at the airport last night. found so many holes in airport security it wasnt even funny. first of all, they didnt have bombs in the trunks of their cars as they picked up their friends, second they didnt bomb anything, they flew planes into buildings.

big diff.

but let me tell you this, airport security.

if youre going to be secure, be paranoid. if some guy shows up and you look in his trunk, and an hour later he comes back, dont listen to him. dont let him say, “oh the flight was delayed.” or “i was way too early” or “just me, back again.” and then assume that theres nothing in the trunk. if you looked into the spare tire nook the first time, look again the second time. look harder this time, youre getting a second chance!

if you are going to make the already pain-in-the-ass process of flying on an airplane even a longer ordeal, do what youre getting paid to do.

another thing: marines, listen up.

the machine gun, or rifle, or whatever huge hunk of death device you’re got in your hands – it looks good. you have successfully intimidated me. you are definately the force to be reckoned with in this relationship. i am humbled.

but the cell phone with the american flag face plate makes me wonder if that AK isnt a squirt gun.

i say put it in your pocket. or better yet stuff it in the body of an old school cell phone made right after they didnt need a battery pack. soldiers should have huge phones.

now, burbank airport. hi.

of all the airports in LA i like you the most.

you’re little, you dont have any restaurants. you even have a cop directing traffic, making it impossible to hang out at the curb like this is America and fuck those unknown mother fuckers.

that cop there is doing a good job. you see people park only if their friend is right there, they run to the trunk they run into the car and they leave. ahhhh.

so guess what, Burbank Airport, you dont need that hideously-sounding woman repeatedly declare that the white zone is only for loading and unloading.

the cop is right fucking there!

ok, well ashley is here and she is playfully popping the plastic packaging for the voice announce caller ID that i scored off eBay.

i’m listening to Burl Ives singing “The Lollipop Tree” and now it’s “Big Rock Candy Mountain.”

what’s that dear. shes bored.

“WILL YOU PLEASE TURN THIS GAY SHIT OFF?”

“where the lemonade springs and the bluebirds sing.”

So I put in Ice Cube’s “Nappy Dugout.” she has said often how she hates my music.

ok, well that’s todays Saturday news. Thanks for the person who thought that my note in their guestbook was worth at least one buck. too bad the other 97 people didnt think that it was.

i say a bidding war in the eleventh hour shoots it way past $2.50. Just watch.

and the answer is a resounding fuck yeah. As a keen observer of popular culture I have seen people sell out in many interesting and creatively sucessful ways. Plus I have always been a master of underacheivement, so I could probably do a bunch of things more. If that’s what you’re wondering about.

I just want whatever I do to be fun, and a win-win for all parties involved.

Speaking of underacheivement, one of my all-time heroes, Mr. J.D. Salinger, recently had 32 of his letters auctioned off for a quarter of a million dollars. These weren’t sexy letters, they were normal correspondences to his daughter over the period of 35 years. What J.D. demonstrates is the simple concept of supply and demand. If you come out of the blocks as some hot shot writer and then you become America’s number one recluse, suddenly anything that you write will become valueable, even if you are still alive!

So many people speculate that he has dozens of novels that are just as good as Catcher in the Rye just gathering dust, yearning to see the light of day. But I don’t think so. For years I was a huge Bruce Springsteen fan. I would buy his singles just to hear the B-sides. And there were some real good ones like “Pink Cadillac,” “Shut Out the Lights,” “Jersey Girl,” and “Trapped.” But when his 4-cd box set “Backroads” came out, it was painfully obvious that Bruce was one of those guys who only put his good songs on record. He was not Dylan who could write and write and everything was magically delicious. Springsteen was just a man. A man from New Jersey.

I don’t really know where JD is from.. Ohio? Who cares. The dude wants to lay low and do his thing and I say we should let him, and even though I will probably buy his books after he dies and theyre released, I’m certainly not going to buy his letters to his daughter for the price of a small house in Koreatown.

