you better capitalize that shit, fucker.

capitalize what?

both those words.

i thought we got judged by our hearts and not our acts.

your acts are a reflection of your heart, dumbass.

i have respect.

then show it.

is Christmas a big deal in Heaven?

yes, duh.

do people light decorations in heaven?

whats that?

do people light decorations in heaven?

once again?

oh shit, sorry, do people light up decorations in Heaven for Christmas?

everyday is like Christmas in Heaven. it’s gorgeous, sparkling, wonderful. only difference is the music. carols like you couldnt believe. lots youve never heard.

really?

sure. jingle bells gets a little tedious for eternity.

then kurt asked a fucked up question.

The fucked up question.

so are you ready?

i knew what he was asking but i pretended that i didnt.

ready for what?

ready to be judged?

sure.

kurt esped me. i didnt like it when he did but he did and it scared the hell out of me.

cockiness wont help you on this one, tough guy. this is one guy who knows when youve been naughty. knows when youve been nice. all your charm all your bullshit all your good clothes are worthless on this one.

we walked outside to catch the bus to the pearly gates. the ladies blew kisses at me and waved their perfumed hankerchiefs and wished me luck.

we sat on the bench and watched the sun set over the mountains.

the air was crisp, bitter, fresh from the latest rainstorm.

for the first time i noticed kurt’s low top one stars on the top of the left shoe was scrawled Courtney and on the right shoe was Frances. there were little hearts drawn around the letters and a few gold stars that had begun to peel off.

it nearly made me cry.

i saw some birds flying in the distance and for some reason i wanted to shoot at them, if only i had a rifle. and i thought that i was screwed for this judgement cuz my heart is so far from being pure. so far from being good. it’s a cloudy, dark, spooky place and out of the grit comes imagined prettiness and fa la la, but it’s pretty much a fiesta of porn, obsenities, fear, hate.

i was fucked.

youre not fucked, kurt esped.

i elbowed him and told him to knock that esp shit off, i was nervous enough.

dude, youre an ordained minister. you know the Bible, you have a heart of gold, 14 carat, but it’s still gold. and everyone, by the way, hates, and thinks about sex, and wants to pick off birds flying across the perfect sky when theyre anxious.

i really wanted to go back in that whorehouse and play a little more pinball.

and i had to piss like a bitch.

tonight 4/8
drive by truckers, el rey
olivia newton john + debbie gibson + shirley jones, royce hall
ditty bops, tangier
general public, malibu inn
rolan bolan, troubador
rev. horton heat, vault 350
joe satriani, ventura theatre
margaret cho, wiltern
dave attell, the canyon

tomorrow 4/9
cheap trick, vault 350
the soundtrack of our lives, tower sunset (free)
beat junkies, knitting factory
morris day and the time, malibu inn
bellrays, alex’s bar
digable planets, el rey
the naked trucker, largo
slipknot, the forum
powerman 5000, troubador
deerhoof, echo
loudon wainright iii, mccabes
margaret cho, wiltern

sunday 4/10
hydra, henry fonda
bellrays, alex’s bar
gza, the echo
trulio disgracias, viper room

monday 4/11
garbage, wiltern
the ettes, viper room
poop, anarchy library

tuesday 4/12
ozomatli, house of blues
michael penn, largo

wednesday 4/13
business machines, spaceland
union 13, troubador

thursday 4/14
death by stereo, knitting factory
the wedding present, troubador

miss badger + rockit + annabanana

for nearly four days straight with very little sleep. i still looked sweet as hell, but the lack of rest was starting to show on the grunge king.

he told me that one of the best parts of heaven was the sleep.

pillows made of clouds, warmed by the sun, hidden orchestras playing pink floyd and pleasant dreams.

sleeps with the angels, neil young once sang about me, and if only he knew.

with all the activities that go on up there, kurt told me, sleep is an important part.

i like to pop my eyeballs out and put them in the nightstand next to my bed, cuz it can be super bright up there in the mornings.

i asked him if he has slept with any girls up in heaven and he shook his head.

youre waiting for courtney?

yes.

thats so romantic.

and silly, shes not gonna make it up here.

