HOLY FUCK?

could someone please explain this to me?

apparently my blog is trading at 20 fake cents a share.

mmmmmkay.

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ECOPORN

yarrrgh.... i can't sleep. i'm told there's no sleep for the wicked, but i think it's because the wicked are all just sitting around waiting for the drugs to kick in.... don't think the wicked are watching south park like i am, though.

anyway this photo gives me a raging erection so i thought i'd share it with you:

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SELF AWARENESS AND THE TRIUMPHANT RETURN TO SOCIAL SPECTATORSHIP

sorry kids, today's post will not be that funny. if you want funny, i'm afraid you'll have to leave. i'm about to embark on a long-winded and boring (boring!) self-indulgent roadtrip filled with my usual peppering of semicolons and expensive words. i wish my life were as entertaining as Blue Crush, my friends... i really do... because if i looked even remotely like Kate Bosworth i would spend unending and torturously erotic hours just staring at my naked body in the mirror (taking 10-minute breaks every hour on the hour to stretch and re-hydrate). unfortunately, though there's no doubt in my mind my acting would put hers to shame, i look nothing like Ms. Bosworth. alas, i'll just have to continue to look at my own naked body in the mirror for sexual inspiration, all the while thinking 'i could do better, i could do better, i could do better'... jumping on my own grenade, you might say.

i do hope at least some of you get that. i find it terribly funny....

but i've got Joy Division on the box today, and i'm feeling kind of nostalgic, and, like i said, today's nostalgia ain't too funny. as those who know me can attest, i was much, much cooler when i was younger (and listening to Joy Division) than i am now (still listening to Joy Division but really listening to Joy Division now, man, you gotta really listen to it). yea, yea, yea and all that useless silliness... it's trite. good heavens, is it ever trite. oh boo hoo for me, life is so gosh darn difficult! oooooo i wish i were back in school, life was sooooo much better then! i want to slap my dad in the face when he says dumb shit like that but, fuck, i feel that way today. that's why i'm glad i'm completely running away from this place this weekend. i need some goddamn time to think. some goddamn peace and quiet, more like it.

i'm heading up to the hills which, for me, means it's time for a little corporeal mortification and chemical reconstruction. these trips have become more and more rare now that Pete's gone and got himself all respectable like, but the purpose has always been the same; re-centering through self-centering. i know in my heart that i won't be happy until i'm driving home, sweating and stinking to heaven, screaming mountain music at the very tippy-top of my lungs, half-naked, stoned to the be-jesus-belt on the good luck K-Bear, dodging the police, and really living it up for a change.

first and foremost, i'm getting tired of the fabulously tiresome back and forth with a major role player in my life (those that have graciously humored my ramblings throughout the past year will know the details of that particular story, and for that i thank you kindly for putting up with it.... notwithstanding your paparazzi bloodlust for my drama, you vultures, you... you know i love every bit of your attention). i'll spare you the details. the devil's in the details....
irrational love is the wailing baby in church; it's impossible to ignore, but no one knows quite what to do with it. instead they all continue to obediently murmur the appropriate things at the appropriate time wondering when, oh when, the crying will stop. goddamned if you can do a thing about it.

ah what timing! here's to you mr. curtis!

when routine bites hard
and ambitions are low
and resentment rides high
but emotions won't grow
and we're changing our ways; taking different roads...

ug. i'm too old for these devotional games.

but, believe it or not, that's just a minor threat to my overall well-being (thankfully, my foundation is in no danger of crumbling from such quiet tremors), other events have transpired to creep beneath my stony facade and scrape away at the tender nerves inside.

anne got married. sweet, merciful christ, she went and got married.

Reckless tortured me about that the whole weekend i was at home because basically i've endeavored to spend no less than my entire life attempting to fall in love with her, but not quite making it all the way. what's unfair is that i really loved what she embodied in my life; she is the avatar of an age when Reckless and i ruled over all drooling, virginal beauties who oh-so-willingly stripped down to their/my undies for a quick dip in the pool, or crept into the sauna
for a glistening, look-but-don't-touch oh-go-ahead-and-touch-me moment of innocence that was anything but innocent. anne was Treetops, she was Bullet, she was 88mph on mem drive, she was Strummer and Setzer and bulletproof glass dice in fiery melted pools on the studio floor. anne was summertime at shoop and nighttime beneath the stage.

all the things that i've tried to recreate knowing full well such things are destined to remain in memory, these things have been wrapped neatly and put away for a future generation now that i've seen her with her husband.

i'm sad there aren't times like that anymore; times when i didn't have the courage to follow through with anything substantial, because the anticipation of most things has left me, and the self-assuredness that has come to replace it leaves nothing to my overactive imagination. the impulsiveness that was my company through darker days has given way to my grown-up sense of inevitability. all things that ought to happen will happen, and only in imagination do surprises really even exist.

but i don't want to sound too nihilistic; i find post-modernism particularly distasteful because there is always something fantastic on the horizon. wrong turns take you to places you've never imagined existed... if finding my OMD cd after a year spent looking for it has taught me anything, it's that all dreams are realized in unexpected ways.

cheers all.

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SMIRKY SMIRKY

i woke up again this morning worrying about future plans. again. this does not fill me with joy.

it dawned on me that i'm sick of plans. i have accomplished great things in my life on the smoldering rubble of well laid plans, and i intend to continue to trust my own careening chaos of loosely-collected serendipity to come through in the end.

planning is the antithesis of opportunity.

it is therefore only logical to conclude that i will find interesting bits and pieces while looking for not interesting bits and pieces, just as surely as a quest for anything is proof of its absence.

i am the smirking boy king of lucky coincidence; keep your hands off the automobile, motherfuckers.

