David

Still the Real Deal

2007-03-01T08:17:00.000-08:00

This is how it's done, kids.

Oh Mickie, you're so fine ...

2007-02-14T09:10:00.000-08:00

Ok, faithful blog reader(s), here is the 5 min. video I’m sending off to the good people at On The Lot, a new reality series from Mark Burnett (Survivor, The Apprentice) and Steven Spielberg (some Jewish guy). This video is a scaled down version of the 12 min. preview of my upcoming feature film, "Love: A Documentary", with a few new clips added to the mix. The required 45-second intro was directed by my precocious new filmmaking colleague--the lovely and talented Voix. If you happen to know this hyper-talented but shy and reserved newcomer, please give her some props for her great work on a tight ($0) budget.

Alright, time to come clean. Voix is my gal pal, and she happily agreed to spend last Sunday, a very rare full day together, shooting video of me wearing silly clothes and making even sillier faces for the above latest vanity project. After that, she engaged in even more ridiculous, unwarranted grown-up behavior by spending a good part of the afternoon walking around a depressing and typically soulless gigantic Walmart in my neighborhood helping me surreptitiously videotape nearly ever corner of the store to be used as a green-screened backdrop for my over-budget and under-produced Walmart-TV film project. The fact that she spent her day off helping me, not with a "Well, you owe me one now" or "When can we do what I want?" attitude, but rather seemed to fully enjoy the whole ordeal simply because she could help me with something that was important to me and only me--well, if there's a better definition of real love I haven't found it.

I truly hope y'all have found someone just as special on this Valentine's Day.

"Annus Horibilis"

2007-02-09T13:57:00.000-08:00

Which is a term that was famously coined by Queen Elizabeth II and is Latin for “What a bad fucking year that was”.

Not to be confused with Anus Horibilis, which is currently playing on The Spice Channel, and has it’s moments.

Anyway, this term can be used to describe the last year, which sucked ass, in my opinion.

In April of last year, I stepped on a broken glass and nearly passed out and bled to death before I could crawl to a phone. I spent the next two weeks bed-ridden, then was on crutches for a month, and then walked with a cane for another month. When I wasn’t drugged up, it usually hurt like a motherfucker.

Also, my wife and mother of my children left me, which was unpleasant.

Yes, that year was a piece of crap.

Apparently, not a great annus for most of my friends and family either, I’m finding. Just found out that my cousin, who, like myself, is 38 years-old and has two young children, is divorcing her husband, primarily because she is not a fan of his banging their live-in Russian au pair.

Word of this latest marital dissolution brings to NINE (9!) the running total of friends of mine who, like me, have gotten divorced in the last twelve months. This accounts for roughly half of my friends on the planet.

Seriously, what are the odds?

Well, having taken four courses of advanced statistics during my collegiate years, I can say with confidence that that just seems like a lot.

As with the discovery this year that the majority of my friends are in therapy, I’m starting to take this personally. So, I’m led to believe a statistically causal relationship is at play here on the order of one or more of the following:

1) Being embarrassingly inept at human relationships, I’m naturally drawn to as well as attract others with the same interpersonal affliction.

2) Just knowing me causes enough emotional and psychological upheaval that one’s very concept of long-lasting love and commitment is shaken to the core, causing one to doubt the viability of any and all sustaining human bonds.

3) Most of my friends are in their mid-thirties and it is often around this time that, following the initial excitement and novelty of getting together, then getting married, then finding a career, then maybe having kids … that we are forced to take a hard look at the reality of the rest of our lives and who we really are and what we want to be, and, well … the other person ain’t always in that picture (apologies, as I think this was once every episode of thirtysomething).

4) Long-term relationships aren’t really natural, or even sensible, and exist only when either or both parties delude themselves into buying into some romanticized ideal of “True Love” or some crap.

Ok, I’m gonna take #1 & #2 as givens.

#3: I think there’s a lot to this social construct.

#4: I don't believe this, but I've noticed that there are a new breed of books out now that all have this concept as a central thesis. Saw a television program the other day in which Kurt Vonnegut, world-renowned authority on anthropology studies, stated that marriage and coupling is unnatural--that the human specie thrives best in “packs”. Maybe there's something to his theory on some level, but have you seen Kurt Vonnegut lately? Seems like a bitter old man that probably hasn’t gotten laid in ages.

Anyway.

Discuss.

Rosebud ...

2007-02-02T06:55:00.000-08:00

Not proud, but it happened.

