they call me Lefty Tony because my family left me when i was a child. the entire truth is that the doctors the nurses, everyone, not just my family left me when i was born. the doctor pulled me out, horrified behind his mask, showed me to a nurse who fainted, showed me to another nurse who peed herself and showed me to my parents who cried. and then ditched me.

burgalars who robbed the abandonded hospital found me and adopted me into a life of crime. eventually i went to jail, and after my ten year rehabilitation i was recruited into the xbi by someone very dear to your hearts.

as he prepares to depart, on his much deserved vacation, he has entrusted me with his blog today, and the keys to his bachelor pad, flying car, and home computer.

in return, i will housesit for him, occasionally update his blog with classic posts from the past, and attempt to entertain you with, in some cases, new pictures and tighter editing.

speaking of pictures, today’s posts will include photos of my little brother freddy, who got himself nationwide press with our cousin manny as they beat the shit out of kansas city royal first base coach Tom Gamboa last night in the ninth inning at comisky.

south side!

i love that kid, i swear. even though he’s my brother he calls me uncle lefty because he doesnt want to believe that hes related to me. knucklehead.

strangers think that i’m called Lefty due to my prostetic arm.

i must admit, i would probably think that too.

but i love my half arm. it’s what makes me different. in many ways it’s my personality. and if it wasnt for a great idea by tony, and his insight, i would have never thought that i stood a chance to get in the xbi.

but when he asked me if i was willing to put a gigantic screw at the end of my elbow, and attach deadly weapons or useful tools to the end of it, i saw what he saw, unlimited potential.

so needless to say, i’d do anything for him.

remind me to tell you about the time he made this two foot vibrator, screwed it on me, took me to a strip club.

the ladies were speechless.

today’s entries are in honor of my little brother freddy and our cousin manny.

you two did good.

theres a church next door that has a huge sign that says “come in now,” and i think if they had naomi cambell in the clergy, maybe we’d all sign up.

has she aged a day?

incredible tummy, beautiful legs, attitude in her strut: why isnt naomi campbell on the cover of every health and fitness magazine in production?

im thinking she’s an alien.

i heard rumors that she has a pretty bad attitude, and has often times been called a bitch.

you know what? fine.

i want my supermodels to be spoiled bitches.

jenny mccarthy might have had the hottest and cutest playboy layout of all time. but as soon as she started putting her finger up her nose and trying to act like one of the boys, it lost everything for me.

if naomi was my girl, i’d let her pout. why not? any time she just wanted to walk around the house complaining about this one or that one, throwing dishes, taking a golf club to televisions, spitting, i would just go into the game room and play my xbox on the 42″ plasma screen.

let it out, naomi.

and if, for whatever reason, she wanted to start drifting her anger in my direction, i’d say, whatever baby, cuz as hot as you are, my mother is still the most beautiful woman in the world.

which is true.

and today is her birthday.

happy birthday, mom.

Priority Records

“No Vaseline”

Got damn, I’m glad ya’ll set it off.

Used to be hard, now you’re just wet and soft.

First you was down with the AK,

and now I see you on a video with Michel’le?

Lookin’ like straight bozos.

I saw it comin’, that’s why I went solo.

And kept on stompin’,

when ya’ll mothafuckers moved straight outta Compton.

Livin’ with the whites, one big house,

and not another nigga in site.

I started off with too much cargo,

dropped four niggas now I’m makin’ all the dough.

White man just rulin’.

The Niggas With Attitudes — who ya foolin’?

Ya’ll niggas just phony,

I put that on my mama and my dead homeys.

Yella Boy’s on your team, so you’re losin’;

Ay yo Dre, stick to producin’.

Callin’ me Arnold, but you Been-a-dick;

Eazy E saw your ass and went in it quick.

You got jealous when I got my own company,

but I’m a man, and ain’t nobody helpin’ me.

Tryin’ to sound like Amerikkka’s Most,

you could yell all day but you don’t come close.

Cuz you know I’m the one that flowed,

ya done run 100 miles, but you still got one to go.

With the L-E-N-C-H M-O-B, and ya’ll disgrace the C-P-T.

Cuz you’re gettin’ fucked out your green by a white boy,

with no vaseline…

[Refrain] (L.L. sample: “Now you’re gettin’ done without vaseline…”) 3x

(Biz Markie sample: “Damn, it feels good to see people…on it”)

The bigger the cap, the bigger the peelin’,

who gives a fuck about a punk-ass villain?