But if I could get him to sign my Guestbook for $20, I would probably cough up the cash.

Anyway, yes I could sell-out more. And I probably will. Let’s just hope I continue to do it, however, on my terms, and not anyone else’s.

I hope your weekend is as fun as mine will be,

your pal,

Tony

p.s. why must pretty girls insist on cutting their hair off? I have never understood or liked this concept. And because of that I will now only date girls who have hair below, or that reaches their shoulders.

Unless theyre in Hustler.

Or a practicing bi-sexual.

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two tshirts yesterday. Or two people each bought one. Whatever, thanks for shopping, kids. I get $4 whenever you get a tshirt through my links, and that goes to the Snoop Deville fund – the new Cadillac the rapper will design and I will purchase thanks to you, dear readers – which means we’re up to $316, gracias, amigos.

Ashley is coming to town this weekend, which means maybe i can get some sleep. I really dont like being cold in my bed, or sleeping alone. I don’t think that that’s why God made Queen-sized beds, or billions of women.

Speaking of nice things, I love the mp3 cd player that was given to me on my birthday. You really need to experience having 118 songs on one cd as you walk in the rain to or fro your job. I have a ridiculously short attention span, especially when it comes to music so i just might hear all 118 songs before i get to my destination.

Typically the routine when I go home is, check the machine (im ignoring you, Kirsten), get the mail, put on pajamas, fill my pipe with tobacco, smoke and read the mail. Fire up the computer. Turn on whatever NBA game is on the dish, and start downloading MP3s. When my harddrive begins to fill up, I burn 3-4 cds and empty the harddrive. Usually I had those cds just laying around forgotten – some sort of squirrel/nut savings thing for the Future.

Well, now the future is here, loved ones. I have rediscovered all those previously important tunes and it is GLORIOUS. oh, ancient Springsteen bootleg concerts, Ice Cube’s War & Peace, the Sea and the Cake, Phil Hendrie bits, AC/DC covers by scandinavian bands, live Jackson 5 tunes from Japan in the ’70s, Dylan’s new record, the Strokes, dirtay Hip Hop anthems, Bill Monroe (king of bluegrass), Johnny Cash, Willie Nelson, Nelson, Thee Mystakes, Gwar, Sonic Youth and more Sonic Youth, Menthol, Ella, Billie, Louie, Merle — all mixed up and shuffled for my enjoyment.

Better than stepping in a cold Los Angeles puddle, let me tell you.

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for the $5 towards the Snoop Deville. Despite what some of the critics say, I could sell-out more, and it’s nice that some of the strangers out there don’t need pop-up ads and full-page specials to help me get closer to my dream of a new Cadillac. Take a hint from JC, lurkers and see your initials on this very page. We’re at $308, people, quite a nice start, so thank you to all.

For all of you who think that it’s always warm in L.A., take solice in knowing I went to bed in a tshirt and a ski-sweater last night and I had my space heater on for a couple of hours. It’s butt cold and here in Hollywood people have broken out with the pea coats and the scarves and the mittens. Only thing worse than cold: cold with no snow.

Saw my breath this morn as I walked from the bus to my palacial office and I saw the guy who rakes cigarette butts and trash from the sidewalks and I thought, “at least I don’t have that job. Poor guy can’t even persuade his boss to get him a proper push-broom.” Passed by the guy who mops the mosiac entry way of the El Rey theatre and I thought, “damn good thing I dont have that guy’s job.” Then I passed by the homeless guy who sleeps in the nook in front of the drug store, he had a couple of empty bottles of Gatorade beside him, a thin blanket over him, and a flattened out cardboard box underneath him, and several cigarette butts neatly arranged next to his shopping cart and I said, “if i ever bitch about my amazing life I am a dickhead.”

And then I saw an asshole in a corvette on his cell phone and I instantly got jealous again.

Watched “Fear Factor” for the first time last night. The put celebs on it last night. Made them stick their heads in a box. Then they poured scorpions and maggots and spiders in there. Sick! Got me to watch nearly ten minutes of it, till the teen called.