2007-01-17T08:46:00.000-08:00

Over lunch yesterday, I took my digital camera into Walmart to download all my pictures from the last year using a kiosk in their Camera Dept. I couldn't get the machine to work, so I asked the dept. manager to help me.

He couldn't get the machine to work right either, so together we had to manually select a few hundred pictures, about a third of which were photos I took for my Walmart movie last year of the inside of the same Walmart near the same dept.

As the dept. manager's expression became progressively more quizzical as we looked at more and more pictures of the inside of his own store, I slowly let out a mini-series of obnoxious rotten egg farts I had been holding in at work all morning. It felt good.

S’pose I should start blogging again.

2007-01-10T09:14:00.000-08:00

Eh. I don’t know.

It’s becoming apparent to me that roughly 95% of my interaction with the world outside of myself is channeled via the internet, including the 50 hours I spend each week at work staring at a computer screen and corresponding with my colleagues primarily via email. When I get home, I write even more emails and interact with other human beings via MySpace, blogs, YouTube, etc., etc., when I’m not surfing the web for information on anything one can think about that might perchance pop into my head.

Is this a good thing?

A few months ago, I started seeing a blue spot through my left eye from looking at a computer monitor 16 hours a day. Since then, the spot has become less prominent as my brain has adjusted to it and essentially started ignoring it (no shit, I looked it up and this is what happens over time). In other words, my body was trying to tell me to maybe not focus all my available attention on a computer screen during all waking hours, but my brain said, “Fuck it—keep the funny video clips coming, bitch”.

Outside of the inevitable degradation of our eyesight, it seems the internet-age has wrought a somewhat more profound seismic change in the way we interact with the world: The systemic phasing out of the unmitigated experience.

I could drone on at this point about this concept, but I think you know what I’m talking about. Suffice it to say that, in retrospect, the Unibomber was quite prescient twelve years ago when he sequestered himself in a cabin in the woods and penned his rambling, alarmist manifesto about the impending emergence of an inhumane, technocratic society. He just happened to underscore his point in an unfortunate manner by bombing people he didn’t like.

If the internet was more prevalent back in 1995, he could have simply bombarded his adversaries with unsolicited porn spam, like a friend of mine does, and he’d still be enjoying the desolate Montana wilderness and continuing to expound upon perhaps the truest truth with regard to our collective culture in 2007: We as physical beings have been conditioned through evolution to achieve emotional well-being through directly interacting with nature and with each other; thus, our further devolution into a world of interaction increasingly mitigated by technological conduits will continue to sap our starving souls of sustenance.

But … the genie has already left the bottle hasn’t it?

Our bodies know this way of life is wrong, but our brains will continue to block out any foreboding blue spots, proverbial or literal.

Yesterday, Steve Jobs unveiled Apple’s long-anticipated “iPhone”, which allows human beings to--at any time, anywhere--call someone, email them, text message them, create and send them photos, video, and music, and coming soon, sexually stimulate them, transmit feelings of love, and assuage their existential fears.

I’m sure, if you hit the right buttons, it will also let you read Thoreau’s On Walden Pond.

It occurs to me that I haven't blogged for a while

2006-12-01T12:22:00.000-08:00

Discuss.

These words.

2006-10-26T07:07:00.000-07:00

Children are playing at the end of the day
Strangers are singing on our lawn
There's got to be more than flesh and bone
All that you've loved is all you own

In a land there's a town
And in that town there's a house
And in that house there's a woman
And in that woman there's a heart I love
I'm gonna take it with me when I go

- Take It With Me, Tom Waits

in Julia's brain is

2006-10-09T17:37:00.000-07:00

the lyrics to "Sweet Caroline"

the formula for linear regression

an inexorable hope for a benevolent God that she can't force herself to believe in

a decent recipe for caramel brownies

an intractable, latent fear of never understanding herself

a healthy amount of serotonin

controlled uncontrollable rage toward something or maybe someone

the notes in an A-minor scale

certain cyclical thoughts that go away less the more she tries not to think of them

a well-researched opinion on Affirmative Action

something that makes her see geometric shapes in her surroundings when she's nervous

the rules to double deck pinochle

an unacknowledged desire for hardships to befall her contemporaries

two good stories about getting really drunk in college

an unsettled feeling she can't describe to herself

the directions to her dentist's office

empathy toward the less fortunate

a memory of her and her brother running through a sprinkler during her seventh summer

