LONG-ANTICIPATED RESPONSE TO EDITHVED

I've neglected to answer your 'East vs. West' question, so as penance I’m writing an open response so that your (predominantly East coast) blog community (‘blogmunity’) can have the opportunity to weigh in on my comments…

Or call me an ‘ass-head.’

In an case, I’ll start by telling you that no one can be told about life in Los Angeles. One can only be shown life in Los Angeles. Anyone who has lived in LA for any appreciable amount of time will tell you the dirty, rotten secret about the fair city of angels: it’s not actually a city in California, it is a different planet altogether, on a different plane of existence, in a separate dimension from our own, in a galaxy far, far away, etc., etc.

If you take the 405 into LA (because there you get to say, ‘I took THE 405’), you’ll pass through an invisible wormhole portal—not far from the Will Rogers State Historic Park, appropriately—into a magical land where just around each and every corner exists the thrillingly supernatural possibility that maybe, just maybe, you’ll bump into Prince Harry doing bumps of coke off some hooker’s ass.*

And speaking of blow, you might find Angeleans railing a line or two and re-working the age-old ‘Real vs. Fake’ discussion, while (with the gross exception of H-bomb writers and editors… yech), Bostonians seldom discuss cocaine. Boston is a stoic town (thankfully), and the vast majority of conversation can be distilled into the following topics:

1. Red Sox (the Pats get their 3 months of due regard per year)
2. How much beer he/she/it drank last night (‘wicked pissed’)
3. Public transportation (i.e. ‘did you hear some kid got shot on the Orange line last night?’ ‘no! Wake pitched a complete game yesterday, and Sean got wicked pissed, so we had to take the Night Owl back from Dorchester’)
4. How good Dunkin’ Donuts coffee is. Seriously, that shit’s like crack-rock.

These, plus any derivation thereof, simple rules for ‘talking the talk’ do not apply in southern California. It would be a fool’s errand to itemize LA conversation in a similar fashion, not simply because of the vast and colorful diversity of topics, but because I’m loathe to decide whether ‘I bumped into Peter North this afternoon buying a burrito in Laguna’ should come before ‘Fucking Rick Moranis just stole my grocery cart!’ Alas, greater men than I shall resolve that one.

However, in its defense, I have never tried to hold a parking space with two folding chairs and a broom while living in California. Water tends to run off the streets in California. I can walk into a bookstore without accidentally getting to third base with the other patrons in California. It’s the little things I guess.

In closing I will say that, like men and women, the East Coast and West Coast bow to their own respective gods, but replace Mars and Venus with… like… Roger Clemens and Lindsay Lohan… or… um… James Taylor if you live north of Monterrey… or… like Clint Eastwood and adult film superstar, Jenna Jameson… but… I suppose… you’d have to be pretty fucked up to think of Jenna as a ‘goddess’… unless, of course, you meant ‘Anal Goddess,’ or ‘Goddess of the Cumshot’…which I do, but… Oh geez…

Well, this should pretty much sum it up.


*until now I have failed to give credit for this oft-repeated statement where, indeed, credit is due. The phrase came into existence during the epic road trip that spawned this very blog. Truly, the cosmos that day, in their endless journey towards their mystical, permutative equilibria, aligned in such a way as to unleash some tiny fraction of the Great Creative Energy that self-propelled the universe into existence and perhaps even connects each and every one of us through some incontrovertible organic bond (17 right, 28 left, 4 right perhaps?). Alternatively, we may have just been really hungover that day. Who am I to decide the truths of this lifetime?

Pete: wow, look at all the surfers in Malibu today!
Me: yea, I’ll bet the water’s ni… holy fuck?!
Pete: was that…?
Me: did you just see what I…
Pete: honest to god I just saw Prince William with a surfboard over there
Me: I just saw the same thing, and that is hands-down, no bullshit, the goddamndest thing I have ever seen… I wonder what Prince Harry’s up to…
Pete: probably doing bumps of coke off some hooker’s ass up in the hills.

…and that pretty much sums up the most hilarious fucking thing I have ever heard in my entire life.

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WTF?!

my roommate just whipped out the jazz flute and started jamming to some coltrane. i'll be goddamned if he wasn't really fucking good at the jazz flute. will wonders never cease?

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INDELIBLE TRUTHS

1. occasionally i'll yank out a nosehair or two because i find sneezing cathartic.

2. one day i will fulfill my lifelong dream of making love to a woman on a giant pile of Trivial Pursuit cards, preferably the VH1 'I Love the 80s' version.

3. pepsi is way better than coke. sure they make it with crack, but at least it's not feces.

