away. and yes its worse than everything, but its also better too. do your homework. and it is successful. i just saw scarface on mtv cribs last weekend.

ok, well, tony, youre not going to get on cribs putting the geto boys on your page.

life is full of tiny little suprises, hundred millionaire fat black woman. i bet that you never thought that just from being the host of a talk show you could earn so much money either.

thats true, so you should learn from my example.

but i am. you did it by keeping true to who you are. you throw in some ebonics when you want to, i bust with the gangsta rap. it keeps us real.

no, it keeps you down.

i talk to myself on a blog on the web. there is no further depth that i could sink, oprah.

yes there is, you could have no hits a day.

van gogh didnt worry about his hits, i wont either.

dont you want this, tony?

want what? a fake talk show devoid of any soul. fake spirituality? Dr. Phil, a rip off Advanced Course trainer gone wild? soft lighting, a penthouse on lsd – lake shore drive, a lover who wont marry me, hangups about my body, zillions of dollars and very little to show from it? i’d rather pump gas and have women let me look up their skirt when im cleaning their windows, thanks.

dont you want to meet people like mariah?

yes.

shes not going to want to meet you if youre just a dumb blogger.

i guess im stuck with the teens and the college girls then. oh well.

fine, tony. live in your little fantasy world, make no money, keep yourself confined in the second-teir of amateur authorship. you have a talent that youre just pissing away, day after day. the lord will look at you and judge you on the final day and you’ll have no one to blame but yourself.

wrong, oprah, the lord is going to look at me and say, theres a guy who wrote what was true for him and didnt get distracted by flesh, money, power, fame. his treasure was in the kingdom of heaven, not in a bank on michigan avenue. we get judged by our hearts, thankfully. and mine might not be completely pure, but it hasnt sold out fifty times over.

youre so dilluded.

hip hop is american music from our people, oprah. it’s as popular as “the sopranos” and makes more money than all “the godfathers” put together. not only would i be a gigantic sell out not to bring light to this music, but i would be a big fat liar because i love it and it kicks my ass. instapundit will link me when he sees something that fits with what he’s talking about. hes not afraid of what his readers will think, he’s got so many readers and sends people in so many directions and they keep coming back. they come back not because they love where they go, but because they trust him.

so?

so my readers trust me because they know that i might bs with this fact or that fact but when it comes to music, they know theres no fucking around with what i put up there. im going to eat a ding dong now, oprah. give mariah a kiss for me.

oish has a new layout that is unbelievably good

(Springsteen)

The rangers had a homecoming in Harlem late last night

And the Magic Rat drove his sleek machine over the Jersey state line

Barefoot girl sitting on the hood of a Dodge

Drinking warm beer in the soft summer rain

The Rat pulls into town rolls up his pants

Together they take a stab at romance

and disappear down Flamingo Lane

Well the Maximum Lawman run down Flamingo chasing the Rat

and the barefoot girl

And the kids round here look just like shadows

always quiet, holding hands

From the churches to the jails tonight all is silence in the world

As we take our stand

down in Jungleland

The midnight gang’s assembled and picked a rendezvous for the night

They’ll meet `neath that giant Exxon sign that brings this fair city light

Man there’s an opera out on the Turnpike

There’s a ballet being fought out in the alley

Until the local cops, Cherry Tops, rips this holy night

The street’s alive as secret debts are paid

Contacts made, they vanished unseen

Kids flash guitars just like switch-blades hustling for the record machine

The hungry and the hunted explode into rock’n’roll bands

That face off against each other out in the street

down in Jungleland

In the parking lot the visionaries dress in the latest rage

Inside the backstreet girls are dancing to the records that the dj plays

Lonely-hearted lovers struggle in dark corners

Desperate as the night moves on,

just a look

and a whisper,

and they’re gone

Beneath the city two hearts beat

Soul engines running through a night so tender in a bedroom locked

In whispers of soft refusal and then surrender in the tunnels uptown

The Rat’s own dream guns him down as shots echo

down them hallways in the night

No one watches when the ambulance pulls away

Or as the girl shuts out the bedroom light

Outside the street’s on fire in a real death waltz

Between flesh and what’s fantasy

and the poets down here don’t write nothing at all,

they just stand back and let it all be

And in the quick of the night they reach for their moment

And try to make an honest stand

but they wind up wounded,

not even dead

Tonight

in

Jungleland

ken layne

school? it was one a.m.

sure enough it was school. isla vista university.

tony we want to publish your book.

God bless you.

how soon can you be here?

twenty minutes.

how are you going to do that?

i have a flying car. i’ll land on one of the copter pads on the cliffs by the lagoon.

please dont bring any of those xbi things up here. come alone. show a little class.

knocked on my neighbor’s door. the old lady. she said i could borrow her 1980 dodge van.

so it was three on the tree in the middle of the night.

made it to IV in an hour and a half. knelt at the alter of the college of creative studies and didnt dare look up.

go to campus point, build a fire, bring your manuscript, and a cup.

skateboarded through campus turned left at the thunder dome, then took the hill down to the lagoon past the faculty club. found a red wheelbarrow beside some white chickens, gathered wood on my way to the beach, started a fire, a shadowy figure was approaching me with something on his shoulder.

as it got closer i saw that it wasnt a man, it was a woman, and she had what appeared to be a full keg of beer on her shoulder.

mind over matter, tp. good to see you.

it was my creative studies advisor. the reason for everything.

dont use my name on your blog if you write about this, she said. and tapped the keg and filled up my cup.

she sat crosslegged at the fire and accepted my manuscript and read it as the waves crashed and the lighthouse kept very slow time and every once in a while she would laugh and look up at me, proudly, and that meant everything in the world to me.

before we drank very much she was done.

it starts off slow, but i like that. it shows progress. it shows growth. people might read this and see that with practice you get better as you write and you end up with some very good stories along the way.

thank you.

and it has an ending. a real one. and a real begining.

im so glad you think that.

you need to take the poems out though.

but…

this is a book of short stories. some very short stories. you dont need to apologize for it with your poems.

bukowski put poems and stories together.

who?

i promised people there would be poems.

give them their money back if they dont like it.

did you like the photo essay?

yes, but it needs to be cut out too.

you dont understand, people Love the photo essays.

too bad. this is a book of short stories. dont fuck it up.

i learned early on that she was right about everything, so we clinked plastic cups that said mgd on it and drank.

your grammar is bad and there are lots of spelling mistakes.

sorry.

no, it’s cute. for some reason when you do it it’s ok. but whats up with the ee cummings all lowercase who-ha?

its a web thing.

dont change it. i love it. nobody has been able to tribute ee without completely making everyone think of him. youre on the right path.

what about the cover?

the cover needs to be in color. thats gonna cost you.

cost me?

you think this is going to be free? youre going to pay for everything. and it wont be cheap.

will it look like a book at least?

no, it will look like a college reader. university of isla vista press. get it?

will it have a spine with the title on it?

no.

please?

no.

people wont think that it’s a book.

dont judge a book by its spine.

when will it be ready?

friday. come back up here then with a thousand dollars and i’ll give you one hundred books.

give me ninety nine, i’d like you to have one.

this is a good thing, tony.

thank you so much, woman who should be praised.

thank me by helping me kill this keg.

17. the comedian

faster harder deeper