Un-Optimized Ineffeciencies

2006-09-26T14:07:00.000-07:00

According to a distressing new study, internet surfing by employees costs American corporations $178 BILLION annually in lost productivity:

http://www.websense.com/global/en/PressRoom/PressReleases/PressReleaseDetail/?Release=050719976

This is particularly disturbing following a number of other recently published reports that have similarly calculated annual losses in productivity for American corporations on account of the following employee activities and issues:

- Writing personal emails: $92 billion

- Thinking unproductive thoughts: $232 billion

- Talking to people: $112 billion

- Establishing emotional connections with co-workers: $73 billion

- Wallowing in existential lonlieness following unsatifactory sexual intercourse: $82 billion

- Non-value added physical movements: $104 billion

- Laughing longer than necessary: $253 billion

- Brain cell depletion on account of the aging process: $204 billion

- Overzealous attention with regard to offspring: $201 billion

- Ambivilance toward human exisitence: $110 billion

Happy

2006-08-28T09:21:00.000-07:00

“I look like a Holocaust survivor”, my Aunt Zoe, who just finished chemotherapy for liver cancer, says upon her arrival at our family reunion yesterday as we all shake our heads in unison and say, “No, you look fine,” (even though she looks like a very old and very feeble person I have never met) and just-in-time you catch an insurgent cry somewhere between your heart and your throat, which was a few minutes after your sister, a cancer survivor in remission, informed you that her marriage has been slowly dissolving before her eyes for the last two years and she feels helpless to do anything about it, a few hours before your father pours himself his fifth or sixth drink of the day (it was, after all, 3 pm) and shakes his head defeatedly and tells you he can’t talk anymore about certain things with regard to your mother, during which time your entire family and extended family does an admirable job of seemingly not even noticing that your soon-to-be-ex-wife is absent from the reunion for the first time in eleven years, like they never met her and our marriage never happened, which you know they think is the proper and respectful way to handle the situation even though it has the opposite effect of making you feel empty, alone, and invisible.

And you wonder: Is anyone ever happy?

And, as you methodically down your fourth beer of the day, you begin to think about the often palpable, depressing din of the world outside of the picnic table around which the inevitable pain of our personal lives is abreacted through cathartic psychoanalysis of weather patterns and where to buy the best sweet corn: another cousin with a suicidal, psychological disorder, heavily medicated close friends in mid-life crisis, friends of friends that have recently died suddenly—a seemingly endless concentric circle of anguish and disappointment.

But then, as the party winds on, you notice while following the meandering conversation of all things ephemeral--as if God has grabbed and turned your head and forced you to look at it--that your Aunt Zoe is still as joyful, friendly, exuberant, and yes, happy, as she has been every year you’ve seen her your entire life.

And you decide that when you get home, and the kids have been tucked snugly into bed, that you will close the door to your room, climb into bed, and let that cry get as far up and out as it needs to go.

But you don’t.

Freakonomics

2006-08-16T13:22:00.000-07:00

Here's some findings I found fascinating from the controversial new bestseller Freakonomics, by renowned economist Steven D. Levitt:

- Jews are not actually more naturally inclined to be proficient with money and successful in business, they’re just really lucky.

- If African-American males were given more socioeconomic opportunities to succeed in corporate America, the NBA would be filled with ponderous, slow white guys, creating boring low-scoring games that would be difficult to watch.

- The capital gains tax could be lowered even further if we invaded France and sold all their art.

- If the minimum wage were increased for the first time in ten years, poor people would probably just piss the extra money away on cheap liquor, pull tabs, and loose women.

- Only 2% of Fortune 500 companies are run by females. However, this number would be higher if women weren’t always nagging or crying over the least little thing.

- If Mexican immigrants were not allowed to work in the United States, a Big Mac would cost $17.50.

- If you invested just five dollars each day for the next thirty years, you are probably the kind of person people ignore at parties.

- The reduction in urban murder rates in the last decade can be directly correlated to a decrease in the number of playa haters who had it comin’.

- People who drive mini-trucks are almost always annoying assholes.

- The controversial legalization of abortion in 1973 did not prevent the birth of Ryan Seacrest.

- The steady decrease in American high school students’ scores on science tests is correlated to a reduction in the number of awkward geeks and nerdlingers that need a swift butt-kicking at the hands of the popular kids.

- Curing cancer would inevitably lead to longer lines at Disney World as well as the DMV.

- Japanese kids have little tiny calculators in their heads that make them good at math.

- Cigarette smoking is the primary causal factor related to the current healthcare crisis and 850,000+ deaths annually but sometimes you really fucking need one.