4. drunk dialing will never go out of fashion.

5. 'Earthquake Weather' is the all time best song to play late into a saturday afternoon when you're fixin' to get drunk, eat some barbecue, and watch a baseball game.

halleluja, halleluja, amen.

now you try.

i push, i pull, the days go slow. into a void, we fill with death and noise that laughs, falls off their maps, all cured of pain and doubts. in yo' little brain.

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THIS AIN'T YO' DADDY'S AFRO

go on, do it. you know you want to. seriously, do you know anyone who's willing to sack up like this? well, i do. so there.

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...AND I FEEL FINE

lately, i've been looking ahead in my life, and it's just as cheery as ice cream and My Little Pony. however, it's far too creepy to indulge in such siliness, and i would rather just watch baseball. on the other hand, it does offer me that one, sweet creative outlet for which i've been begging all day, so i believe i'll satisfy my apocalyptic fantasies for at least a few minutes more.

let's conjure up a world in which, well... we've all died fantastic deaths. let's rock, bitches.

Anjipur 'Reckless' Ramachandran was found late Tuesday night in his Lakeshore Drive estate by his wife, Staci Ramachandran. The prominent Chicago divorce lawyer allegedly drowned in the 11th century Corinthian marble bathtub he and his wife purchased during their annual retreat to the Mediterranean island of Cyprus when the elaborate array of heavy, gold necklaces he was known to wear became entangled in the African ivory 'hot' dial. Police have not yet ruled out foul play, as he had accrued many enemies over the course of his tragically short lifetime. Known fondly as 'Reckless' to his wife, friends, and key members of the Gujarati mafia, he became instantly wealthy upon successfully defending Salvatore 'The Walrus' Giggolone in a high profile embezzlement - murder - racketeering - fraud - prostitution - conspiracy case marred by rumors of massive bribes, assassinations, and injustices. However, after the acquittal, Giggolone became one of Chicago's greatest benefactors and was awarded the Nobel Peace Prize in 2024 (the award was presented by former President, Robot-Jimmy Carter). Though he never argued a case again, Reckless enjoyed wild, and mysterious financial success in the years following the Giggolone trial. At the time of his death, he was under investigation for possession of the largest mp3 collection in the world, rumored to consist of exactly 10 million rare Clash live recordings, the entire Erasure discography, and one song labeled cryptically 'XXXL'. He will be dearly missed.

The Honorable K.A.S. 'Nelio' Lundegaaard passed quietly late Friday evening. A Midwesterner by birth, 'Nelio' moved West after feeling what close friends would later describe as 'a powerful sensation of destiny... as if he were listening to a greater voice.' After living reclusively in the harsh Utah desert for nearly a decade, he returned to Salt Lake City whereupon he was greeted as the second coming of Brigham Young. The Latter Day Saints apparently confused the two, as Nelio had grown an ethereal, 'Colonel Sanders-type' beard. The mistake was never corrected and, owing to his affinity for the Mormon practice of polygamy, Nelio chose to remain in Utah. Known as 'The Father of Modern Polygamy,' Nelio committed his defining years to polygamous advocacy, appearing before the United States Supreme Court a staggering 17 times and distributing propaganda T-shirts, buttons, bumperstickers, and beer cozies throughout the Southwest. A strong Scandinavian, Nelio fought a noble battle against terminal disease, but in the end, succomed to the burden of Syphilis/Gonorrhea/Chlamydia/Herpes/Hepatitis. 17 of his 49 wives were with him at the time of his death, when he is suspected to have muttered his lifelong mantra, 'monagamy is for bitches, give me some sugar Rebekkah-number-five!' He will be dearly missed.

Our beloved Dme. Amelia 'Reg' Rainer died tragically last night when she threw herself into the Caspian sea. She was 94 years old. Having made a legendary name for herself as a prominent New York literary impressaria, Reg published 'Tender is the Farewell to the Moveable Feast for whom the Snow Tolls' at the tender age of 32. The book was poorly understood by the even the world's most accomplished literary scholars, consequently received the New York Times' most glowing accolades for literary achievement, and was awarded the Nobel Prize for Outstanding Literature 3 years in a row (each award was presented by former President Robot-Jimmy Carter). Her celebrity attracted the attention of Monaco's Prince Albert Grimaldo, whom she wed in 2019. The two became the world's most glamorous couple and were endeared worldwide. Sadly, Prince Grimaldo was killed in his 138th attempt to circumnavigate the globe in his vintage, World War II airplane. Subsequently, Reg became the Queen of Monaco and then Eurasia when the small Mediterranean country, known for its casinos, luxury hotels, and movie stars, annexed the countries of Europe and Asia in 2045, over which she ruled with benevolence for many years. Tragically, her great empire fell to Belgium in the Great Brisket Wars of 2057. Reg is rumored to have fallen into deep despair, and soon after ended her own life. She was found clutching Lindsay Lohan's epic autobiography, 'Still Life with Lindsay.' She will be dearly missed.

