The best thing Apple did was add the "Pop Art" feature to Photo Booth.

Well, that's not entirely true. The 'sepia' tone always look spot on though.

I'm trying this new thing with the books I own that I never finished. I'll pull one off the shelf, open it to a random page and go. It's worked. Well, once. It's like trying to create flash fiction out of somebody else's fiction. People should start writing like this. They need to think, "Alright, so if somebody reads half the book, can they pick it back up at some point and just... read whatever in it?"

**

Man, this new Iggy Pop? Fuck, I know right? Great. Definitely better than that... "other" Stooges album. I'm still pretending that never happened. Hindenburg of should've been really good music. Damned from the start.

**

I just spaced out for at least a half hour.  And I just did it again for another five minutes. Blogging is so hard whenever you had three hours of sleep. Oh well. Distraction. Here comes my new shoes:

Love 'em. And just like Smacks: dig 'em.

Shit's classic.

First off.... this:

That right there.... it's, "Mom, I need twenty bucks for the mall," shit. It's two sodas coming out of the vending machine. Wham. Your day is better. Thank you, karma.

I wasn't supposed to be alone tonight, but that's the case (as of right now). So, I'm saving myself. Mmmm, vinyl collection. Like cracking open two, three sodas and only gulping a few times. The Doors Greatest Hits is on right now. You can look at the disc and tell it's probably been played six or seven-hundred times. Still sounds smooth. Really, really light hiss, like when the waiter is like, "How much parmesan?," and you say, "That's plenty," after only two or three strokes on the grater.

Quit being soooo conservative.

**

So, Doors are still rolling. It's a joint that never ends. The bottomless beer. Wait, hold on a minute, that keyboard solo is about to tear through my basement and eat my being.

That was justice right there. Jim Morrison is kind of like every good thing: dead/will come to and end eventually.

Weak. Thanks reality.

**

Yeah, that's a real gun. Dude, look at that picture of me! I look so fucking tough. Too bad that gun wasn't firing. Trust me, there was a clip in it. Full clip. Somebody needs to Photoshop a huge, hand-rolled cigarette in my mouth, or like.... a bullet actually coming out of the gun. It'd be enough to freak your mom out. Hard.

I'm not that tough of a guy, though. Don't let the gun fool you. Or let the gun fool you, and gimme' your money.

Sometimes friends do shit, and you're just sitting there on the couch thinking, "What the fuck?" That's kind of happening to me right now, think of it as reality television... or reality blog.

Drama. Sucks.

I wish I wrote all of these songs.

That's right. Every single one of them. Or even wrote the lyrics. Or a chorus, a reprise. I don't know, I want to feel like I've touched every single person that listens to them in some way, even a really small.

My God, let me mix your master tapes. Christ.

Theory for mix CDs, etc.

So, the worst part about making a mix CD for somebody is that after you burn it, pop it back in your CD player/computer to make sure it works.... you always end up wanting to keep it for yourself. That's the case with the last one I made.

I made rules:

1. Soul Coughing songs are okay.... not Mike Doughty solo stuff- Couple of reasons why: he actually used an anagram of his name (Haughty Melodic) for an album title. That either means he's really, really smart, probably too smart for his own good, or one of his drunk friends scored big during a stupor. Either way, I could never get that lucky, score one up for jealousy. 

Second reason: listen to his solo work... he the kid 

standing on the high dive at the summer pool with a line twenty kids long jeering him to make a funny face and just jump in. Sorry though, he's got flamingo legs. Shaking in opposite directions, afraid to make a half-flip too much and land on his side. Come on! Jump you wuss. Quit being scared and just go for broke. That's what Soul Coughing was about. Doing a jackknife for 20 feet up and over rotating, but it didn't matter because the splash was big enough to get all the moms by the vending machine wet. Kids gasped in at the same time, tugged their pockets filled with water. They gloated, they saw chubby Mike make a day worth writing about in your journal. "Soft Serve" will definitely do that. "No Peace, Los Angeles"? Hardly.