what about the Grace of God?

thats her only hope. i pray every day and every night that she will make the cut, but i dont know. i just dont see her getting on her knees for Him and begging forgiveness. she likes to blame, she likes to bitch, she likes to try to turn the tables.

im so sorry to hear that.

and the shame shower? she would find a way to climb up there and strangle some of those baby angels. it wouldnt be pretty.

but still he waits.

dappled dreams and merry widows
chirpy cheers and ice cold beers
floating far above the radar
nothings dumber than day old fears

the lights around your heart’s delightful
i sommersault around your yard
the petty pace of life’s tremendous
but the waiting is the hardest part.

dirty fez + bloopy + get your oj + dave navarro

plainly. probably another time as well. her private parts had a sort of suction going on that was equal parts creepy/wrong and omg/omg.

her name was <3 i said, less than three? she said, i dont make fun of your name, please dont make fun of mine. i agreed and the suction continued. when she kissed me i time traveled in my mind. except i had no control of where i went. because my luck is sometimes rotten, i ended up in the gift shop of the smithsonian in 1989. i wanted to look around the museum, but it was after hours and i didnt have full control of my feet. when we stopped kissing i came back to earth. or wherever it was that i was. i opened my eyes and four of her hands retracted quickly. without moving her head she looked up and to the right and began whistling a carefree tune. we went back to kissing and i time traveled into the very near future. exactly what i was resisting. i tried to pull away from the caress but i phsyically couldnt. it was judgement day. two rows of white men with long white beards and pitchforks sat to the right of me while two rows of black men with long white bears and lightening bolts sat to the left of me. the opening strains of hells bells were being played and two giant feet and legs that reached into the heavens stood in front of me. everything was happening via esp. how dare you!

im so sorry.

why didnt you?

laziness. sloth. igorance. selfishness. fear of success. assholeness. apathy. fear. pride. age.

you will ruin the mix.

i know it.

you never went to church.

it was so dull.

you could have taken over.

i could have?

why do you think you were ordained?

cuz you needed me?

pride! i dont need you.

cuz you wanted me to?

and what do you do when you dont get what you want?

i bitch.

no whiners in heaven.

no!

hasta, fucker.

one of the feet rose. it looked to be made of cement. he wore sandals. a shadow blanketed me, blotting me out of sight.

she pulled away shreiking. i had bitten into one of her tounges.

someone busted through the door on a pale horse and swept <3 away from me as i sat shaking suddenly alone and dreading the inevitable future. vivian + all about george + my dentist has a blog! + flash

i had just had sex with twelve beautiful women, played some of my favorite pinball machines, and had a variety of alcoholic beverages. not bad for a guy who was dead.

super pretty woman wearing a veil was standing in a corner. men and women walked up to her and kissed her. some super long kisses, some just little pecks. some of the women would giggle after they were done kissing. but everyone seemed happy, most of all the woman in the veil.

whats up with her? i asked kurt

she likes to kiss.

everyone likes to kiss.

so go kiss her.

but what about germs?

aint no germs here.

what about, hmmm, what about… morals.

whats morally wrong with kissing? its a nice thing.

yeah, but i dont even know her.

so go talk to her if you want, but she’d rather kiss. in fact she likes it better when you dont talk to her. gives her more of a thrill.

wow, im tempted.

let me ask you something, have you ever flipped off someone while driving on the road, or flamed someone in an email, or shouted at an umpire at a ball game, or wrote a mean letter to a newspaper writer?

of course.

well, those are strangers. you dont know them. and you go and do mean things to them and try to hurt their feelings. dont you think thats morally bad?

but they were mean to me first!

so be nice to her… first.

still i was unsure. hesitant. it seemed too good to be true.

kurt could read my mind. he said,

if you cant handle free kisses next to a salsa bar, how are you going to handle the unlimited love of the creator?

fucker raised a good point.

unless, of course you’d rather kiss him.

kurt pointed at a bearded man standing in a different corner who winked at me.

uh, no thanks.

whats wrong, havent you ever kissed a guy?

i hesitated.

i’d like to take the fifth, kurt cobain.