Forgiveness

2006-08-12T05:01:00.000-07:00

We are swimming with the snakes
At the bottom of the well
So silent and peaceful
In the darkness where we fell

But we are not snakes
And whats more we never will be
And if we stay swimming here forever
We will never be free

I heard them ringing the bells
In heaven and hell
They got a secret
They're getting ready to tell

It's falling from the sky
Calling from the graves
Open your eyes, girl, I think we are saved
Open your eyes, girl, I think we are saved

Lets take a walk on the bridge
Right over this mess
Dont need to tell me a thing
Baby we've already confessed

And I raised my voice to the air
And we were blessed

It's hard to give
It's hard to get
And I'll never forget
But everybody needs
A little forgiveness

- Patty Griffin

Underrated

2006-08-10T08:58:00.000-07:00

target's food court

down market pilsner

meaningful masturbation

paying the extra money for quality condiments

getting to know your waiter or waitress on a more personal level

listening to neil diamond un-ironically

a compact but heartfelt "ok, see ya" when parting ways with a dear friend at the airport in lieu of a drawn-out maudlin display

patty griffin

libertarians

poetry written by people who are not poets

long john silver's

foxhole friends

throw away lines from obscure tom waits songs that bring you to your knees

sam lipsyte

dylan's religious period

townie tavern bartenders

reconstructing memories

women that are not hotties

soft kisses

the japanese

love that changes form and purpose but doesn't go away

courtesy laughs

self-deluded clarity

crackerjacks with almonds

New Diet

2006-08-10T08:42:00.000-07:00

Here's a new diet I've been following that has really worked wonders for me:

Breakfast

Low-calorie "health" bar

Lunch

Small salad with fat-free dressing

Dinner

Large sausage and peperoni Papa John's pizza dipped in Papa John's garlic butter sauce

Bag of Doritos

Malt liquor

Ice cream

Contact

2006-08-07T18:27:00.000-07:00

So, anyway, a few weeks ago my soon-to-be-six year-old son Christian was watching a TV show in which one of the characters put a heartfelt message in a bottle and pitched it in a river.

"Hey, I wanna do that!" he exclaimed.

So he did.

With some help from his mother, he wrote a short letter about himself along with his home address and asked whoever found his epistle to write him a letter about themselves (For the record, his four year-old brother Charlie also wrote a letter and put it an a bottle, but decided at the last minute he would rather keep it for himself).

When Christian returned home from the river, he couldn't contain his excitement over his letter and how delighted would be the lucky recipient of his bottle.

What a sweet sentiment, his mother and I thought, realizing that by far the most likely recipient of the bottle was a Hennepin County trash heap. And how quaint the notion that there is someone out there somewhere to talk to about your life who will want to know more about you simply because you exist and will want to tell you about themselves and share their lives with you while asking for nothing in return.

We've all wistfully wished for this at some point in our lives, haven't we?

It's the thought that counts, my dear son.

A few days ago, Christian received the below letter from Cyrus, a nine year-old Native American boy living on a reservation in Garrison, MN.

Love

2006-06-08T05:30:00.000-07:00

Tangled Up in Blue

2006-06-06T21:23:00.000-07:00

and when finally the bottom fell out i became withdrawn the only thing i knew how to do was to keep on keepin' on like a bird that flew....

Philosopher/poet Benatar correct in retrospect

2006-06-05T18:27:00.000-07:00

Brain Transplant Surgery Successful

2006-05-22T07:13:00.000-07:00

Also, later this week at the Mayo Clinic I will be surgically rejoined with my sister. The doctors tell me this is the only viable solution to my terminal loneliness.

I do miss her. I love you, Susie. Susie?

To You

2006-03-01T11:48:00.000-08:00

This creaking old boat
Was not built
For blackened skies
And roiling tides
That can hide the light
And swallow the spirit

But just say the word
My only one
And I shall bear your weight
And carry this battered vessel
Across these cruel currents
Back home
To safer waters
That may exist only in our mind

My Short Story

2006-01-27T14:13:00.000-08:00

Will start tender and get hard. A blithe and witty tone will be established and light-hearted folly will ensue and you may not even recognize the disturbingly dark and disturbing underbelly of my short story sitting under the story like a belly. I have a hate for myself that I own completely.

The idea for my short story will come from a wryly ironic observation made in passing by a friend at a dungy coffee shop on a Saturday morning or from a warm and disturbing childhood memory or from the short story of a superior short story writer whom I will despise for being more interesting than I am.