Rodolfo 'R' Nuñez died of a massive heart attack at Cedar Sinai General Hospital in Malibu yesterday morning. He was 41. Growing up in the midwest, friends remember his childhood as 'tumultuous... but always with a sense of boyish wonder... and, CHRIST, what a package!!' He moved to California to feed his growing desire for knowledge, but soon after left school to become a prominant entrepeneur. After a series of falures as a surfboard shaper, oil tycoon, impressionist painter, and haberdasher, he disappeared into the Mexican desert where he was rumored to operate the largest Pan-American Mescaline exchange ever conceived before or since. A patriarchal figure, local Mescaline growers continue to praise his name ('Papa Nuñez' as he was affectionately known), but despite his popularity in Mexico and Central America, R gave up his pastoral lifestyle when the lure of superstardom swept him to the San Fernando valley of Southern California. His swift induction into the adult-film uber-star cult, 'The Fernando 4,' was a testament to the power of the great American spirit he possessed until his death. Known then as Chet Skindeep (often credited as 'Brick Foreskin,' 'Spank Peterman,' and in his later, more theatrical work 'Chuck Dick'ns'), he and the Fernando 4 brought adult film to the American mainstream and into our hearts every Tuesday night from 6:30 to 7:00 pm - setting the stage for the popular comedy, 'More Perfect Strangers' with Robot-Bronson Pinchot. In 2017, he recorded the smash hit, 'Baby, You Ain't Seen Nothin' (Until You've Seen the Inside of My Van), which topped the Australian charts at #53. Often cited as 'the Brando of Porn,' R married Paris Hilton, but she was suddenly, and unexpectedly kidnapped 6 minutes and 38 seconds into their honeymoon and never seen again. The case was never solved. In an astonishing display of courage through adversity, R married Amanda Peet 18 hours later and the two lived a fantastically happy life together. On his deathbed, and with his beloved wife by his side, he was said to have spoken the words, 'tis a far far better thing that i do, than i have ever done... to Amanda Peet... three times before breakfast, HOOyea!' We will miss him dearly.

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LONG LIVE THE DOMINICAN MAFIA

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"CHARLES COMISKEY...WAS A TIGHTWAD" AND ONE TIME HE ATE A BABY

"Charles Comiskey received a lot of the blame for the 1919 World Series scandal. Many baseball historians contend that his treatment of the players led Gandil and then others to take desperate measures to earn what they figured was their due. By any measure, Comiskey was a tightwad. He had promised his team a bonus if they won the 1917 pennant, but all they received for their victory was a case of cheap champagne. In 1918, attendance at baseball games across the country dropped because of World War I. Owners cut players salaries the next year as a result. When attendance in Chicago actually went up, Comiskey refused to bring salaries back to their previous level. While most teams gave their players $4 a day for meals, Comiskey would pay only $3. The White Sox had the filthiest uniforms in the league because Comiskey wanted to cut laundry bills. Comiskey had some of the best players in the country on his team, but paid them all far below what players of comparable talent were earning elsewhere. Charles Risberg and Claude Williams made less than $3,000 a year. Joe Jackson and George Weaver made only $6,000 a year. Eddie Cicotte had been promised a $10,000 bonus if he could win 30 games in a season. When Cicotte closed in on the 30-game goal, Comiskey had him benched to keep him from reaching the mark."

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HICKS DON'T MIX WITH POLITICS

well, well, well, we certainly have our fair share of baseball fans, don't we? good for us! and speaking of superfans, i should respond to J's comments about my 'hardcore' ranking among the Sons of Sam Horn, therefore i will tell you a sunny little story about how i came thiiiis close (holds forefinger and thumb dramatically close together) to strangling a bartender and punching a fat chick in the face over my BoSox.

ahem...

in light of the recent bout of thievery in my life, i feel like i'm doing a pretty good job of taking things in stride, you know, maintaining a calm and positive outlook on life in general, and that's essentially the mood i brought with me to the bar two nights ago. the Sox game was playing on one of the television screens inside, and i, being of casual demeanor at the time, nonchalantly dropped a 'go sox!' while waiting for the bartender to serve me my beer.