oh my god, i just realized, you havent taken your Shame Shower yet. those girls didnt give you a shower after your romp?

no, they just all fell asleep in a cute little heap.

go to that great glass elevator over there. go to the fourth floor. then come back down here. i’ll wait for ya.

so i walked over to the elevator. there were many buttons. i pressed four, the doors parted, there was steam everywhere, a woman approached me, bowed, she held out a basket and asked me to disrobe.

i looked around, took the basket, walked into the changing room and put my clothes in the basket, borrowed a white robe and slippers and floated back over to the woman who lead me into a very tall steam room. must have been ten stories tall.

please take your robe off

the voice was pleasant.

suddenly dozens of little baby cherubs could be heard giggling. they were far above me. little tiny cute bellies. completely naked. fat little cheeks, fat little arms, tiny little pee-pees and they began to urinate on me.

it wasnt real pee, ladies. it was baby pee. baby angel shame shower pee. smelled like roses. it was freakilly warm though. it shoulda been called the Trust Shower but i had just banged a dozen women and totally chilled with kurt cobain, so i went with it.

those little kids peed on me for a while and when they were done they flew away and the woman re-introduced herself and had two baskets. one basket had my old clothes, the other had a sweet puma sweat suit. dark green. some gold rope chains, and a pair of pearl white suede pumas with fat laces. there was also a diamond sparkling pimp cane.

i chose the basket with my old clothes.

the woman kissed my cheek and said, “live a little,” which was ironic since i was, well, dead.

so i put down the basket of my old clothes and put on the new suit, and strangely, this time, i changed right in front of her. without even thinking.

and when i was done, i gave her a big wet kiss.

and she gave me one right back.

kool keith + off wing opinion + mlah + bunny mc

so i floated downstairs and saw that kurt was onstage singing tsar tunes for the crowd. everyone was loving it.

when he was done he sat next to me at my little table. i was sipping cuban rum. there was a nice tall glass of coke with a cherry in it that i was playing with.

boy thats fun. kurt said.

dont you get to play much in heaven?

so many good players up there, sometimes i just like to listen.

then we started talking about led zeppelin. kurt plays with bonham and hendrix all the time in elvis’s punk rock band, if you can believe it.

the king loves punk. loves it. says it’ “liberating”.

i dont know what to say to something like that so i asked him, if you could only have one cd, would it be zeppelin one or zeppelin two.

well i like the long, drawn out zep the best. and even though i wouldn’t like to turn my back on “whole lotta love,” i’d have to pick zep one. youve got “dazed and confused” with that creeping, gnarly, ominious bass line. you got “babe, im gonna leave you” where robert plant really gets off. and then you’ve got my favorite zep tune of all “your time is gonna come.” it’s like an anthem hiding in a whisper.

and with that we clicked glasses and each took an end from the giant hookah and inhaled

held it

held it

fuckyoukurtcobainyouwillbeatmyassateverythingbutnotthis

gnck

fckr

aaaaaaaaaaah and then exhaled.

coughed out a bunch of smoke and then laughed and laughed and cleared out the lungs with some guinness.

followed by a jello shot.

followed by a rum shot.

washed down with a nice pull from the cherry coke.

i really do love your blog. you do things that no one else does.

ah, kurt youre way too kind.

do any of the letters you get… are any of them real?

actually, yes, some are real. lots are real, actually. just the other day i got an email from a very sweet girl who gave me her picture once and then never again. i dont know why. i told her to send more so she should have understood that that meant that i wanted to see more of her. we even set up a night to meet at the Rustic, but she never showed. anyhow the day before i was killed she sent me this great story. a Christmas miracle, really. if they had the internet here i would show it to you.

kurt pointed to the table and there appeared inside the table, sunken like inside in another dimension a laptop computer, i put my hands inside the table and brought it out.

i stopped the waitress with the jello shots and took two more, handed one to kurt and logged into my hotmail.

ah yes, here it is, my man.