The narrative arch of my short story will be disjointed and non-linear. The distant past will rub elbows with the near future while the present will be a closely guarded secret. This will keep things interesting. This will also inform my short story with an ethereally transcendendent ontological existentialism which you will like. I’m not sure I actually exist.

Impossible ideas and life-altering themes will hover over my story like a hovercraft. The full weight of these profound allusions will not hit you until you are mindlessly driving home to your split-level in the suburbs or until many years later while you are sitting alone in the dark corner of a horrifically average strip joint and you need this understanding the most.

My short story will be peppered with metaphors like pepper from a pepper shaker peppering a pepper steak; or metaphors added by a metaphor writer to a metaphorical story about something that is really about something else.

My short story will be meta like this and you’ll hate me for this pretense although you secretly admire my moxie for trying such a gambit even though you don’t realize that I am a coward in other aspects of my life so you won’t know that this fear has ruined my life because it has.

The romantic relationship contemplated in my short story will be tinged with the cosmically unbearable heartache I have endured from a generically tragic love affair and you will wonder how I ever managed to claw myself out of the deepest regions of this proverbial hell-hole in order to stand and deliver such an impossibly soul-searing story of unconscionable loss and redemption or whether I am just bullshitting.

Parts of my short story will pertain to a character very similar to myself and will have a self-deprecating tone so that you will realize that I am not full of myself even though my short story is awesome.

The supporting characters in my short story will have funny personality quirks that will define them. You will find this charming and different. A best friend of the lead character will drive an environmentally-friendly car he has invented that is powered by potato skins, so you’ll know he’s sensitive and caring and probably good for the lead character. The next-door neighbor, an insurance salesman, will have a private room in his cellar dedicated to a museum of stuffed house cats. You will come to understand that no one is normal or what they appear to be. I am obsessed with lawn furniture.

My short story will be defined more by what I leave out than what I leave in. My decision to leave out important details will allow you and your unique emotional core to inhabit this space and live within my short story. You shall find meaning in this void that I could never elucidate with the insufficient tools of the English language or another language. Left out of my short story will be a true-life recollection of when I was thirteen and my dad hit me for inadvertently killing our German Shepard.

My short story will have a confessional tone like this and you will come to understand that through my fictional prose I am cathartically bearing witness to the existence of a deep unbearable pain within me that I am not able to access through a literal testimony. I have trouble controlling my thoughts.

My short story will be rife with haunting symbolism. A perpetually barking dog outside the desolate cabin of an elderly man will symbolize the inescapable, noisy reverberations of his ill-considered, illegitimate past. He will have to kill the dog. This killing of the dog will mean something.

The ending to my short story will not be happy or clichéd although its non-cliched-ness will be sorta cliché. Nothing will be solved or answered with the ending, and there will be a conspicuous lack of resolution or explanation that you will tell your friends you really admire even though you secretly don’t like the fact that there was nothing about the story that you truly understood. I am afraid of ever knowing myself.

The last sentence will be open-ended.

Box of Letters

2006-01-19T09:17:00.000-08:00

I found a box of letters this morning
Impassioned missives from two helpless lovers
Held apart by many miles on the road
But held together by each other

They were kinda cute
I think you’d like them

The girl was full of fire and wonder
An open world awaited
The boy finally on his own
He reveled in his new freedom
And life in the big city

They’d count the weeks
And then the days
Until they could at last be together
If only
For a few hopelessly short days

She’d threaten to drive up
In the middle of a lonely night

He’d begin to miss her
As he drove away from her apartment
On a Sunday afternoon

To fill the spaces
In between
They’d write about a future life
A life together
Filled with campfires
And impossible ideas
And unplanned road trips
To nowhere in particular

In another kind of world
We could meet these two

Maybe share some wings
And cold Budweiser
On a lazy Saturday afternoon

And talk about lives that are led
And lives that are followed
And trade sideways glances
As they laughed and touched

There’s a lot we could teach them about
How to be distracted and complacent

And how avoidance is a friend to inertia
And hearts can get hungry
Without proper care and feeding

But maybe also about how loosed bonds
Can be sealed
Through suffering and redemption

And that the burned-in kind of love
That comes with many years
Filled with a thousand moments
Of unspeakable heartache and glorious renewal
Is more vital
In some ways
Than the new, ecstatic kind
Even though you can’t get rid of it
Even when you’d like to

And about perseverance
That may or may not pay off
And whether
There is nobility in trying

Perhaps

2006-01-19T09:16:00.000-08:00

… the way I ate my broccoli
Head down
Did not confer
The raucous fires
I would walk through
To feel you.