You’re gettin’ fucked real quick,

and Eazy’s dick, is smellin’ like MC Ren’s shit.

Tried to tell you a year ago,

but Willie D told me to let a hoe be a hoe, so

I couldn’t stop you from gettin’ ganked,

now let’s play big-bank-take-little-bank.

Tried to dis Ice Cube, it wasn’t worth it

cuz the broomstick fit your ass so perfect.

Cut my hair and I’ll cut them balls,

cuz I heard you’re, like, givin’ up the drawers.

Gang-banged by your manager, fella,

gettin’ money out your ass, like a mothafuckin’ Ready Teller.

Givin’ up the dollar bills,

now they got the Villain with a purse and high-heels.

So don’t believe what Ren say,

cuz he’s goin’ out like Kunte Kinte,

but I got a whip for ya Toby;

used to be my homey, now you act like you don’t know me.

It’s a case of divide-and-conquer,

cuz you let a Jew break up my crew.

House nigga gotta run and hide,

yellin’ Compton, but you moved to Riverside.

So don’t front, MC Ren, cuz I remember when you drove a B-210.

Broke as a mothafuckin’ joke.

Let you on the scene to back up the FirstTeam.

It ain’t my fault, one nigga got smart,

and they rippin’ your asshole apart.

By takin’ your green, oh yeah,

the Villain does get fucked with no vaseline.

[Refrain scratched]

I never have dinner with the President.

I never have dinner with the President.

I never have dinner with the President.

And when I see your ass again, I’ll be hesitant.

Now I think you a snitch,

throw a house nigga in a ditch.

Half-pint bitch, fuckin’ your homeboys.

You little maggot; Eazy E turned faggot.

With your manager, fella,

fuckin’ MC Ren, Dr. Dre, and Yella.

But if they were smart as me,

Eazy E would be hangin’ from a tree.

With no vaseline, just a match and a little bit of gasoline.

Light ’em up, burn ’em up, flame on…

till that Jheri curl is gone.

On a permanent vacation, off the Massa plantation.

Heard you both got the same bank account,

dumb nigga, what you thinkin’ bout?

Get rid of that Devil real simple, put a bullet in his temple.

Cuz you can’t be the Nigga 4 Life crew

with a white Jew tellin’ you what to do.

Pullin’ wools with your scams, now I gotta play the Silence of the Lambs.

With a midget who’s a punk too,

tryin’ to fuck me, but I’d rather fuck you.

Eric Wright, punk, always into somethin’,

gettin’ fucked at night.

By Mista Shitpacker,

bend over for the gotdamn cracker,

no vaseline…

Where are they now?

Eazy-E died several years ago from the AIDS virus.

have i ever told you that? it’s true.

i tell her that she has no reason to be that way, that none of the girls in LA really want me and she says, “that’s not what Lenny Kravitz says.”

i tell her that Lenny wears women’s clothes and is bald as a bat and wears a wig.

she says “BLIND as a bat, poopyhead.”

i say, lenny isn’t blind.

then she sighs. she sighs a lot. when she sighs i say, “what was that?” and she gives me a second sigh. it’s cute.

almost every night before i go to sleep ashley calls me. lately she has been trying to start fights with me. i hate fights. last night she caught me after our xbi softball game. i was watering the grass out by the duck pond. the automatic sprinklers aren’t working. i think our gardener is an alcoholic. anyhow, ashley was saying how she feels unloved by me and i said, i put a huge picture of you on my blog. she said, so, you didn’t write about me. i said i did! i said you were perfect. she said, you didn’t say that i inspire you. i said, aaaaah of course you inspire me.

it was hard to explain. so i stuck to the fact that i put her picture up. it was really all that i had going for me.

how many blogs put your picture up yesterday? i asked her.

nobody i know has a blog other than you. she said. when she enunciated “blog” she made it sound like a stupid thing. like, “you’d never guess what Juanita got for her sweet 16th birthday gift: a frog!”

i undressed, turned off the christmas lights and climbed into bed. we were still on the phone

i told her that i found a pair of her red panties.

