Let's study illness one fiber at a time.

We get sick. Isn't that bull shit? Ears breathing like the air beneath beds of coals, a matted orange, almost spray paint red. The look on your face is the same one you make when you toss up popcorn behind the backstop and try to catch it in your mouth. Swelling, the pool float that's emptying air through the hole you made trying to jackknife over it at the bon fire last weekend. Your stomach is the line at the loan office or the first baseman when he throws his glove at the dugout right after a rain delay starts.

Screw being sick, damn it. It makes me work harder, and that makes no sense. Should be doing much, much, much less. I feel better with a shirt off when I'm sick. I feel more attractive sick. Maybe 'cuz I'm vulnerable. I want a woman to look at me with the fox caught in a trap look. The look that first baseman gives the field while he watches the mound well.

**

But that's me right now, um sick. Tons of ice on the neck, groin, etc. Baseballs' the real cure though. So is Bonnie "Prince" Billy. He's from Louisville, folks. Guess that's something I can be proud of. Along with Hunter S. Thompson. And Tom Cruise going to Male High School. Or was it Trinity?

But no. Louisville. Good place. I've been thinking about the things I never did there. I never ran by the river. Since I've started running, it just seems like the right thing to do. You know, even though the river is pea soup flowing south. Sprinkle in some shit, a few upturned fish, toilet paper, etc., and you've got the Ohio River. It's 'aight. Nice place. Far from here.

**

Care about reading? Welp, either click on the blog roll link for Sean Lovelace, or why not hammer on this one? He understands. Not only understands, but can communicate that understanding. It's key, folks. Just read it. A lot of your questions will be answered. I know mine were.

**

Done for now. Read my Facebook page, there'll be a new note up there. I'm thinking about publishing more things on there, kind of spreading out my writing a bit more.

The Emmy's are on tonight

I mean, I don't know what to think about this. The only reason I even know the Emmy's are on is because of a commercial. Thumbs up to their marketing department. Uh, thumbs down for me not knowing? Like, shouldn't I know about the Emmy's? Isn't it supposed to be a crucial part of pop culture?

Honestly, somebody fill me in. Do the Emmy's even matter? None of my favorite shows are going to win anything, so maybe it doesn't matter to just me, and everyone else has their blankets wrapped super tight, ready to be like, "WHAT THE FUCK!!?!?! HOUSE SHOULD'VE WON. HUGH LAURIE IS THE MANNNNN."

Hugh Laurie is pretty funny, though. With all of those crime shows, uh, can somebody explain to my where every fucking city gets their own version. CSI: Boston or whatever. Fucking NCSI: Boca Rotan. WHO CARES?! Crime is the same everywhere, minus the cool gangs and tattoos.

**

So, football is on. Beer open, beer sweat on the coffee table. Cat asleep on the remote so I couldn't change the channel even if I wanted.


**

New Levi's commercial. Love it like I love their jeans. Doesn't seem campy like the red label Gap shit. Not talking shit about the Gap, no worries. My closet is still crammed shelf-to-shelf with argyle. I can't find a link to this damn commercial. Thanks YouTube.

**

Manuscript is out. Got a fantastic response from Joe Betz. Waiting on others. Improve improve improve. Always look to improve.

It's like watching "Straight Story" only not totally boring and up it's own ass

Closer.

That's what my graduate school manuscript is. It's closer. Closer to where it needs to be. It's actually readable now. You can formulate an understanding from it.

And maybe if I tagged you in that Facebook note, you'll be getting a copy of it soon. By soon, I mean hopefully tonight. I'm, literally...for the first time in my life, putting everything I possibly can into this. Everything. I'll be invisible when I'm done. Organs no more. Soulless. Cease to exist after I send this to you.

Help me. Salvation, please. Give me salvation.

Here's the hum of all your electronics and appliances murmuring at once, or something close to that.

Tonight I've decided that I'm never going to write a poem for somebody I love/care about/know again. It's never gotten me anything. Generally, they're poorly written. Not so much sentimental, but they aren't me.

I'm sordid. I write in images. Some people. They negotiate meaning, if that's even possible. Like, "Here, let's shove you this direction. Just a few steps this way. Get it? See, here's the meaning. I drew you a map."

Me? No. I'm the choose your own adventure book. My sentences short, muddy. I try to create understandings. Usually fail. Still, it's what I want to do with my life.

But not for others. Not even for myself. For the sake of storytelling. For communication. Oral or written tradition. At this point, I don't care. It's faux-happniess. It's waking up and avoiding cold tiles on your way to the bathroom. Only using the pea-sized dollop of toothpaste, brushing and feeling fresh without rinsing or mouthwash.

**

I feel like I'm finally at a point with my writing where the rationale is there. And huh, saying "rationale is there" is kind of meta-fictive. That's always intrigued me.

Ahem.

**

So, I broke a rule. Twice. Never draft players from your favorite team to a fantasy team. Greg Olsen and Devin Hester. Ruined season, here we come! Not just a nose dive, but cliff hanging then grabbing the wrong rock. Whoops, no rope. Sorry.

**

The real start of the football season is tomorrow. And you know that means?

Running.

Shower.

Six packs, lunchmeat, and surround sound.

Success.

Hey HOOOOOO, CHICAGO BEARS!