… the blue light of the television
On my face
Did not illuminate
The borrowed time
I would forgo
To know you.

… the silent distant stare
Did not portend
The lost wars
And hopeless battles
I would wage
To receive you.

Well.

Poetry

2006-01-12T12:52:00.000-08:00

David’s currently skating through a rough patch of ice. David’s not very good at skating on the good ice.

Here’s some poetry:

Snow on Branches

Ephemeral, transcendent snow falls softly on crooked tree branches
Said tree branches now have snow on them
I love you, Maggie

Love

The warm and sullen summer breeze blowing gently through your soft auburn hair
Reminds me of the time
We went bowling with your brother-in-law

Soul Food

I would like to curl my shadowy, unknowable self into the dark corners or your soul
I bet it’s warm in there
It’s been cold lately
I’m also hungry for chips for some reason

Dear Son

The weight of the world rests on your insufficient shoulders
You knoweth not
One day you must show me
How to teach myself to live
I’m also looking for the remote
I saw you playing with it

Untitled

The crude folly of the heavens could not divine your unconquerable spirit.
A thousand unseen golden vistas cannot explain your raging beauty.
Words are good for that. Sentences.

It Is What It Is

The soft ivory skin of your shapely back; so kind to the touch.
Your glorious incandescent face; terrifying in its raw beauty.
The smell of your neck, the warm pulse of your veins.
Your uncompromising heart, an unrepentant warrior.
The bob of your colored hair; permutations of glory.
The taste of your skin, all that is you.
No.
It’s your fucking brain I love.

What the F' Have You Done With Your Life?

2006-01-10T13:01:00.001-08:00

Rare is the true friend that presents one with the full panoply of one's never-ending disgrace. It is more often that one must unwittingly discover for himself the cosmic inconsequence of one's unfortunate yearnings.

My rude awakening to the monumental insignificance of my artistic journey ocurred a few weeks ago when I checked the "site stats" section of my website. It was a high traffic day (10+ "hits"), so I thought I would review the stats page to get a flavor for the geographic locale of the world's literarti that were culling my treasure trove of articles, essays, rants, parodies, films, etc., contained in the site that represented the self-selected "Best-Of" of my life's artistic body of work.

Was my site being used for advanced degreee research papers at an obscure university in Leningrad?

In addition to the locus of these inquisitive minds, I was also curious about the search terms that led these scholars to tap into my profoundly unique and uniquely profound (yet undiscovered) take on post-modern life.

What exactly were these hungry minds looking for that they at last found when they were fortunate enough to discover my site?

I had to know.

Herewith is a sampling of the actual search terms that led the world's literary cognoscenti to the doorstep of my house of profound wisdom:

"Ashley Mary Kate Olson's Tits"

"porn comics"

"discreet fun in baltimore"

"llama incarceration"

"pictures of naked gay indians boys"

"amish gone wild"

"rubber band erection"

"women hockey players pose nude"

"feminist speeches scum"

"verbal, small penis humiliation classifieds"

"linda lavin's history"

"brandon's baked"

"Dennis Rodman's relationships"

"I've spent on women and booze"

"sexy hardbodies"

"www.fatherandsonsex.com"

"genetic abnormality supermodel"

"hollywood sextacular"

"fourteen year old hooker"

"cost accounting"

"jason osbourne male model granola"

"Where is the nearest dunkin donuts to st. johns"

"chicago albanian mafia"

"asshole obituary"

"booty patrol"

Blog Rules

2006-01-10T09:04:00.000-08:00

Based on a palpable groundswell of underwhelming demand, I've decided to create a web log or "blog".

There's something missing in your life. Admit it. And that something is greater knowledge of my thoughts, feelings, and opinions about my life.

But enough about you. Just to make sure we're "on the same page", here's what you can expect if for some reason you are interested in returning to this blog:

What you will not find on this blog:

- Arguments or opinions substantiated by actual facts or even the basic logic of a small child.

- 2+ readers

- A lot of posts and stuff.

- A casually witty deconstruction of The Federalist Papers.

- Health tips.

What you will find on this blog:

- Non sequiters.

- Foul language.

- A surprising tenderness.

- Cock jokes.

- Angry unfiltered diatribes peppered with ecstatic but fleeting moments of joy, understanding, and clarity.

- An unshakable appreciation for humanity.

Fair engough? Godspeed.