dear tony,

boy have i got a story for you,

you’ll never believe this one…

sunday night, my roommate and i had all of our girlfriends over for a holiday party/gift exchange. my girlfriend roxie was smoking on the balcony, and started shouting for me to come and look at something… so i go out on the balcony, and she says, “isn’t that your truck?”… (by the way, my truck was stolen 3 weeks ago). so anyway, i’m looking at it, but this truck had one of those tool shed thingys on the back of it. but i decided to run downstairs anyway. when i got downstairs, the truck seemed to have stalled or something… so i calmly walked over to the truck, snuck a peek at the license plate, and almost fainted… it was my truck! a weird rush of insanity came over me… and i walked right up to the driver side window. the guy rolled down the window, and i calmly said… “i just want to let you know i already called the cops… this is my truck, it was stolen 3 weeks ago.” there were 2! guys, and a girl… they all looked at each other, then at me… like i was crazy, and they had no idea what i was talking about. so, i then said, ” look, i don’t have time for this shit, it was stolen from merle’s auto shop 3 weeks ago. get the fuck out of my truck.” simultainesly, the 3 perps jump out of my truck and start running down the street. i couldn’t believe it. the next thing you know, i’m sitting in my recovered truck, not knowing how to turn it off, cause it was hotwired. by this time, there are about 10 drunk girls on the corner yelling and screaming… cause i got my truck back, and no one could believe how freaking weird it was. all of the sudden, my friend katy yells, “oh shit, thats them in that white truck over there!” so, seeing as we were all drunk at this point, (about 11:00pm), we all had a serious dose of liquid courage… Then i hear my roommate yell, “get the license plate number!”. We all l! ooked at eachother, and the next thing you know… there go 10 girls, in heels, chasing a car down the street. needless to say, the perps weren’t very happy about that, so they started throwing stuff at us. my friend brandy got hit with a bottle. anyway, we successfully got the plate #. and i got my truck back, along with a tool shed thingy full of tools, a drill press, with the bit, two spare tires, and a new sound system that they had installed in my truck. oh, it gets better… the idiot left his day planner in the truck… so when the cops arrived, they opened it…and what was on the first page? IF LOST PLEASE RETURN TO… thats right, total fucking idiot. so, right now, my truck is at the police impound yard, being dusted for finger prints. Can you believe that shit? to tell you the truth, i’m stoked i got my truck back and all, but… that shit freaked me out. how is my stolen truck gonna stall out, righ! t in front of my own house? bizarre.

kurt asked, was that from ashley?

i said, nah, ashley drives a cute little car, not a truck.

ashley is hot.

all the girls in cali are hot, buddy.

and we clinked our glasses again and before we could slam our glasses down a man in an apron held out the big triangle and struck it with a drumstick and said, “soup’s on mothafuckas!”

and everyone kicked over their chairs and ran to the buffet room.

anne + kitty bukkake + danielle has a new layout

i was somewhere outside death valley california in a whorehouse.

kurt cobain was downstairs watching a cockfight.

i had just played the a pinball machine that allowed me to tie up loose ends via some esp bullshit that allowed angels to read my mind and do whatever dirty deeds i hadn’t been able to complete before my untimely demise.

upon completion i got a high five from kurt, which i believe might just had been his very first high five ever, and i was escorted upstairs by

twin japanese catholic school runaways

with tattoos and wicked smiles on their faces.

the room we entered was perfumed and pink and soft and in the center was a round bed that rotated ever so slowly. mirrors everywhere, disco ball, disco music, fog machine, bubble machine, porn on twenty thirteen-inch tvs and shag carpet on the walls on the floors on the ceilings.

only rugs in the place, if you know what i mean.

the twins spoke simultaneously. one stroked my fro the other rubbed my feet. i reclined on the bed as they disrobed me and complimented my dull dough.

we like little bellies.

ooooooooooh we really like scars. that’s right you were in the xbi.

they were dripping. they were visually excited. cheeks flushed, nipples poking out from sheer nasty brasseries. they had garters with bows, chokers with leashes, thigh high boots, glitter, lip gloss, lust.

i was floating inches above the bed as were they so they strapped me down. and told me this.