“i don’t have any red panties,” she said.

i could have sworn they were red. but you know my memory.

she became very angry at the idea that some other panties might be left behind that weren’t hers.

she said, “describe them.”

i said, “im in bed.”

she said, “DESCRIBE THEM!”

i said, they smell like you.

she said, don’t be gross.

i said, they’re a thong, they seem new.

she said, “get out of bed right now and tell me what the label says.”

i got out of bed right then and found the panties and said, “victoria secret.”

she said, “those aren’t red those are pink!”

my christmas lights had tricked me yet again.

she said, “i love those! that sucks that i left them behind.”

i said, “don’t worry, they’re safe in this ziplock baggy.”

she said, “i told you not to be gross.”

i said, “i could make $100 off these panties. you’re famous.”

she said, “you’re more famous than me.”

i said, “a famous girl’s teen panties found on the famous guy’s floor. that could get us $100.”

she said, “im hanging up if you don’t stop being so sick.”

i said, “im not that famous. probably only $75.”

she said, “please don’t sell my panties.”

i said, “i wont sell them for less than $125. don’t worry.

and she said, if you sell those i will never talk to you again.

i said, promises promises daisy princess. and i schemed myself to sleep.

hi lenny kravitz, nice wig.

yeah. yeah. hey tony, mind if i take over your blog when you go on vacation?

only if you only talk about what happens backstage at your concerts.

oh, man, all i do is drink juice, talk to the entertainment reporters, and do yoga.

it’s who youre doing the yoga with, lenny, that im sure readers of my blog would be interested in learning about.

ive been housesitting in your neighborhood, tony pierce. every day i see a different girl show up.

those are my cousins. they like to cook. if they make a big meal, they’ll put some in tupperware and bring it over.

those are some mighty close hugs youre giving your cousins.

im very grateful for their food.

most of these girls are white, tony.

nah, just light skinned. you know how it is.

one of the girls was chinese.

that was saki, she’s japanese.

you have a japanese cousin?

no, that was a chick i met at the Nacional.

so you are dating her!

actually she brought over some tempura.

but you kissed her, i saw it!

no no. she just had a little spinach in her teeth that i was helping her remove. and my hands were full. of tupperware.

anyway, what about the blog? can i do it? please?

only if you talk about lisa bonet.

you’re a gentleman, like me. we dont kiss and tell.

good point, lenny. whats up with you selling all the stuff in your new orleans house?

ironically, me and lisa used to live there right before the “let love rule” album was recorded. i never felt right back there after we split. i didnt do my taxes so well last year, so i figured i’d just sell everything in the place.

even the suit of armor?!

it’s not as kinky as i was hoping it would be.

im gonna steal from the obvious blog right now.

what?

lenny, in five words, describe what its like to be a handsome lead guitar singer songwriter frontman

redhead mondays, brunettes tuesdays; twins

im not sure i understand, lenny, im not sure im worthy to understand.

its not a wig, by the way.

then screw you, you cant borrow my blog.

why?

cuz only i can lie here.

the propeller stopped spinning. the monkey got stuck on his way back in.

i thought you said you wanted me to keep the hat on.

i knew she could read my mind, so i added,

fucking bitch.

she clenched her fist. i knew she didn’t like me.

“do you know my superpower, ma’am?”

“i know more about you than you know, la vista.”

then you know i feel no pain

“then explain your carpal tunnel.”

psychosomatic

“you want your fingers and arms to ache?”

theres beer everywhere, drugs, tv. all we do is try to numb our senses. theres a bar at a shoe store on hollywood blvd. what’s that all about?

“so you want to feel pain?”

i want to feel something.

the monkey’s gears were whining. i picked up the hat and put it back on my ‘fro. but before it could get comfortable, i put it on my boss’s boss’s head.

why do you hate me?

“i don’t hate you. actually i admire you. it wasn’t my idea to block you from being a superagent. i just think that sometimes you underperform.”

strangely that stung. i wasnt expecting her to hit me there just like that. that early. i didnt even know she knew me that well.

everyone slacks off. i’m there when you need me arent i?

“i know, i know. but to be honest. to be a superagent, you’ve got to be on like all the time. its a different mindset than you have right now, agent. it’s commitment, fearlessness, obedience, passion, and trust. only then can there be room for magic.”

the propeller made a slow revolution on her cap.

“the air conditioner is on, la vista.”

im not here not to be a superstar.

“then quit acting like a punk.”

she took the goofy cap off and set it back on the shelf where it belonged and walked over to a locked cage.

please God please.