PS. anyone know of a job i might have? i'm quite good with people.

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SOOOO BORED.....

i'm still at work... still beating out validated protocols for the consistent dispense of nanoliter volumes with scintillation dye, ensuring i will never, ever, ever have sexual intercourse with a woman with the awful luck to ask me 'so what do you do for a living?'

...to which i, in all good graces, should reply:

i'm a fucking pirate! why else would i have this fucking parrot on my shoulder?!

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LOUSY FORTUNE COOKIE...

my roommate just opened a fortune cookie whose contents read:

life is like a dogsled, if you're not the lead dog, the view never changes

to which he replied, "yea, but if i have to spend the rest of my life staring at some bitch's ass, i'll die a happy man."

i'm really going to miss that guy next year.

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CORRECTION

in an inexplicable moment of indiscretion, i may have given the impression that eunuchs do not engage in sexual intercourse as frequently, or with as much enthusiasm as the rest of us, in a previous post. let me assure you that i am 100% supportive of all 'non-traditional' forms of sexual existence (if such a thing as 'traditional' sex even exists). i was merely paying homage to 'ol MC Paul Barman and his genius, Excuse You...

don't forget that MC Paul B opened for Del in '00, which should make your goddamn head spin.

apologies for the confusion.

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DR. COCKSUCKER

holy fuck did i just nut myself when millar hit that walk-off homerun against the A's tonight. i'm a sox fan, albeit a fakie freshman sox fan, but it still gives me goosebumps to think of big papi ortiz nodding an affirmative 'aww yea, son' on deck while manny charges through one of his clutch homers, fenway freaks absolutely losing their shit, and me fucking with my sexually frustrated anthro doctorate shills upstairs while they try and awkwardly masturbate themselves to sleep, unable to climax under the inescapable urge to deconstruct the role of the female orgasm in a patriarchal society... god i hate those awful women.

but that's not the point of this post, though that would be a good story in and of itself....

someone called me a cocksucker today when i muscled my way into their lane. i had the top down on my cheery chariot, offering me three convenient ways to signal my gratitude (middle finger extended, of course), but somehow the sunshine melted the cold, black ice surrounding what once could be considered my 'human heart,' and i began to think about what it really means to be a cocksucker....

welcome to my fucked-up netherworld, dear friends...

anyway, let's suppose for one eensy weensy second that i were, in fact, a homosexual--please don't allow my taste for interior design and/or manscaping to shoehorn your mind into this little universe i've created--one of my responsibilities as a homosexual, no doubt, would be a fair amount of cocksucking; good, proper cocksucking. understanding my own obsessive compulsive behavior and my well-developed fear of failure, i do believe i would make it my business to be the best cocksucker i could be. i would read books, attend seminars, study the regional dialects of cocksucking (e.g. they do it in texas, but they don't tell jesus), and travel the world collecting oral histories (and what a pun!) concerning the ancient arts of tantric cocksucking as depicted in various tapestries and wood-carvings. yea verily, i would be a veritable wise cocksucking scholar of the world....

or if this fanciful little scenario of mine fails to bring about the preemptive understanding i wish to impose on my more loyal readers, who no doubt know me well enough to expect these punctual punch-lines in my rambling, might i illustrate a more homophobic-friendly example:

ever been on the receiving end of a real god-bless-america, put gas in your car, found 10 bucks in your pocket blowjob? i have, and i assure you i never used the term 'cocksucker' negatively in that context. quite the contrary...

that's exactly why i don't understand how calling me a cocksucker would seem insulting. he might as well screamed "WELL-PLACED TURN OF PHRASE!" or "POIGNANT OBSERVATION ON THE HUMAN CONDITION" or "NICE ASS." all would have kept equal company with 'cocksucker.'

based on his reaction to my 'thanks! i've been practicing!' retort, he did not share my enthusiasm for this phrase.

sox pulled one off in the 9th, i saw the most beautiful girl in boston at wholefoods, there's a raging party next door that will entice people to fuck on my lawn, got invited to a looooong overdue tryst in napa, and New Edition's playing on the box which pretty much puts a very goddamn good end to an otherwise shit-tay day in paradise.

tomorrow i'll tell you about the horrible Kafka-esqe dream i had last night that started my day careening down the crap vector... but i really don't feel like re-hashing that one just now.

sweet dreams.

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THE WAY THAT I COMMUNICATE COULD MAKE A FRICKEN EUNUCH MATE

reckless: click here

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SEX AND POLITICS

you know how much i looove ann coulter, so i was just pleased as punch to visit this site... i highly recommend it for the gentlemen (not at work, please). the ladies might find it a tad ribald.

also, for the strong of heart (and stomach), please visit this site and tell me if you really think this is jenna bush's.... whatnot. the jokes pretty much write themselves.

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SUPERFLY TNT

i know i've said this before, but thank god for TNT and their genius sunday programming taste. what better excuse for sitting on my skinny ass all day than all 5 rocky movies in a row? none that i can think of... and by the time i've shaken off this unholy hangover of mine, i can stand up, walk to the tv and switch it off before the opening credits even roll on that worthless piece of crap rocky V. man, i ain't as young as i used to be- i used to be straightened out by the time sly got his ass whupped by mr. T... now i've got to wait until he cracks ivan drago open. mus' be slippin'

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