not noticing the two 'ladies' at the end of the bar decked out in full derek jeter regalia (hats, jerseys, wrist bands... honestly, who fucking does that?). because that's always a good situation: 30 year old drunk bitches at a dive bar on a weeknight wearing yankee uniforms in california. however, much to my horror, the bartender (Mr. A's fan... hometown team at least, so you know... good for him), who couldn't have been much older than i am, is trying to impress these two bar skanks by ripping on me to my face.

keep in mind, all i've said is 'go sox,' a phrase that, in my mind at least, doesn't warrant the ensuing audio vomit that spewed out of 'Sra. Fake 'n Bake', but there i stood--a man, solid and silent as a stone--listening to these three talk shit about me (and the Red Sox) while i waited to be served.

despite this, the very refinement of abuse, i maintain my cool because, as my ol' pappy used to say, never antagonize the people who touch your food, which in this case seems like wise advice, because mr. bartender sure looks like the kind of guy who would serve me a piping hot jizz-burger while flashing me a big, fat, shit-eating grin.

...and the fucking Red Sox can't even beat fucking TEXAS!... she spews... Rosie O'Donnell begins laughing/wheezing/jiggling to her left...

i complete the beer-for-cash transaction, which liberates me from the semen/spit/stinkpalm threat from the bartender, and smile at Mr. Trot Nixon who has just blessed me with a two-run homer in the seventh, with enough eerie good timing to make me wonder what great deeds i'd done in my former life. smugly, i turn to the withered souls of my new bar-skank friends and thank them for perpetuating that famous yankee fan stereotype.

chuckles and lunchbox literally erupt with contempt for my retort. wild-eyed, foaming at the mouth, bubbling crimson into their knotted, fleshy faces, they respond with the kind of last-resort scramblings of a deposed 4th grade bully: they command me to 'settle the fuck down, dude,' 'yea, you need to calm the fuck down.' i felt their request was a little out of place, considering the constant stream of slurred insults that they've allowed to disgourge from their loose, drooping jowls.

though i did detect a faint hint of acrid smoke circling my noggin as my motherboard, deep inside my brain, shorted out, and sparks popped and fizzled inside the works, because no matter how calm you are, no matter how stoic, how piously dispassionate a human being you are, every one of us will transform into the fucking incredible hulk when someone tells you to chill out (or 'dude, don't be so defensive,' for that matter).

a silent tremor worked its way up my spine, and my teeth ground themselves to a deadlock in my jaw. what i really wanted to say was: look a'hear you decrepit vulture whore, fake tans are for highschool girls, and you don't look like you've seen the inside of a highshool since you cruised prom night 19 fucking 70 in your brother's rusted-out firebird, and the only reason Tons-O-Fun over there hangs out with you is because deep-down-inside she's crossing her fingers that she can maybe score with the poor sucker wingman of the drunk burnouts who hit on you at this-here dive bar on this-here weeknight but, gee-whizz, if he's not really that into women who sweat gravy and buffalo sauce, she might be shit out of luck. and as for Captain Hero behind the bar over there, i'm going to go ahead and give him the benefit of the doubt since he's bartending a dive at 5pm on a wednesday and, wild guess, he's not working himself through school. and since he's trying to impress the two of you, i'm thinking he really doesn't have that much to offer the human race besides the used motorcycle parts he sells on Craig's List. so boo-fucking-hoo. go sox.

what i did say was nothing. because, as my ol' pappy used to say, never antagonize the people who touch your food.

so i sat down with my beer and my well-outbred friends, and when they asked me if was pissed at how rude the bartender and his ravens had treated me, i reminded them that he's working at a bar on a wednesday afternoon and trying to impress two women who could just as easily have their own 30 minutes of a TLC special on 'miracles of modern medicine'.... the first 30, not the last 30 where a team of 14 seasoned surgeons perform a long series of aggressive and experimental reconstructive surgery to correct some of god's more egregious boo-boos...

then i thought of how i would never see $8.50 an hour (plus 5 bucks or so in tips) as a 'career,' and how i would never have to rip on a paying customer so that some she-beast would throw me a mercy fuck.

and the Sox tipped the Rangers 2-1 that day.

in the end, life is all-around pretty good. agreed?

and while i'm on the subject of baseball, let's all give Reckless an e-pat on the back for being such a good sport when we rip on the White Sox (though he's not really a baseball fan... just a blue-collar working man from the south side.... well, a high-priced lawyer, but irony can be just as warm and cheerful as anything else, nes pas?), and a damn sexy bitch at that. while you're at it, click on the 'Reckless' link to the right of the screen, and leave some words of encouragement on his blog because, frankly, he's much more entertaining than i am. support Nelio, too, in his resurrection. Reg, baby, i sense only weak vital signs from your blog. don't tell me i'm the only one who wanted to kick a little ass this week, you wild, beautiful, superfreaky ballbreaker, you.

go sox, motherfuckers!