2. Exclude any songs you've ever listened to having sex- See, the problem is you're setting yourself up for bad memories, blue balls or both, especially if it's for a lady friend. What if you listened to "L.A. Woman" while you pounded a former fling into submission from behind? The thought crawls from the back of your head. Yikes. You're stuck in the car with this girl. No air conditioning, the smell of burnt oil. On your way to Chic-fil-a. Well... what now? You want head but, pal, it's not going to happen. You can drop all the hints you want. Nip this one in the bud and actually make a separate list of all the songs you can hear over the sound of your bed frame shifting itself loose.

3. Never have two hip-hop songs back-to-back- Damnnnnn. See, I really messed up on this latest mix with a Lupe Fiasco/De la Soul/Slick Rick trifecta. What sucks is that all three of these songs are so fantastic that you find yourself cutting through them three or four times on loop and never listen to the seven songs after it. A quick fix would be just hitting the shuffle button.

4. Make sure the mix is at least 10 songs- Seriously, why waste a CD? It's pointless. Stretch that shit out. A full 80 minutes, please. I'll even take some filler, like an interlude from Chronic 2001. You know, that "Pause 4 Porno" song where it's just a bunch of people having sex.

5. If you can actually proclaim a favorite song, leave it off- This'll help avoid any argument that might arise when you blurt out how much you love the song on a road trip. It's a fight you won't win, sorry.

6. Back to Slick Rick: he better be on your mix- I don't even care if you just put "Adults Only" on every single mix you make, that song is on point. Quick tangent....I wonder who produced that song? I'm looking at the album credits and DJ Clark Kent and Kid Capri are both listed as producers. Maybe Ringo Smith? I know he did some production on this album. Christ, I have no idea. I'll PayPal you 10 dollars if you find out for me, no joke. I'll even include the 3% fee. That's love.

***

I have other theories. Sometimes you need to just keep those to yourself. I need a vacation. I just had one, but it was just an "extra weekend day" vacation. I need a "500 miles away from home with your cell phone off" vacation.

**

Love might be

 the worst thing in the world. Maybe because there'll be a time when you realize there are a finite number of things in existence that can be arranged in an infinite number of ways. Just like a sentence can go on forever, just add a comma.

You'll be sitting there one night. I know it'll be night. Something will happen. I don't know, you'll be listening to a song, she'll get up and move a different way to the door. You'll cough and she'll turn over and break your heart. I don't know, I just know it's going to happen. It's going to eat you insides.

Hope/pray/have faith in something so you get beyond all of those things and propose. Like hide your ring in a rose, boys. Hide it under the pillow, by her toothbrush, on the dash of her car, put it around your cock. Who knows? Either way, you're going to make her cry and she'll say yes and you'll show a large group of people how in love you are, because it's the way things are.

All I know is, I'm in love, and the only way I want it to end is if my heart stops beating. I want to outlive everyone in my family and be there alone in a room holding her hand, my organs oxidizing because I'm like 140-years-old, and cars hover and sound like blenders moving through the streets. I found somebody I'd build a house for, play Monopoly with, take the trash out in the rain, groom the dog, clean the toilet and shower back-to-back, clip their fingernails, make mixed CDs for, eat seafood, watch the Food Network, etc.

Don't look at my face, it's all covered in soot.

First this:

RIGHT THERE, THAT'S A FINE SONG. Sorry for all-caps. Either way I get screwed.

**

Well,

we started a band

and things didn't end well.

Remember?

Van broke down

on the night we were supposed to

unveil our lounge act.

So, instead of

panties dropping in the front row

and the record execs said,

"Now that'll fill some seats

at an east coast venue."

We pushed a maroon Econoline

into a K-Mart parking lot

and cleaned the dust from a Marshall stack

while tuning a Gibson,

drinking bottles of Genuine Draft

that floated in two-day-old cooler water.