this is the bonus round. welcome to the bonus round. here is the question, a question that you should know the answer to, and for each correct response, from out of that door will enter a woman, one more beautiful than the next, one more sultry and intelligent and wild and soothing. trust us when we tell you that you will love every moment with every woman and you will be able to have each of them all at the same time.

all we need to know from you is for you to name each of the ten commandments. for each one you get right, a woman will join us.

ah heaven, i said.

the one above fed me grapes. on earth i never liked grapes. in this room i loved them, the juices dripped down my cheek.

thou shalt not steal, i said.

a redhead with long legs, red all over, black stockings, high heels entered.

thall shalt not take the Lord’s name in vain.

blonde, blonde, white stockings, pink trim, white shoes, perky boobs, baby doll tshirt that said busblog preshrunk so as to allow her bellybutton to peek under.

was that a diamond in her belly pierce? of course it was.

honor your mother and father, keep the sabbath holy.

two punk rock girls crawled in like cats. one had dyed pink hair, the other dyed red. they made out with each other. their stockings were torn, their leather miniskirts shined in the flashing lights. they rolled around. they bit. they drew blood. they licked the blood and looked at me. i said hi. they growled.

don’t lust after your neighbor.

the twins looked at each other. a bell rang. the judges had accepted the answer.

a woman who looked just like lindsey lohan but not really walked through the door. she had on a long white fur. full length. diamond choker. she opened her coat. nearly blinded us all. whitest woman around. looked like a statue. gorgeous.

thou shalt not kill.

skaterchick with ripped jeans and a tight baseball shirt ollied over the writhing punkers and told me she read my blog every damn day.

have no other gods than the Lord

a lightskinned black woman who looked like a young mariah carey entered in a pink bikini. she sang like an angel. she told me that she would lick my entire body. i thanked her for the offer and said,

thou shalt not commit adultery.

and a woman who looked like a black Princess Diana appeared. sounded like her too. quite.

i counted nine girls. what could the tenth be?

the asian princesses told me that if i got this one right that i could spend the entire day with all of the women and unlike on earth there would be no “down time” and gazed down at “little tone” which had never looked so majestic and wonderful.

the women who had lined up for me couldn’t stand still. they all wanted me so badly. they whispered some of the poems i had written and touched themselves. some touched each other.

for the life of me i couldn’t remember the last one.

and then, i said,

do not bear false witness upon your neighbor.

and they came charging at me, and trailing the pack, was a woman who looked just like marilyn monroe, who, when she entered floated slowly past the others and landed next to me and kissed me right on the forehead.

and unlatched my restraints.

p. 68-70 from how to blog

Amazing, Tony.

Just as sure as the DUI always staggers off the straight
line on an episode of COPS, as sure as Kirstie Alley has crumbs in the
folds of her dress and certainly as sure as Hugh Hewitt slathers his
hair with lard, the “world’s greatest blogger™ has done it again. As
Tom (Soon to be “The Slammer”) Delay now finds that instead of helping
him into the boat, his “pals” are swinging machetes at him in the
shark-filled waters, the nutty perfesser has decided to devote
considerable blog real estate to…yep, lovely digital snapshots from
around ye olde campus.

It’s so f*cking obvious—he seems to only pull
his manure and chaw-stained Weegee impersonation whenever the sh*t
hits the fan for the folks he swears he’s never taken a check from–ever.
Even the straw-hatted diva Drudge has opted to go along with the
obviously Rove-approved takedown of this potential ’06 albatross.

The NY Times and WaPost are leading tomorrow [today] with heavily sourced–read: folks who’ve gotten the okay from a snake higher up the chain than the “Bugman”–articles detailing DeLay’s taking money and
trips from shady-ass russian capitilaists and claiming the perks were from
some non-profit and how he hooked up his family into a slush-fund paid for
by more well-CONnected “friends”.

It’s THE news story of the day, maybe of the next few weeks and
what does GR do? Make like he’s a hard-workin’ photographer
for “Jet” magazine, just a click-click-clickin’ away at the passing co-eds.

A couple of times when it happens, I’m willing to forgive as co-inky-dink.
It’s a blatant pattern now, bellow-bellied and utterly unforgivable.