The elements of surprise/fun and what I'm doing before and afterwork

Not much for the second one. It is September, though. Time to scour. I'm going to turn into one of those people that implants the harvested hair follicles back into Uncle Ted's scalp so he has more confidence in women. Now he'll have the teller from the bank, Sofie, you know, the one that wears the gaudy blouse, she'll be eating out of his hand. To the pub for a round, some cheesebread, and then whomp, the new sheets are broken in.

Test that thread count, Uncle Ted.

No, but um, it's time to work on poems and flash pieces. Five of each? Sure. Sounds 'bout right. That's a nice, square number. Five. Are you working on anything right now? Let's trade. Thoughts at least. Maybe work? I'm generous. I'll wipe your work twice, front to back then vice versa.

What does vice versa even mean? Is that Latin? No, is it? Wikipedia, plz.

**

So, how about we climb inside a moment and have it take us yellow taxi cab streak downtown to the harbor where we can skip rocks and coax every foam bubble and fermented drip of backwash down our throats and talk about every woman who's ever disappointed us in one long, confused breath?

Let's do it.

I think I'm going to start dedicating poems to everyone. Poems and stories. That poem was for some jerk.

**

Quality beer? This one. Yum. Excuse my corny face. I had a few of them in my system at the time. Six pack for $6.50, yes please.



Bottoms up, internet.

You might be bigger than me, so Imma' wet 'cha.

When I touch the mic, it's never too hard for me.

**

Hi. Promise you this, today's a day to take the back road to work. Keepin' your car right in the powerband when you lull through neighborhoods. Honk at everyone on your way to work. Nod or point your index finger to say hi, salutations, etc. Be cheerful today, just do it. Be like Nike and just do it. Do it in sweatshops.

No, but seriously. Today's a nice day. For somebody. Weather's nice. And who knows, their heart might not've been lillyput daisy stepped by a girl playing Lincoln Logs with your emotions or whatever. It'll be a nice day for somebody. They'll take out the trash and hear their favorite song while getting gas. Their cell phone bill paid on time. Two mouse clicks then bam, it's paid without getting off the John/throne.

**

Hi, so it's my day off. I squeezed it to make lemonade. I read blogs, magazines, a book. Not the entire book, slivers of that book. My nose was page height, left hand machete-wielding bam bam CHOP through those verbs, hewing them like overgrowth, bramble.

Now I'm currently blogging, blogging at its finest. See, but I need to know how to get this thing read, man. Why aren't your cousins or that guy in Beruit reading this shit? Do I need to hit up dad's medicine cabinet for some Stetson? What's a sucker gotta' do? Nude pics? I'll do nude scene, $250 up front. No lie, no lie. I'll do it.

Why do people let Sam Pink interview them and not me? Why don't I interview you? Why doesn't Sam Pink interview me? I want my fucking turn, God damn it. I want people to catch their breath with both cheeks puffed every time they navigate away from this page. I want clammy hands to sop, lungs to whoop and shudder click clack like camera lens.

Remember this blog post for what it is.


**

Alright, so it's time to be so serious about graduate school. Dad spilling MGD during halftime pissed. I'm going to be Tsunami 2004 deadly. I will not take no for an answer.

Call home Holiday Inn

You know, it isn't very often that you find a three-foot piece of plywood at a thrift store that somebody cut and painted to look like Mario, buy it for $1.50 and hang it on your bedroom wall.

Wait a minute....

Those shoes are fantastic.

***

That's all, for now. I have plenty to say, but am not exactly sure how I need to be saying it. Not yet, anyway.

Hmph.

Talking underwater

I feel everything I hear

sounds like talking underwater

at the pool as a child.

Hair suspended, face covered

in a muzzle of bubbles

and even though you know

Sam keeps saying hey hey

two dozen times,

you keep mouthing what.

Both breach,

fill your lungs until your chest stings

and go back underwater to mouth

hey heys and whats.

Freestyle rhyme #1

Oh my God! Back up,
I drank the elixir.
And right after that,
hang above your head like a light fixture.
Swinging like a noose,
I'll flicker like eyelashes,
or nose dripping snot
and your paycheck without the dashes
or decimals.

So next time you want to step up
and use your words like ammo
better dress up in your finest redneck camo.
And don't forget your tree stand,
or close your eyes, sucker.
Otherwise, sweat drips down your face
like the sweat down Bud Light
flutter like the bird who can't close his beak.
I'm sure I'll catch your sliding across hoods
like Starsky or Hutch,
or Waldo and some "Where he at?"
I'll catch you in my grip like Iron Sheik and his camel clutch.

Wah wah, heard you shriek when your girl made you go flaccid,
so go pop some candies and antacids,
pop open those books for some studies
call over your buddies
to drive over stoned with some Sluripes or Icees,
and when I step up the mic,
we'll have about 10 or 15 crises.

Don't ever get to comfortable.

This is where I sleep, what I come home to. I'll have more pictures when fewer things are in boxes. The Volkswagen toys are unpacked. The bed is made each morning. I even bought jars for flour and sugar. No chairs in this apartment, however. Not one. A kitchen table, no chairs. That says a lot about me and how I prioritize.


**

Babyface said it in a Lil' Wayne song. I'm saying it right now. Not as a piece of advice, the birds and the bees talk. Just something to say. Maybe consider. People have shoveled plenty of advice in front of my door since I've moved. Face to face talks with only the counter between you. Lots of nonsense, throw-away words, etc.

"Make sure to meet people."

Uh, what? You can't avoid doing this. Promise.

"Are you eating enough? I remember when I moved I wasn't eating. Buy fruits."