Sitting in a circle,

humming the songs

that were supposed to get us laid.

A post which spreads goodwill.

Much needed three-day weekend. Lots of lying face down and deep sighs into pillows. Arms around girls and hugging, all of that stuff. I haven't been reading your blog much lately, sorry. By this, I mean the folks in the blog roll. I tried to read them daily, faithful to potential updates and what-not. Maybe some good links or posts, I dunno, I don't want to miss any of that, etc.

Wow, my girlfriend just walked in here. She's gorgeous. I might've mentioned this before. 

**

I've been watching a lot of cooking shows. I have a girlfriend to thank for this. She always says, "I like cooking shows, dancing, and shows about really fat people."

I'm usually the exact opposite, especially the food shows. I hate when it's people racing around to cook food that nobody would ever eat. Ever. Like, beet-flavored pubic hair sauteed in cod liver oil, placed on a plank of driftwood, and then seared with Rice Krispies. Fa' real, give me a cheeseburger. You can't fuck that up.

Or can you?

Failure. Gimme' the lettuce.

Here comes everything at once, alright. Ready, go.

I'm in love with this girl:

Right now, it hurts. My insides, my chest. She's sleeping 30 miles away and it feels like I watched someone climb into a make-believe vault of everything I've ever known, every thought, every truth, every well-fitting pair of jeans I ruin with coolant and grease, and auctioned it off.

Luckily, she forget a hoodie at my house. I have it pulled over my face, villain-like. It still smells like her. When I miss her, I listen to music that I know she wouldn't like. Like right now, I'm listening to Trans Am. I had them on a few days ago, and she put her head on my shoulder and said, "There aren't any words."

In my head, I was thinking like an English major should think. I was trying to think of six or seven excuses for why the lack of lyrics are exciting, but I just smiled and said, "I know."

**

So, I'm in love. It's written on my face. On this blog. It's written on this hoodie I have wrapped around my neck like a cat. It's after midnight and I'm sitting here hoping you know exactly how I feel. Like, maybe you've felt it before or you feel it right now. That's great, I hope you feel that way/felt that way and you want to find that person that makes you feel this way and put your arms around them. Maybe talk about whatever you talk about. Soccer, the way wind gathers dust and dirt and gives itself a body. All that is nice, just talk to them. Talk to them until your sentences run together.

Mannn, I can't keep listening to this. It's making me feel guilty. I know exactly what face she'd be making if she was here.

So, here's a hint for what I bought you.

Sometimes people deserve a present,

a gift or whatever you call it.

You can wrap the small box

in the comic section,

putting The Wizard of ID

and Beetle Bailey on top

because they're the only funny ones.

So, now that your copy of the Lexicon Devil seven inch,

or your red cashmere scarf 

or the movie tickets are wrapped,

handwrite a card.

Not something phony you fought

a plumber and a cornerback to get.

Something meaningful,

with words crossed out where you misspelled marriage

or used the wrong your.

Keep them guessing.

Don't drop hints, 

that's the hard part.

I drop hints 

like backtrack bread crumbs

and it always fucks me over

in the end.

So this time, I'm going to give you something

you can't wrap

or fit in a bag 

or buy online.

I think I'll give you me beacuse

I am a present you can open

again and again.

Riding tandem leads to love.

To me,

it doesn't make much sense

that I try and describe

how I feel about you

and maybe how we feel about each other

through poetry.

Words are inadequate

when you're sitting across from friends

piling up breadsticks and neatly placing

cups of sauce into rows

and after everything on the table 

looks like a commercial shoot:

forks and knives held in loose fingers

like drawn weapons,

children are doing the laugh-track laughter,

even the lighting makes you feel phototropic.

A friend who's been gone for months 

navigates a straw around ice cubes

and tries speaking through a mouthful of ice tea:

"How're things with that girl, the new one?"

My stomach stomach starts to hurt,

the "standing in line, holding it too long" hurt

that also doubles as the

"love makes you hurt inside your stomach" hurt.