Signed,

A Fan Who Knows You’re Probably Too Busy To Care

UPDATE: A second reader writes in:

Tony,

Instapundit ripped off the idea from Prof Althouse who apparently a big fan of gratuitous ass and crotch shots?

check it out:

http://photos8.flickr.com/8557043_31bd5066c4_o.jpg
http://photos5.flickr.com/8447201_e3a8a1c1ee_o.jpg
http://photos7.flickr.com/8447214_d171055a1d_o.jpg

SPLOID + SPLOID + SPLOID

long before blogs i thought that one up because i was writing poems at the time, sad poems, angry poems, scary semi suicidal poems at the time

and i didnt want to make people nervous. namely my friends and family.

it didnt work.

great line but no one knows what to do with it.

scribners can slap fiction on the side of sun also rises but everyone knows fucker did go to spain did go to the bullfights and did drink his ass off, so whatever with your labels man.

nothing in here is true.

and you can repeat it but it doesnt work. for some it dares them to look that much deeper to find the real truth even if there isnt any real truth,

seriously who puts truth in a blog?

hem was fat and drunk and probably bi which aint so bad for a writer. who knows, maybe thats why he was able to write such newstyled female characters who were tough and sharp and indie and moderne.

maybe thats how it was back then, quick thinking quick talking sassy

dames

whose pupils beamed when you called them that
and whose smiles peeked out when you meant it.

and hem gave you the truth up front but you didnt know it because it sat there on a bed of beautiful lies.

hemingway wrote like a man who knew how to quiet down a room of ticking clocks just by being there

while wearing that classy clark gable moustashe that no one even dares attempt these days for fear that people would hiss fraud as they passed in the street.

today i interviewed the president of goldenvoice, the revered la punk and alternative promoters of the 80s and 90s, who after clear channel and a few other mega corps squeezed them out of the traditional concert business (by signing long term exclusive contracts with the arenas, or just straight up buying the venues outright) thought up a little masterpiece named Coachella which the LA Times hailed as “easily the premier large-scale event on today’s U.S. rock landscape.”

Goldenvoice in a nutshell (is) more an emotional thrill ride than
a standard business. It began in 1981 as an I-think-I-can upstart,
stepping into a void left by mainstream promoters scared of punk and
unaware of the vital rock scene bubbling beneath the Top 40 surface.

Goldenvoice had a field day bringing bands out of their do-it-
yourself circuit into established venues with professional sound and
production. The company also had a nose for the best of L.A.’s
thriving scene. (Goldenvoice President Paul) Tollett recalls a
1987 Goldenvoice concert at Fender’s in Long Beach,
where the opening act stole the show from the other nine bands.
The group was called No Doubt.

Talent agent Marc Geiger, who represented such acts as the Smiths, Echo & the Bunnymen and New Order with his partner Don Muller, remembers how Goldenvoice dominated the underground music scene.

“Goldenvoice bought everything and, more important, they were also the nice guys,” says Geiger, who later co-founded the Lollapalooza tour. “They’d be the guys who would be backstage handing out joints and letting extra people on the guest list and not being uptight, in a town where not being uptight gets you far.”- LA Times 4/29/04

it’s good that i hadnt read that before i interviewed mr tollett because it was nice to be pleasantly surprised by his offer to be put on the guest list for this year’s two day nearly sold out concert starring weezer, nine inch nails, wilco, bauhaus, new order, the arcade fire, gang of four, the raveonettes, rilo kiley, the chemical brothers, spoon, bright eyes, tegan and sara, keane, the secret machines, and many others.

we spoke for twenty minutes, an assignment i was given by our good friend kate at the weekly. mr tollett was very easy to talk with, he truly understood good music, and seemingly enjoyed our conversation also. i thanked him for setting up the secret pixies show last year as a tuneup for headlinging gig the next day down the 10 and he convinced me that no matter what i might think about trent reznor’s commercial success over the last few years, or lack thereof, on a live stage hes unforgetable.

and so i said, great, then why also have coldplay, and he basically said different strokes for different folks and we were cool.

the one thing i didnt have the guts to say was that he needed to set up an old mans section on the side that would be airconditioned with nice chairs that had waiter service where pretty girls would deliver cold beverages and snacks at ridiculously high prices.