She invited me to spend Christmas in Las Vegas, something I would have never considered until I thought of you, gentle readers, and what a nice title that is for a piece of semi-fiction. So I gave her a sincere “I’ll think about it.”

Once I made it into the office I turned the corner and locked eyes with the only girl here who refuses to say hi to me. Shes cute as hell, has great hair and this bitchy attitude that I find irresistable in some young women. Most human beings, when caught looking into the eyes of a co-worker WHO THEY SEE EVERY DAY will automatically do something polite, like smile or say hello or grunt or blush or something. Not her. Which only makes her seem that more intriguing and catapults her to top of the list of suspects that I will break the ice with at the drunkfest called the Company Christmas Party which will be held in a few weeks. Stay tuned.

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of this knows im not gay. but the fellas at the expensive gay gym that i belong to, however, probably dont read my web page.

men are aggressive enough as it is. gay men, in a gym, in a locker room. sheesh. and everyone is trying to show each other how much more naked they can get.

needless to say, i dont like any of this. i get nervous. i get anxious. i want to dry off, change, and get the heck home.

theres good points to belonging to a gay gym, however. hot chicks for days.

bad parts is, i think anything that i do in the locker room is either the gayest thing i can do, or so damn homoerotic, that i couldnt even have planned it better for their enjoyment.

like the wonderfully talented sksmith, i, too, like to keep my distance when choosing a locker. yesterday i found myself assigned a locker right next to the two old men who try to out-naked each other and out-old themselves. they talk about their diseases, then they talk about how theyre fighting it with exercise and diet. they do all of this butt naked sitting on towels on the bench where i want to be changing.

so i walked to the front desk and asked for a locker in the back.

little did i know, but that was code for, “please assign the next gayest guys lockers next to me.”

so i work out, impress the models, sauna, shower, and there is the gayest guy ive ever seen, buffed out, dressing himself where i want to be. not only does my towel fall off as soon as i get there, but each time i try to adjust it, it falls off again.

fortunately there are prettier men all around and ultragay guy runs off giggling while i drip in a little puddle of shame.

believe it or not, thats not why i started this thing. recently i let out the secret to as why i started this, but i digress.

Peter: if you ever have unprotected sex with a girl, and then have unprotected sex with another girl and you dont tell that 2nd girl what you did with the 1st girl, not only will you spread your ignorantly terrible disease, but if i ever meet you i will rip out your eyeballs, then chop off your head, then slice your “manhood” off and shove it down the remains of your neck and you will watch yourself choke on your own diseased nads.

once in Hell, i will make sure that each freaked molester begin and end each day raping you with their tools the size of redwoods.

i never understood the phrase, “dont piss where you eat,” until my health teacher explained VD to us pimply fools.

so, Peter, go get your AIDS test, ask for and accept their huge bags of condoms, and the next time you get lucky, dont catch anything from these sweet girls and dont pass your ignorant crap to the supersweet girls. unless you have had them tied up in your basement since they were newborns you have no idea where they have been, which means no one knows where you have been.

and dont ever introduce yourself to me because i just might break a hand on your skull out of principal.

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I appreciate your readership, your nice emails and your requests for more pictures of Ashley, but until you admit that the Good Lord made pot and there’s nothing wrong with it, i’m not going to go back to the Catholic church.

Plus you guys made up all that crap about nuns, and how priests couldnt have sex, and confession, and rosary beads, and …

But when I get the car, if you’re in town, I’ll give you a nice little ride in it.

Today is my sister’s birthday. I was pretty much the worst brother ever. In many ways, I was Bart to her Lisa. And my mom was definately as perfect as Marge. Anyhow, Angie, I hope you have a good day today, I’m glad the Bears are winning for all the good people of Chicago.

the Pope says hi.

p.s. i had an unbelievable weekend.