"We're great. We ride our bikes around the park."

He puckers his lips and swallows tea,

"That sounds about right... bike rides lead to love,

at least, that's what they'd lead you to believe."

I stared down at the sauce

and felt like our relationship might need a second opinion

from they,

or something.

I think,

because what my stomach feels

and what he said were so right

and so perfect because they weren't planned,

unlike those bike rides.

Oh, look how steep that drop is.

So, how about we play mother and child and I can tell you what I learned today?

Sound good? Alright.

**

You need to save that Fudge Round and eat it after the chicken pita is just crumbs and the bag of chips is just a bag split open at the bottom. This is the part of the week where I eat lunch at 10. That way, I don't get hungry at work.

Okay, that last part was a lie. I always get hungry at work. There's also a point during my day where I look at the clock and force myself to find things to do. It's the lull, the tide is fifty yards out part of the day. The store is empty and all you have is one running Xerox humming and dropping the bypass tray down so it can hold 1,000 copies.

I stock pens, I dust things without dust. Sometimes I'll go in the bathroom, sit on a toilet and send text messages. Yesterday, I pretended like I was sending packages to a bunch of different countries and cities and got myself a shipping rate. Don't send anything to Africa. It's way expensive.

**

Some people write fiction well. Other people write poetry well. I can't do either. Raymond Carver could do both. I think that's why he's one of my favorites.

Bam. That's proof. That's a fantastic poem. Don't even try talking shit, because you'll end up frustrating yourself .

Remember those two collections of Carver lit I bought a few weeks back? Yeah, those. I'm still chugging along. It's been enjoyable. I've found myself able to read them and go, "Uh huh, I like this," when something exciting happens, instead of, "Oh yeah, I see what he did there." At some point, I'd like to get back to the second one. Not right now, though.

**

You love that.  We both love that.

So, I am listening to this album right now as loud as my laptop speakers will get without hissing and belching white noise. It makes me think of three things:

1) This being the most bad ass album in the entire world when I was 15.

2.) Dan Bailey. Him and I are so about this album. I think Nate Logan is, too. We cruised around Muncie and talked about this album while we bought beer in Friendly Package.

3.) This is still one of the most bad ass albums ever.

Come on. I can barely handle that shit.

**

When I drive my new car, it's like nothing else outside of the car is evening happening. There's no sound. Things don't move. Other cars can't pass me. I feel like I'm driving a missile and every time I park, it detonates. Shrubs wilt and splinter, people turn to dust and the wind carries them into separate piles of widows, widowers and orphans. 

I walk inside, do whatever business I had, then continue driving. My car screams like danger and loss.

That's just fine with me.

**

The Bulls lost last night. It's okay. I have the rest of my life to wait patiently for another NBA Title. 

**

This is the time of year where everyone is all like, "Ohhh man, it's time to graduate." Wah wah, cryin' like babies.

Already done ittttttttt. Miss it, though. I wanna' walk back into the Robert Bell building with some anthologies in one hand, a water in the other. I want to sit at a desk and talk about texts. Then I want to walk back to a small apartment with low ceilings, call some friends and blow out the candle I left lit all day. Blowing it out and watching smoke squeeze out an open door or cracked window is the best feeling in the world.

Can I go home and change first?

"You destroyed the things I loveeeeeeee."

Mr. Krabs just said that on Spongebob. He is seriously the biggest asshole of all-time. What a greedy prick.

**

The Kentucky Derby is this weekend. It's never been anything to care about. People need to look at it like sex: regardless of how exciting it is, it's going to eventually end. Probably in three minutes. 

**

The Touch and Brush? Jesus Christ, people are lazy. It upsets me because you know the jerk who invented that thing got a huge payment when some stupid company bought the patent rights. Now he's driving around in a Mercedes and tipping ladies at the strip club with fives instead of singles. 

**

It's the first day of May. Go celebrate.