Okay, I'll do that. I heed. Raspberries from Wal-Mart. They were even fresh. And I've been drinking cranberry juice again. My kidneys are thanking me.

**

So what're you reading right now? Me?

This.

Imma' just say this: Wow-wee.

I'm back, officially.

I needed that two weeks off, folks. No worries, I was writing, reading, listening, etc. That two weeks, I was putting shit together like k'Nex.

Like this? Like thattttt.


**

Starting a life is hard. You have to start paying attention to things you'd regularly ignore. You buy expensive vacuums with filters instead of bags. Filters? Those are for fish tanks and cars. I've spent money on pots and pans, baking soda for the fridge. Spent money on toilet paper, and money I've spent on things has ended up toilet paper. I've bought new records.

Skrilla. I bought myself a gigantic TV, photos to put on my wall, frames to put them in. Blankets, towels, an ironing board to hang on the back of my door. Conserve space! This is like...this is like 700 square feet.

**

I know I'm getting older because I'm devising methods to vacuuming. Patterns, you see? The carpet needs to look a certain way when I'm done. Half comb-over, half bedhead. My music gets louder as the night wanes. I supply bass as if it were warm water for showers. I'm a water heater VIA bass.

I obsess over MF DOOM like your mom may have been over David Cassidy. He climbs in your ear like the whole ball of wax. MMMM, see, here's the thing about hip-hop. Well, music. It's all a throwaway. We've heard it all. Everything's been done. Albums about food, albums with no sound, no lyrics, about Oprah, whatever. We've heard it. But DOOM....um, DOOMMMMMMM, he just, he does it. Everything is an infant with him: brand new, sunrise, freshly sealed lamination around the poster.

Please readers, wade your way into hip-hop. You need it. You need it a lot more than you need a new Grisham novel, or a Misery movie. Fuck that stuff.

This is what you need:


Just like the air your breathe, the food that spoils in your fridge, he's necessary.

Also, I'm working on a hip-hop essay. We'll see how it goes.

Product of a sore neck.

Like being in a room
so still, you can see dust
resting on the carpet
waiting to be swept up by cautious step.
And your breathing is heavy
yet melodic. The carpet now flaked with dust
shows lines from a vacuum
four hours after the fact.

Despite the fact this sore neck
makes me walk large
and think in gusts,
I'm still able to remember
the way our conversation ended last night.
Your voice trailing off inside
short sentences over the light ring
of mattress springs compressing
and the only thing that would've made it better
if it would've happened today
so I could've been surrounded by
naked white walls,
alone in my apartment.
I would still wake up cradling
the phone between neck and cheek
hoping you would do the same.

Leaving without a kiss goodbye

Car slides to a stop like earth down muddy hill.

Girl gets out, runs inside.

Guy, still in car, pressing palms into the steering wheel.

He adjusts the volume, newscaster's voice booms

and falls apart in a hiss.

Soon the pressed palms turn to an index finger

drumming on pant legs with that

Come onnnnnn, come on vibe,

and he watches her shadow move

with some holding a Roman candle anxiety.

Relationships sometimes get to this point,

jamming fall clothes into grocery bags

during March. You leave the toiletries behind,

half used or whatever. Dog food stays under the sink

next to the brush clumped with damp hair.

She leaves the faucet dripping into a saucepan.

He revs the engine a few times.

She returns with a fistful of bags.

As she pops the trunk,

he can't help but think about how replaceable

one can become.

Until then,

he'll use her smiles like a floor mat

and breathe in deep enough to fill both lungs

each time she walks by.

Plugs/blowing a few egos plus other things

Check out Robert Woolley's stuff. He understands. Fantastic pictures. See, like I don't know the conventional wisdom for photography. I might understand what makes a picture better than another picture, but I can't express it.

However, he can.

**

Welp, you can also check out this. You can't fake this shit. You just can't. Especially around the two-minute mark. J. Mascis' guitar goes church choir during the sermon. Eyes straight forward, hands on the lap. But the rhythm section plucks along, negotiating around the pocket of nothing.

Absolutely epic piece. Top 10 song ever. Period. Tear the genre walls down, this song is king. It's school house bully dominating the monkey bars.'

**

Probably the best thing I've read today can be found here. In case you didn't hear, or just don't care about sports (and if that's the case, I've got a giant fuck you sitting between my legs), Mark Buehrle pitched his second career no-hitter. Oh, and this one just happened to be a perfect game, only the 18th time this has happened since 1900. Yup, there've been a lot of baseball games played between then and now.

Phew. I still DO want to know how he does it. I will definitely say this: if Mark Buehrle pitches at this consistent level for another 6-8 more years, he definitely deserves real consideration for the Hall of Fame, and I'm not talking Brady Anderson or David Justice consideration.

**

Way too much going on. Not enough words to explain it. I move Saturday. Updates will probably come sparingly or even in great waves, depending on the internet situation. I feel like internet should've been capitalized. Oh well.

House warming gift, Not shaving pact, I think I broke my toe.

My job does have its perks. You know, like being able to fashion a fantastic black/white picture of Tom Waits and mount it on black foam core, with a quarter inch boarder. 

Mmmm. This needs to be framed. Red frame, maybe? I think so. Remember how I shit talked Bob Dylan and said there were better song writers? Ahem.

Proof:

**

It's dinner time. Um, looks like cereal.