“please get your mind out of the gutter, agent”

“honestly, boss, i just want to see what’s in that cage.”

“oh. okay. theres something in here i want to give you. i have an assignment that i need you to complete at noon.”

it was 11am.

“a bank is going to be robbed. a very crowded bank. we’re afraid that the perps will flub it, panic, and take hostages or kill people.”

scores of agents illegally listened in on bad guys all over the city as they talked on cell phones or held meetings in apartments. the truly stupid called each other on cordless phones, easilly monitored by police radio. meaning, even the police knew. some of those calls were from us. decoys. it wasnt nice. but it had to be that way. we had to establish ourselves with each sunrise. and reinforce the underground myth that the fbi knows a bunch, but the xbi knows everything.

“this is a pair of form-fitting earplugs. you and six other agents will be wearing them. you will all be in the bank before it gets robbed. each of you will also have one of these,” she handed me a canister that looked like what people with asthma use to clear their lungs.

“this canister emits a tone so high-pitched that it makes it terribly painful for humans to tolerate. unless you’re wearing those earplugs, you will try to cover your ears, your stomach will turn, there will be vomiting and screams of pain.

“your job, la vista, is to activate the tone, kick open the teller door, and spray paint the lenses of the two center cameras behind the tables.

“your cue will be a gunshot.”

so each agent will spray paint a pair of cameras. and one of the agents will get either the money or the perps.

“the idea is to get the money and foil the heist. but if we have to shoot one of the perps on the way out, then so be it.”

“i have to kick in a door, and spray paint two cameras.” i asked her.

“and then get on the bus,” she said.

i took the canister and thanked her for the gig.

“from the sound of the gunshot, to the activation of the disturbance, to the spraying of the cameras you have thirty seconds. then you have fifteen seconds to exit. even a slacker like you could do this.”

i gave her a sarcastic smile. God this was great.

i hope it’s a wells fargo i thought.

“it is a wells fargo,” she said. reading my mind. smiling.

fucking hate wells fargo.

1. snag me something off my wishlist, which someone did today in honor of my upcoming 109th birthday. Thank you mysterious amazon-er! today’s gift is the incredible Quick Chop! i’m learning to cook for myself but i am deathly afraid of slicing my fingers off over a handfull of carrots: now with the Quick Chop I can slice and dice with my eyes closed. GRACIAS!

2. turn the world on with your smile. and if that doesnt work, write about how to properly give yourself a brazilian bikini shave. people often ask me if i ever get lonely being a bachelor. usually i think to myself that there could be no better time to be a young-ish man, what with girls with tounge-piercings, waxings, thongs, lowrider jeans, belly shirts, trendy bi-sexuality experimentations, ecstasy parties and the sorority house down the street. and now with the internet, if you cant get enough of those things on your block, you can just click a few times on the web and find those babes online.

3. be a public servant like Santa Cruz , CA, Mayor Christopher Krohn, who handed out medical marijuana yesterday on the city hall steps in defiance to the feds who bumrushed a co-op that was growing the natty weed in order to sell it to locals who were suffering through little things like cancer, AIDS, and other terminal illnesses. why he’s not higher than #3 on this list is because he wore a suit yesterday in this picture, probably to look more mayoral. nice try, but it didnt work. better luck next time, amigo. but you are definately in the running for tonypierce.com man of the year, which was awarded last year to pop singer phil collins.

4. thank me on your sweet page next to a perky blonde and call me the inspiration for your art? wow.

5. or you can just thank me for putting up a nice picture of francis bean, a young girl who will either be the most fucked up child of all time, or the coolest most amazing person ever. my money is with the latter, which makes me an optimist. whichever, i would bet loads that she will definately not be boring.

now go fly into the night sky, little jelly beans, and do things that will metaphysically inspire our girl kate to update her bloggy blog blog, cuz its really hard to go many days without it.

week of September 19, 2002

by Rob Brezney

“The Universe is Made of Stories”

The poet Muriel Rukeyser said the universe is not composed of atoms, but of stories. The physicist Werner Heisenberg declared that the universe is made of music, not matter. And I believe that if you habitually expose yourself to inferior music and stories — even unwittingly — you could wind up living in the wrong universe. I bring this up now because it’s never been more important for you to nourish yourself with righteous tales and tunes.

i read the above, my astrology, in the LA Weekly, which serves its purpose in this town: Lynda Barry comic, Matt Groening comic, coupons for cheap lap dances, rock listings, etc. and i ordered my food at koo koo roo and went into the bathroom to wash my hands and i heard the following song and i, once again, was shocked at the accuracy of Mr. Brezney’s creepy ass insight.