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YOU FUCKIN' DIE, I SAID

can we please start a "r's bike got stolen (again)" fund? it takes me 45 minutes to walk to class, and i can't afford a new bike. fuck fuck fuck fuck.

oy. you fuckin' die. you fuckin' die, i said.

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OPENING DAY. BITCHES.

all my teams won today... BoSox, BrewCrew, Cubbies...

the baseball gods have been appeased. halleluia. amen.

woa! three posts in two days, you lucky bastards, you.

ummmm, i guess the cardinals count, too, E. but only because of albert pujols, and because his name sounds like 'poo-holes.' wheeeee!

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BTW

much to my pleasant surprise, Nelio and Reckless are posting again.... and just in time, too. i was this close (holds thumb and index finger ~1mm apart dramatically) to besmirching their good names for being blog deserters ('post pussies'), and casting them down as only one with abandonment issues + megalomania + my strictly-one-sided bitching platform could cast a person down. And if you haven't noticed (you insensitive bastards, you), Pete's blog is starting to branch into broader topics - which my manservant-Ewok tells my illiterate ass - includes links to swank new books and music.

since we're all back in blogtown (as the literary equivalent to aging fraternity brothers assembled for a 5 year college reunion, scoping out the sweet, sweet undergrad-jailbait-blog-ass we used to score), dare i suggest we shark it up a bit? bring back the bicker? rekindle the babbling cockjockeying that the blog monologue affords us ('monoblogologue' : the blissful prohibition of dialogue and discourse.... sir, you are out of order! (post) - (add a comment) no, you sir are out of order (post your comments) - (add a comment) how dare you, sir (post your comments) - (add a comment) how dare you, sir (post your comments)).

Reckless, i must insist you restrain yourself from yack yack yacking away about the law. it's neither funny, nor entertaining, and i don't think i'm alone in saying this, but no one really thinks laws do anything but keep me from waving my penis at passing traffic. we're all lawbreakers here, bitches... in fact, how many of you are smoking pot right now? right now. hell, Prince Harry's sniffing bumps of blow off some hooker's ass in my living room right now. and it's a dead hooker. so much for your silly laws against blow, or hookers, or killing a hooker, or keeping royalty chained to the couch in your living room with only blow and a dead hooker to keep me entertained him alive.

so can we all, then, agree that the only time The Law entertains us is when i'm making fun of it? ...and dead hookers are totally hilarious....

welcome back, bitches. oh, and Reg, you're on notice. don't think i've forgotten about you, you cheeky monkey, you.

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B.A.M. 3.31.06 SIR PSYCHO

Location: Big Sur, California
Vulture Attacks Survived: 1
Campsites Poached: 2
Betty Crocker Beef Stroganoff Consumed (lbs.): 3
Lunar Eclipses: 1
Laws/Warnings Disregarded: 7-10
Pacific Water Temperature (Degrees Fahrenheit): 56
Gonads: Frozen
Pt. Sur Wave Height (Feet): 6-8
Waves Actually Surfed / Attempts: 0/mucho
Albums Played (split evenly among RHCP, The Pixies, and Dead Kennedys): Blood, Sugar, Sex, Magik; Californication; Mother's Milk, One Hot Minute; Plastic Surgery Disasters; In God We Trust, Inc.; Fresh Fruit for Rotting Vegetables; Trompe le Monde; Doolittle

despite the two hours spent in the cozy hottub, i'm still motherfucking chilly and sore, so i'll restrict the bulk of this post to a silly, illiterate, unoriginal photo-essay. however, i should point out that, once again, i shouldn't really have survived much of what happened in the past 72 hours, but i'm starting to get used to it; not because of anything spectacularly ballsy i did, but merely as a result of my own stupidity, so i've dubbed thee, post, 'Sir Psycho' autobiographically. wheeeeee!

Now I lay me down to sleep
I pray the funk will make me freak
If I should die before I waked
Allow me lord to rock out naked
Bored by the ordinary time to take a trip
Calling up a little girl with a bull whip
Lickety split go snap snap
Girl gettin'’ off all in my lap
The tallest the sweetest sap
Blowin' my ass right off the map
Ooow and it'’s nice out here
I think I'’ll stay for a while

he's a freak of nature, but we love him so...

apologies for the delinquency and sterility of my posts, but i've been busy with 'spring break,' during which i landed and began working two jobs. woot.

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