Taller than you as to dominate the NBA/Office basketball league

Man, I always want to be the tallest one in the group. Think of it: you'd be able to see over everyone, so if something cool was happening at the end of the block, you'd be the first to tell everyone. If you ever went to a hot dog stand, you could be like "Shawww, POW," and reach over a few heads to grab your dog slathered in cheese sauce and mustard.

Uh, so ignore the fact that this guy looks pretty annoyed. It's cool. I definitely dig his sweater and tie combo. Green/red is always righteous, even without the yellow to complete the stoplight.

**

I'd also like to be able to run long distances. Can't though. We'll I guess I could. I think the longest I had ever ran, even when I was in fantastic shape in high school, was like two miles. I was never much of a distance runner, which means I'd be terrible in a horror movie if my character had to high-tail it through the woods or around a lake that stretched off the screen.

Can't help it though. I have bad posture. Feet roll outward, my strides put me on the balls of my feet, I move gimp-footed. It sucks, can't stand it. Running, to me, would be the quintessential getaway. I could always ride a bike, see, but I don't want that kind of help. I'd like to just go. I don't even need a fly pair of shoes (lied, yes I do. I have a closet full of them).

I also don't think I have the lungs for it. Breathing is key, I'd imagine. There's a right and a wrong way to execute it. Maybe when I move, I'll try this.

**

If Jimmy John's has gift cards, why not send me one before I move? That'd be great, friend. Thanks. Do it.

Oh yeah, moving. 8 days. Christ almighty. What a ride I'm about to take. This man did say it best, after all:

Buy the ticket, take the ride.

No, I ain't got nothing to be scared of.

Ain't it the truth. And sometimes, that's all we need.

Doom ship captain cackles overhead

I'm going to sit here in the dark and tell myself that every little thing is alright.

I'll fashion a big black rocking horse and ride it with a smile on my face.

I'll drink water until my stomach bloats, then eat bread to soak it up. I'll go hungry for days and be full.

I hope to God there's not a sinkhole that swallows my car while I'm driving to a new home.

When I wake up tomorrow, my entire body is going to feel like it's filled with sand. I'll walk with a hitch. I'll take eight steps to the bathroom, relieve myself, and stare into the mirror wondering why I never notice the hair on my face grow.

When I look outside, I wish the moon was close enough to touch then push away whenever it made me feel uncomfortable. I feel the same way about you.

There are times when I'm at work and I coil. Freeze, lock up. Stop thinking and just exhibit motions.

Right now I wish Sunday nights were a house so I could burn them down then drive away in a fishtailing car.

I want to go to sleep not knowing if I'll wake up. But when I do wake up the next morning, I can whisper finally to myself and breathe in until my chest hurts.

I wish I had this kind of flow and this kind of mind:



We can bag us a 'Benz and an Audi, too.


**

Done.

Darling giants and my inability to distance run.

There's something going on up there. Sure, a jam session. Maybe a concert. Something else though. I feel like one of those loonies on TV who can sense ghosts.

Look at that picture. It's metal. Form, content and function. Also, the bassist kinda' looks like Joe Betz, a college friend. I did a double-take and laughed for a good five minutes. Joe never came off as a metal guy, but rest assured, if somebody handed him an axe, he'd cleave some trees. Maybe an entire forest.

Thing is, music does stuff folks. You need to be taking it seriously. Maybe not like Mom's birthday or the termites that're eating through the kitchen baseboards. Pretend it's an ocean and you've never swam before. Walk in up to your ankles. Kick around. Splash some. Dig your hands into the sand and pull up a clump of loose soot so that all the water around you gets cloudy for a minute.

Think. Hum some bars.

Go out a little farther. Like up to your chest. What's scary is that you're going to be wading around. Floating on your back a bit. Spitting out mouthfuls of water that tastes like the dentist's office, and you'll look back. The ocean's carried you out quite a bit father than expected. You're scared sure, but what's the difference between five feet? If you get pulled under, you get pulled under. Regardless of how deep you're out, you don't know how to swim so why not just enjoy it?


**

My insides burned yesterday. Something happened with a wedding that I was supposed to take part in. Now I'm no longer invited. I don't want to get into details. In retrospect, I've actually just wanted to write down that something happened. Welp, so I did.

Yup. It's out in the open now. Let's marinate on that one for a while. I still don't know how I feel. Hurt, yes. But anything else? Who knows? I'll have an eight hour car ride in a few weeks to think or completely forget about it.

**

I was actually about to post up a really funny clip, but in the process, I got Rick Rolled.

Ha.

The Kansas City Experience: Sans Jimi Hendrix

Ribs.

I guess that's probably the best way to sum up my vacation in one word. Ribs. Like the polar opposites of the rib universe coming together (like Congress is supposed to be, right?), to form this numbing sensation in your mouth. First the rub, a lake effect drubbing of spices, powders and crimson dust on the slab. Smoked, cooked for what seems like eternity.

Then the sauce. My God, the sauce. Sweet, pasty, a light glaze. Habenero, maybe? Sour nook? Tomato based or vinegar based? Doesn't matter folks. Throw it in front of me at a table, give me some wet towels and I'm gonna go to work. Around 6:30, I'll have the tip of my tongue buried beneath my nail beds trying to extract every last molecule of sauce.

Need proof?



Bam. I murdered that slab without batting an eyelash. Excuse the poor lighting. That restaurant was dim. Like catnap eyes. Like TV glow from the hallway (Gates' is said restaurant, by the way, if you're ever in town. Place was righteous.)