maybe i’ll let him in on that one when i muster up the courage to ask for a photo pass after the article runs and he sees that im legit.

and once i wrote a book of happy love poems and i put nothing in here is true so people wouldnt vomit all over the pages.

midnight magicka + sk smith + nancy rommelmann

as we bounced down the blue highway through the desert. it was a bumpy ride, but they had olympia tall boys in a cooler that never seemed to empty.

after a while i fell asleep and woke up and it was nighttime and we had just pulled into what looked to be a whore house.

coming out? kurt asked.

it was just like you’d imagine it: girls in wild west outfits, long skirts, petticoats and bonnets being chased around by guys in their long johns spilling their jugs of moonshine while a man in a vest smoking a stogie bangs out ragtime on a worn out piano.

i love you, kurt cobain.

well this isnt really what you probably think it is.

this is heaven, right?

no, we’re still a long way from heaven.

its a house of ill repute, no?

sorta. these women are yours for the taking, but first you have to accomplish a very important task. several, actually.

just say the word my man.

i had my eye on an asian lass who was scrubbing the back of an old prospector with a brush with a long handle in a bathtub that stood right there in the middle of all the action. she winked at me and blew me a kiss that, i swear to you ladies and gentlemen, i felt right on my cheek.

behind that door right there is an arcade. there are many pinball machines in there. it will be your job to play and think about your life.

shit man, are you sure this aint heaven?

now just dont think about just any old thing as this room is special. what you need to do is think about any unfinished business you might have to do.

like bills i need to pay?

exactly. bills, tasks you havent yet done. this is your chance to tie up any loose ends. think. play. and as you play, your thoughts will get fed into the machine and the little angels will do as needs to be done.

so like, i have this busblog book.

Blook?

yeah, creepy mindreader. Blook was supposed to get sent out on Friday but i got stabbed.

okay, what you do is as you play think about where the list of address are and where the books are and pretend you have esp and tell the angels what you want them to do.

can they autograph my name for me?

yes, they can do anything you want. but they wont do anything unless you think it, so think every step.

trippy.

so if your list is behind a wall safe, esp them the combonation to the lock.

ahhh, i see, well my list is in my hotmail. so i esp them my passwords?

yes.

ok. got it.

awesome, i’ll be over here watching the cockfight.

hey wait a second, kurt, why is all of this in a whore house?

it’s here because once youre done, with everything, Everything, then you get to hang out here for a few hours and celebrate.

i walked through the swinging doors and there i saw all my favorite pinball machines. there was Fireball and Earthquake, High Speed and Black Knight, Star Wars and Addams Family, a super oldschool KISS machine was being tossed around by a surly fellow who obviously had a lot on his mind. I saw Hercules which was a super huge one, and the Simpsons pinball machine. Theatre of Magic, which i adored. Super old school 8 Ball which brought back some memories, let me tell you.

There was Big Guns and my beloved Fire!, Medievil Madness and who doesn’t love Pin*Bot?

I wanted to get down to business so i stopped looking around and settled in at one of my faves, Cyclone, which has been my bitch ever since we first met.

a lovely cigarrette girl offered me some candies or gum and all i asked for was a quarter. she gave me one and kissed my cheek and walked away with a little wink.

and i thought about all the books. and i told the angels my passwords which were all so easy, and i told them what to write in each of the books, and i told them to read the email messages from all the nice people. and i told them how to pack them and to include love and tender care.

then i paid what few bills i had. then i had them write out my will, which was pretty much, “to chris, i give everything. just like i did that one time.”

then i told them to hide my xbi weapons over in the dumpster behind the church next door. then i told them to kiss ashley on the cheek cuz shes so super sweet.

and then i told them how to update this blog.

and when the third ball sank i felt the warm breath of an asian girl, yes, the one from earlier, and she had a shot of rum in one hand and a six ounce can of coke in the other and her twin sister arrived with three slices of pizza and i followed them upstairs, and they shut the door and locked it.

welch wrote about los feliz in the la times on sunday + shabooty + terra + christie