Kelly Clarkson

“A Moment Like This”

What if i told you it was all meant to be?

Would you believe me? Would you agree?

Its almost that feeling that we’ve met before

so tell me that you dont think im crazy

when i tell you love has come here and now

a moment like this

some people wait a lifetime for a moment like this

some people search forever for that one special kiss

oh i cant believe its happeneing to me

some people wait a lifetime for a moment like this

Everything changes but beauty remains

something so tender i cant explain

i may be dreaming but until i awake cant we make this dream last forever?

and ill cherish all the love we share

a moment like this

some people wait a lifetime for a moment like this

some people search forever for that one special kiss

oh i cant believe its happeneing to me

some people wait a lifetime for a moment like this

could this be the greatest love of all?

i wanna know that you will catch me when i fall

so let me tell you this…

some people wait a lifetime for a moment like this..

a moment like this

some people wait a lifetime for a moment like this

some people search forever for that one special kiss

oh i cant believe its happeneing to me

some people wait a lifetime for a moment, a moment like this…

oh i cant believe its happening to me..

some people wait a lifetime for a moment like this…

call me a genius.

call me the Absolute King Of Bloggers.

keep me linked on the snoop doggy blog.

link me at the top of your link list.

call me your hero.

take a cool picture of the lake behind your house and then write me a sweet email.

write a long long long piece about several young people talking about sex.

or you can just tell the world that im amazing in the sack.

p.s. or be my canadian girlfriend

shes a good friend.

the korean laundry man speaks very little english and left me a telephone message that i swear to you only said, “you washie, uhhh mmmm, you pickie up.”

how cant you smile when you get three such messages like that?

but karisa says that i need a break, a much deserved vacation, that you, faithful readers, have flowed my way. next week i will be in the tropical dutch island of aruba. my original plan was to write this blog from the sandy beaches but karisa sez that my art needs to rest. that too much has gone on since my last vacation, and i should just chill till the next episode. and after my last post slamming a site that i don’t even know, i am starting to believe her.

ashley is a great quasi-girlfriend. she would make a perfect regular girlfriend if i was only 100 years younger, but for the most part we are really spectacular together in all things lovey-doveyish.

chris is a perfect ex-girlfriend. we still hold hands and call each other several times a week, and email each other and confide in one another, and are best friends forever.

but karisa is my motivator and best advice giver. i dont know how this happened, but it did happen and its good. rarely does she tell me what to do, but when she does i think about it and disagree and then usually warm up to the idea and when i follow through with it, alls good.

so last night when i told her my plan of updating from the beach she scowled and said rest your sweet hands. enjoy the beach. pick up on the bikini girls. if you must write, write long hand. she said, “you have blogger pro, figure out how it can update your site automatically using the best stuff from your archives. i’ll even help you if you want.”

karisa is secretly a computer genius, though she’ll be the first to deny it.

so i do apologize to all of the kids on metafilter, and technoerotica, my future employer the la times, and whoever else i have flamed in one way or another or given a dirty look to.

monday was the jewish day of atonement and next week will be mine.

i will plunge into the healing waters of the carribian and enjoy the company of my family and hope that my old college pals don’t wreck my hollywood mansion.

i am so grateful to all of you who flowed the busblog the $700 that got me in the friendly skies, and im super grateful to my brother-in-law who got me first class upgrades. im not grateful to best buy who has not returned my digital camera yet, but maybe that means i should take a complete break from that too.

for some people like me, its hard to fully let go and fully relax and fully just zone out for a few days. maybe its cuz i think that i relax and zone out daily.

but fighting crime on the mean streets of LA will twist your perception, and im open to believing that things might not be as they seem.

similarly, karisa, a speed reader bookworm, has fully become a one-woman promotion machine for the well-reviewed novel “white oleander“. she says don’t let the Oprah Book Club seal get in your way, that its the best book shes read all year. she says i should take that on the plane with me and read it on the beach and drink tropical drinks and bond with my two month old niece.

hopefully i will listen to my good pals advice.