**

Trust me, it wasn't just about barbecue (kinda'). I signed an apartment lease. I got my promotion at work and start at the end of the month out in Kansas City.

So, I'm moving? Yeah. It's official. And there's no anxiety. No stress. Not a sliver of it. What gives? This either means I'm about to make the biggest mistake of my life or go out there, and tear the city apart, super-nova 50 billion miles away style.

I mean, I've made lists. Everyone does it. You better believe Kansas City's writing community is near the top. Oh yeah, did I mention UMKC has their MFA program? And I've been talking with literary agents?

Hmmmm, are you catching on yet? Doubt it.

Let's try again.



He's a beast, he's a dog, he's a mother fuckin' problem.
Okay, you're a goon.
But what's a goon to a goblin?
Nothin', nothin', nothin,
You ain't scarin' nothin',
on this faggot bull shit
so let's call 'em Dennis Rodman.

Ding. Ding. Just let that marinate/fester/stew/whatever else. Think whatever you want, but you cannot sit there and tell me that cadence doesn't pummel you in the face for three straight minutes. He's on top of the world and I'm jealous. Every magician needs props, and he's got a full closet.

**

I'm hoping that Vitamin Water is cheap in Kansas City. Like those 10 for $10 deals. I can already tell my diet will regress back to noodles, Vitamin Water, cereal, crackers and sandwiches with a few pieces of cooked chicken thrown in for good measure. Honestly, I'm perfectly fine with that.

Another list:

Things I need when I move to Kansas City

• A couch (definitely looking for a Cragislist or Goodwill special)
• Flat-screen (I've seen some decent deals at Best Buy. Keepin' it below $500)
• Some kind of chair/loveseat thing
• Turntable
  
• Futon/bed (see 'a couch)

Luckily I've already hit up Ikea once. Cue the Flight Club reference.

**

Movin' date: July 26th. Phew.

Mini-update before super update.

Back from vacation.

Wow.

Uh, I need to go to sleep. Promise a huge update tomorrow/later today, since it's well past midnight.

Trust me, there'll be good stuff inside. Like, promotions and apartments and a move date and pictures of ribs.

'Til then. Enjoy this. It was pretty much the theme song to the entire vacation.

Tao Lin always blows himself.

I'm not even kidding. Look at his blog.  It's like one of those porno sites you accidently go to because you spell boobs wrong,  so it's just a bunch of pop-ups and really loud sounds of girls moaning and sucking on fat red dildos.

He wants you to buy his books, his pubic hair, MySpace page, etc. That's cool, I guess. At least he sells books. I don't even have a book to sell. Sometimes I wish I did, other times, I wish my desire to write would just disappear and I would be content with driving a snow plow in Montana. 

Brah, look how tough that looks. Snow flying everywhere. That could potentially have been like.... 15 snowmen. What you don't see is all the grade schoolers boo-hoo'ing as they watch Jack Frost's nose get turned into carrot splinters.

**

By the way, that last stuff was for Dan Bailey and Nate Logan. Both of those guys rule, and not just because they're on top of my blog roll. Shit, Nate, you haven't updated your blog in like two weeks. What's your problem? You too, Dan B.

**

It's my birthday in two days, and I'm thinking about staying in all day and burning a hole through something. Or writing. Or reading about writing. Or writing about reading. Or wiping this sweat off of my neck and legs. Or bathing.

I have no idea. We'll see.

Swimming with a kid.

I went swimming with a kid that comes waist-high to me. Our shorts kinda' matched: his were red with blue stripes, mine blue with red stripes. I took two steps back and jumped in, spreading my legs out to make the biggest splash I could. Water rushed from around me and spilled over the edge of the pool. It was still warm from twelve hours of daylight, used bathwater minus the soap scum.

The kid jumped in at a good angle. Everything looked straight, his body was like a bullet, red and blue streaks from shorts traveling down his leg, blending with the fence that cornered the yard. He stayed under water for as long as he could, coming up to take a huge gulp of air and he returned under water. I paddled for the shallow end and started bobbing.

About 8, the sun touched down on my roof. We talked in short chops, like the water passing to each end of the pool.

"So kid, are you in summer school? I don't see you out at the bus stop in the mornings?"

He bounced on the balls of his feet to keep his head above water. "Yeah, sometimes. Mom doesn't make me go everyday. I sit in my room and play Nintendo."

"Oh yeah?" I lunged for a pool ring and had it drag me back towards the ladder,"what do you play on Nintendo?"

"War games. I like to use the sniper rifles. They're quiet, but can usually take all the guys down with one bullet. Do you play games?"

I climbed up the later and squished my pockets, water spilling down my legs. The kid stroked a few times and floated on his back.

"Not too often. I usually work. I pack boxes in a factory, then drive them around on a forklift."

"Cool. Yeah, the war games are fun. There's this one where you're a ex-prisoner. You get to start World War III."

The kid floated towards the wall and I pulled him out by his underarms.

"Sounds like my kind of game. How do you start it? Do you push a red button?"

"Nah, somebody dares you."

We dry off then walk down the street towards his house. The sun slipped off my roof. I have to shield my eyes with an open palm to walk. Even then, not very straight. The kid is drumming on his thighs, making machine gun noises. Then his front door open, and he took off with sandals making the plastic clack on scorched asphalt. I turn around, shield my eyes from the sun, and contemplate trying to start World War III myself.