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to watch the J-Lo concert with me on tv. She figured she was going to have to see it sooner or later, so why not see it right away and get it over with. I made some fajitas that turned out pretty good even though i forgot her favorite ingrediant: cheese. She was pretty distracted so neither of us knew it until we were working on our seconds.

Before the show started I told her that Britney on HBO was mighty disappointing and she said that I was a good friend. I said, I shit you not, Mariah, the girl wasn’t all that. She put her head on my shoulder and smiled a secret smile and the commercials ended and J-Lo hit the stage.

OMG.

Jennifer Lopez was freaking amazing.

Still, me and Mariah sat there trying to pick her apart, but we failed.

Mariah: Is she really singing?

Me: Can’t be.

Mariah: I think she is.

Me: Nuh huh.

Mariah: That skank is really singing.

Me: And she’s dancing.

Mariah: Dancing her damn ass off.

Me: Fuck.

Mariah: You know she used to be a Fly Girl.

Me: I never knew that, really?

Mariah: yeah.

Mariah: That wig is ridiculous.

Me: But look at her go.

Mariah: Fire?

Me: More fire than Blink-182.

Mariah: and fireworks.

Me: FUCK!

Mariah: Where’s her man, her man is a good dancer.

Me: Bro is probably in the back munching on the brie, counting her money.

Mariah: She’s really singing.

Me: And look at that attitude. Like she’s looking in the crowd for someone who stole her purse.

Mariah and I downed the first bottle of white wine. She spilled a little on her skirt. I offered Jello.

“That’s the dumbest nickname,” she said.

“I didnt say J-Lo, I said Jello.”

We laughed. And then she started to cry. J-Lo was prancing around that stage in Puerto Rico like she had gathered all the attitude and spirit and sass in all of Latin America and was shoving it right back into the faces of anyone who had ever dissed her ever.

Her band was hot, her dancers were hot, the look of the show was first rate – as good as any of the stage productions by touring rock acts like the Stones or U2. She swung on a girlie swing above the crowd. She wore a flamenco dress and danced like a Spaniard. She covered a Selena tune from the movie that broke her. Then she concluded the hour show by singing a song in perfect Spanish.

“Show off,” I said. But it was too late, Mariah was balled up in my lap.

Defeated.

“Oh, Tony.”

Shhh shhh sshhh.

I told Mariah that no one sings like she does. That no matter who we think we are, there’s always going to be someone who comes along to kick our ass. I might think that I have a cool ‘fro, and I walk down the street and some ass has one twice as big…

She had finished crying. She was in the sucking the snot back in her nose/hiccupping stage.

… and he’ll be White!

She had this long skirt on. I’ll tell you, tv sure does f with things, cuz in real life Mariah has way skinnier legs than you’d imagine. But theyre real nice.

I had popped open a bottle of red and filled her glass a few times as we watched 20/20 about the Iowa family who had 8 kids all at once. It was a good distraction. I turned and there was some liquid running out of her nose. She tried to lick it, but her tounge is suprisingly short. it looked cute as hell. Irresistable, really.

I got a fresh box of Kleenex and dabbed at her nose for her. She was comatose. So I leaned over and kissed her.

Wow.

She and I had kissed a few times and it was awesome. Not just cuz it was Mariah, but, I don’t know. She’s pretty special. After a while you’re just two dumb kids in an apartment watching tv and shes not a diva and im not an FBI agent and we’re just two mixed up souls with taco sauce stains on our shirts and a kiss like that…

She jumped me.

I knew it was just cuz she wanted to get her mind off of current events, but it was cool. I was there for her, so I jumped her back.

Later, I walked her to her car and I said, “no matter what anyone says, you are my favorite superstar. You’re my number one brown-skinned diva. You’re my dream lovah, my butterfly. You’re my little runaway.”

She giggled, gave me a hug goodnight, and got in the back of her white limo.

Later that night, around 3am, she called me crying again. She said she had a terrible nightmare that Jennifer Lopez had had her first concert and it was so amazing that no one cared about her anymore and that all of her fans had defected.