NBA Draft Day blog (that might only briefly talk about the NBA Draft...)

Asking professors for letters of recommendation is tough. Like.... super tough. This is how mine have went so far.

• Draft a crazy hybrid email/old-skool letter (notice the k? Shit's tough)
• Read it three times
• Edit it
• Send it, fold hands and pray. Rosary works, too. It'll help brush up on those Hail Marys

See? That's hard. Wanna know why? It's showing a professor your penis and asking them, "Can you look past that creepy vein, that dent in the tip, and say something good about it?" Your stomach goes all coaster hill drop with your eyes closed, hands clammy. It sucks. The kind of anxiety nobody needs.

I want to tell you who they are, but I'm not entirely sure about those kinds of privacy rules or whatever....but I can tell you I have openly endorsed them on this blog 1,724 times.

Phew. Let's just hope they can come through with some killer letters.

**

Apparently, high school coaches have more to worry about than prom night or underaged drinking. Reason #1873 why most people are deplorable and should've been one of those other 14,891,283 children that died on mom's stomach.

Joking aside, Ed Thomas was a fantastic, selfless individual who was dedicated to serving his community, family and school. Oh yeah, he was one hell of a football coach, too.

Lots of numbers in this blog. Sorry. It's actually been really tough not typing the same numbers more than once. I think that's what I get for not having an actual number pad on this laptop.

**

When you write, it's important to use words that don't suck. You know, like "walking." That's a horrible, horrible word. It's boring. What is it conveying?

Jillian walked into her kitchen.

Oh, I'm sorry. Were you writing a story? Sorry I couldn't tell. I was busy napping through the snorefest. Not kidding. Get that word out of your story. Study the dictionary, the thesaurus, I have no idea. Talk with people and pick up new, fancy words. They all don't need to be $2 words... but 68 cent words maybe? Hey, 68 cents can get you a Polar Pop, and that's just fine with me, as long as I get two squirts of vanilla in my Coke.

**

Started on my page layouts for the chapbook. Creating something like that feels good. I really can't show you the progress. Just imagine, please.

**

Oh my God. NBA Draft tonight. One of the three sports nights each year that I live for. Please, Chicago, let's have another memorable night like last year. DeJuan Blair and Wayne Ellington, maybe? Make a huge splash and trade up for James Harden.... please? Don't be skurred.

This is gonna clock you in the jaw like "BASH POW"

Etc. Yeah, just like the old Batman clips.

You ready for this, here it comes. Well, here it comes, August 2009.




Killer. 4 pieces of fiction. 15 poems. Hurray.

**

Pretend this is class, okay? Fifth grade. Call on me. Send me notes under the desk. Yes, No or Maybe? I dunno. I might doodle something cute, like a face with crooked nose. Oh, that means I love you in 11-year-old. Let's eat bagged lunches together at the bottom of a slide and hide behind water fountains, wasting time with our breath held. It's times like this that I'm glad our social hierarchy isn't based on height, but what we can fit inside our heads and hands. So, let's run with clenched fists to the cafeteria, shove the stale vegetables inside our milk cartons so we can have dessert, and run through the hallway banging knee-high lockers.



**



Pretty good. I'd recommend it.

When the river floods, just hike up your pants, alright?

Everyone has a dad. Your relationship with him is probably on par with September weather: low 80s one day with a thin drag of clouds, and the next day hovers above 30 with wind that never dies, hail that leaves craters in the roof of your car, and then, just after you can see twenty feet in front of your face, the humidity shoots up, water pools in your yard and chokes the plants. Have fun spending an afternoon uprooting roses and bushes and moving them to the front of your yard.

I'm pushing 23, and it makes my relationship with my dad off-kilter. I'm an adult. I work 40 hours a week. I have a car payment, my own insurance, two loans for school. Half the time, I buy my own food, even though there's a refrigerator filled with food 20 feet from my bedroom. Granted, many of those choices I made myself, but like most, I take after my dad, so I'm stubborn.

Dad's are like that big tree in your backyard. Say you're napping in your room. It's 2:30, no clouds. Sun feels like it's tapping a clenched fist against your window. Still, you're lying in your bed, eyes opened like the top of a can,  and its' dark in your room. That's dad. He's your face, crooked toes, slouched shoulders, unmade bed, dirty pile of laundry. And it's going to take you a long time to figure that out. Hell, it probably took me until I decided to move to Kansas City to understand that.

My dad mixes cereals that, you know, have no business being in the same bowl, but that's why I love him. He's reserved and close-lipped until he has something to say, and I wish I had that quality. I generally can't shut the fuck up. Dad's that Chinese proverb, "Those who know, do not speak. Those who speak, do not know." He's why I write. Half the time, I don't know. Writing is a mechanism used to understand the world we live in. Every other tool we have, the news, Internet, conversation, whatever else, it's all crooked. It's all jaunted. Sitting at a computer with a white page or at a desk with a pen that probably doesn't write. It's the only purity you have when you try and understand.

Yesterday I was writing a poem, and I was sitting there convincing myself, "This is what I want to do for a living. I'm going to make it work somehow." Then I started thinking about Father's Day. I wonder when I was born what my dad was thinking when I was lying there. I wonder if parents have notebooks they fill with checklists of what they want their kids to do. Like, I wonder if my dad wanted me to run a company, or a grocery store. I wonder if my dad figured I might turn out gay (didn't) or something else. Date a black chick, run marathons, collect basketball cards (I did do that). I'm not a dad yet, so I don't have a clue.

And I honestly have no idea what he thinks about me now. I've made a lot of mistakes and have done things against his grain. I'm sure there are times when I come home and he wishes I had an answer for half of the things I do, like spend time in my room writing pages of nothing. I don't, though. Just like he probably doesn't have answers to the things he does, other than, "Just because," or "It makes me happy."

That's fine with me. It works for us. Ultimately, that's all that matters, because that's love. Happiness. 

I love you Dad.

**

Uh, so this one is for Dad. 

This definitely works for me.

Absolutely fantastic.

**

Well
it's definitely no fun
to treat love like an afterthought.
You know,
like having a lost dog feeling
as I watch your car crawl up our street.
Hand on the glass
then the only thing I have left
is my finger prints as an outline
of a red sedan.

Instead,
I like to hold everything we have
in crossed arms
while they quake right before I fall asleep.
The words that make your eyes
ice with anxiety,
the pit of my stomach harden
because we're going to turn words
into four walls and the things
that fill the space between them.

Each night,
I try and remind myself
seconds before eyelids shutter
that we'll discuss these same things again tomorrow
with the same feeling spreading across my insides
like the crawl of dawn that'll wake us
and that's just fine with me.

Let's shake hands and forget about tomorrow.

This is generally on loop when I get home from work. And by generally, I mean I've listened to it in its entirety twice today. It's a story, pure and simple. Um, a persona. I'm a proponent of persona. We all have one, especially writers. Ahem. This album is so disarmingly honest, genuine and authentic in both its production and consumption. The word play is on fire, you're going to constantly be hitting loop to hear DOOM spout gem after gem. It's noir. A movie, bad guy vs. bad guy. You hang on every beat in drenched-face anticipation, every single word is somebody's thick fingers ringing tighter and tighter around your neck.

The best hip-hop album of the last 10 years. Easily.

**


I don't even need to explain myself here. Umm, a smart-ass, dry witted milkshake who lives with a carton of fries and a meatball that turns into an igloo, hotdog, and bridge.

Supplement.

**

There's this one girl, too. I've talked about her a few times. She has a blog. We've been "together," whatever that even means, for three months today. She's my best friend. She's probably the only person I've ever met that instantly makes me feel better when I see a picture of her, when she texts me, when she leaves me a voicemail.

I've been in other relationships, all of his have. There's an unavoidable desire to rate your partners. We both do it, subconsciously, sometimes incorporating each other to help do it. A majority of the time, it's a refreshing chance to offer your current situations perspective. Other times, painful reminders of mistakes, blown chances, whatever.

We're humans. It's instinctive to squat over maybes and grunt until you either forget about them or decide they're worth keeping in a satchel. It's our fault. Anxiety folks, hello, there it is. Baggage. It's why we need to travel with what we're wearing and what we can fit in our pockets. And I think now, finally, after two-ish years of trying to get myself to board a train and go, I've finally gone.

I'm in love, and that's all that matters. I've found a nominal sense of love and understanding. I'm contempt. I wake up, piss and think about love. Love for music, writing, Master Shake, Katlyn. Um, those things matter. Like, there's a see-saw in my head. Those things are on one end, and a the word love, in that terribly cliche Warhol font is on the other sider. It's even four different colors, how cultured! 

But they're sitting dead even. The wind doesn't sway either side. This would be a boring see-saw for a kid. I'm glad I didn't have the mental capacity to care like this in high school. To care about the random people I had sex with, or even my last relationship. Being able to live in the now is extremely liberating. Honestly, I don't know how many other people can, probably because it rarely works. 

For me? Shit works. Thankfully. We're moving, we're happy, I'm content. And just like that awesome scene in Babe at the very end when he stands with the farmer, and everyone is screaming and cheering because he was able to lead the sheep into the pen, I'm sitting here in my bed saying, "That'll do pig. That'll do.:"

**

I didn't move to the city

The city moved to me,

and now I want out

desperately.

So please, let's shake hands and forget about tomorrow.

Shut your windows on your birthday

For real, I've woken up four times in the last two hours. Can't sleep. It's warm in here, this fan is doing nothing except circulating air that has the same feeling as that greasy lotion feeling ten minutes after the fact.

So, I'm in bed. I'm naked. I think I'll turn on music.

Group Home. Okay. Great album.

This blog needs to be noticed. It needs to be a big deal. Huge, epic. Leaning Tower of Pisa finally straightening out big. Do you read this blog? Well, link it on your blog. That's cool with me. Think of this blog as an extra puzzle piece, the one that got shoved between couch cushions at that Halloween party. You can finally snap that piece of the clock face into place.

Phew. Rest easy. Oh yeah, link this shit. Seriously. Please. Link it. Don't make me pout. Too late.

**

I hate Bob Dylan. I don't like his music. I could name 20 song writers who eclipse his shit.

Ready? Go.

Something beautiful happened in the church house,
but it didn't have to do with God.
And something beautiful happened in the court house,
but it didn't have to do with the law.
Something beautiful happened in the theater,
but it didn't have to do with the play.
And all this beautiful is smuggled like a secret
and it doesn't have to be that way.

-Q and Not U

Sorry B, you couldn't do that if you tried. I mean, read that two or three times. Yeah, I know. Hair in the pasta. Dropping the dog food in the hallway. No more toilet paper and you just crushed half a Crave Case with Tom.