I said, “Jennifer who?”

We talked till the sun came up and I told her I had tickets to see Weezer on Friday, she said she had never heard of them. How cool is that! And then she invited me over to read her diary but i had to work in a few hours, so she gave me a raincheck.

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so im apologizing, gwen, im sorry, baby. i know youre nursing a sore ankle and youre a little testy. im a little testy too. i saw you wipe out at the Staples Center. i really hope your record does well. you seem like youre a cool girl, even though youre still letting a british prettyboy touch you all over. i like your clothes. im glad your friend discovered Tsar. im not so happy with how your ex-manager is guiding their careers, but thats not your fault.

i havent bitched about the bus lately, but today it really ruined my morning.

i was skipping to the metro stop writing a little poem about how everything is nice and sweet in the morning. i passed the church next door where they have this huge cadillac that pulls this sweet old third-wheel, and even though they have a super-huge parking lot, they park the mini-motor home on the public street which makes for one less parking spot for all the hot babes who like to knock on my windownpane in the wee hours and whisper promises of thisnthat, which are sometimes accepted.

but the third wheel didnt get me down, the fact that the train was late didnt bum me, the fact that the connecting train was late didnt get me, cuz i arose from the wilshire vermont station and it was warm. i took off my gangsta flannel and let the sun hit me. the one legged mexican man asked for change and i smiled a polite hell naw instead of frowning it. it was all good.

but then the 720 Rapid didnt want to get out of the parking lot. there were 50 people waiting for the bus and me and there were three 720s in the parking lot pretending to hide. practicing to be paperweights, smoking their cigarettes, talking about lennox lewis, lying about whatever, getting on my last nerve, killing my natural high.

finally bus number 7072 starts up, turns the corner and makes its way to the stop. As reluctant as a $10 suck from a $2 ho.

mr. busdriver did not open up the back door to let half of us with bus passes slip through the back entrance. the dude who normally stands at the stop with us from the metro wasnt there to yell, “back door, Miguel!” so we all had to squeeze through the front. but that is more an irritant, not a bummer. it wasnt the reason that once i saw the wasp hovering around the cabin of the clean red Rapid darting this way and that, did i pray that it would find its way up front to the driver of #7072 and insert his deadly suicide stinger into his evil eye.

it wasnt because driver of 7072 stopped at a green light at Normandie. it wasnt that he yelled at everyone to go to the back, even though the back was filled – with people like me! it wasnt that he put in his earpeice to listen to his native music behind his Oakley shades.

i didnt wish bad vibes upon the driver of the public taxi because of his quick starts and short stops or the way that he never smiled at anyone and mumbled out the upcoming stops like it was a warning, a threat, a dare. Crenshaw! La Brea!

i wished a bloody tragic death on the $50k/year driver because he didnt realize that he had people on the bus who had to get to work, who wanted to get to go to work, and he was on his way to Santa Monica Beach and he didnt appreciate it. i wanted to fight this fuck and even if i lost, i knew id get a few good shots in cuz when i brawl i cheat. i bite i scratch, i go for the ‘nads. i fight like a bitch, fuck you mr. bus driver. im gonna beat your ass and make you open up your back door. im gonna make you tell people what busses connect at what stops, what points of interests are coming up.

im gonna fuck you up so bad youre gonna wish people a nice day and tell them what time it is every hour on the hour.

“we’re approaching Fairfax, Fairfax Boulevard, Los Angelinos Peterson Auto Museum. The Children’s Museum, and the 99 cent store. it’s 9:05 the 216 connects to my left, as well as the 345 and the 20 and 21 lines. you have a blessed and stress free day. Fairfax Boulevard.”

im gonna make you smile you mother fucker and thank people when they leave your $350,000 vehicle, and tonight i’ll pray that wasp that rested a mere 7 feet from your shaved head dug its stinger deep inside your neck and flew off leaving that deadly quarter inch behind as a reminder that you’re not the only fucker who has to work today, so spread some love you little cunt.

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