Bam. The song has relevance. It's not like a Dylan song where it only matters in the context of the 60s. Wah wah, like a rolling stone. Sure. Who cares?! Beauty's been supressed for thousands of years, Bobby. We're all oppressed. Black, white, purple, genderless, tables, lampshades, etc. Fuck this Vietnam trip, it's about things. I'm pretty sure our man William Carlos Williams said it best:


"No ideas but in things."

And there's a shot to deep left field........it might be.....it could be.....GONEEEEEEEE.

Let's demolish Bob Dylan together.

**

My birthday's comin' up. What'd you get me? It's okay, I'll take gift cards. You can stoop that low. Just don't except an action figure from me for Christmas, prick.

Wonderful people, I'm thankful that you've found me.

Uhhh, yes please.

**

Hanging out with Mom before work. Maybe some lunch. Question of the day: hot or cold sandwich? Mound of veggies or slaughter house pile with aus' ju/ROY G BIV lakes of sauce, and maybe someeeee lettuce.

Yeah, sorry this post isn't orbiting around writing or something a little more exciting. But, um, you know... sandwiches, they're crucial. Tried the Sweet Onion Chicken at Subway last week. Not really a fan of their stuff (seriously, microwaving room temperature lunch meat? No thanks), but it really wasn't too bad. All in the sauce, though. This is why I harp on those condiments, folks. They're goin' to make or break your lunch.

So next time, skip over that Hunts or Red Gold bull shit and go straight for Heinz or Tabasco. Drizzle it in a smiley face, the shape of Illinois, whatever. Take it to heart. Act like it's the most important decision you'll ever make. Fuck the kids' names, the type of hardwood floor in the guest room, sliding rear window on the Silverado or leather. Ask yourself this: honey Dijon or Dusseldorf mustard?

The answer is both.

Um, a tidbit. Um, um, a smidgen.

Well, I have a manuscript. 45 pages of poetry. 21 of fiction. Say, you wouldn't happen to know anyone who wants to, ya' know... publish it? Like, maybe an eBook or something? Maybe some kind of super Midwest literature anthology? Let's work on that, together. So just like Shake-N-Bake, you can say that you helped.

So, did you get that? Know any agents? Are you an agent? Like what you see? 10 dollars for 10 minutes? Yeah, I'll hike up my skirt for you, talk dirty, put on the transparent jelly plastic high-heels. I'll do that.

**

Lazy Sunday. Super Nintendo. Tortoise. New albums, etc. A sepia/B&W picture with a "develop this old film" camera day. My eyes feel like big windows and the two men dressed in white jump suits who wash them are tugging the ropes to go down, so my eyes keep closing slowly.

**

Transcripts came in from Ball State. They'll be sent off tomorrow. Then hopefully by the end of next week, everything (except for the GRE scores) will follow in suit. It's scaring me. 80 degree roller coaster drop. Mom's footsteps in the hallway and there's no way you can shovel all the weed back in the baggie before she opens he door and goes Planet of the Apes on you and your three friends.

Please tell me that everything I've been doing will be entirely worth it.

Cul-de-sac: Part 1

Roland Davis died sometime last night.

I awoke with a strobe of blue and red resting on my eyelids. Rain pattered and dragged like heavy boots down a cracked window, water collecting in a long oval along the sill. My dog shuffled his hind legs at the foot of my bed. A nervous ring of morning circled the brown of his eyes.

There was a nervous synergy in Roland's driveway. His wife stood in a purple bathrobe, hair bunched and pulled to one side. There were officers peeking over her shoulder, handing her clipboards. She'd occasionally nod or shake her head. Neighbors pushed their children in strollers on the opposing sidewalk. Some stopped at the nose of the ambulance, gawking. I noticed a child clap her hands then rub the base of her feet.

The mechanical groan of a garage door opening coupled itself with steady rain. I adjusted myself and walked towards the window. Two EMTs sandwiched a blanketed gurney. They moved like sentinels: rigid, empty, with a long gate. More neighbors clustered near the ambulance.

Winds churned. My TV timer clicked on. I moved to the bathroom and returned to the window with a strand of floss. A strong gust blew the cover off of Roland's body. His widow gave chase. Two children followed in suit, running across the grass with wet noodle arms, hoping the sheet would come to rest near the bird feeder.

I had only seen two dead bodies in my life. Both were pushing 80. Their caskets were long, smooth. Shaped like fancy appliances. Inside, the bodies looked glazed, almost wet. The dignity had deflated behind their chests. Roland was different, though. He looked like he was floating on a thin layer of sleep. 10 minute nap, maybe. He couldn't have been dead for more than three or four hours. His skin still had a pink sheen to it.

I looked out at the crowd. Nobody was talking. The two children returned to the open doors with the sheet and the driver quickly placed it over Roland, tucking one end under his feet and the other under the back of his head. The driver lifted both arms slowly from his side over his head and mouthed "Up." The EMTs propped up the wheeled legs and rolled the gurney into the ambulance.

The widow pressed her palm against her forehead and climbed in back. Doors clicked shut. The crowd thinned out into the streets. One child hung his arms across a mailbox and watched the ambulance hum slowly up the street with its sirens and lights off. The hollow look and silence made me think about the three, four times I awoke startled the night before.

Julia on Julia and Me

I don't like the way I apply lipstick,

alright? My lips, they're just too narrow,

bottom lip curled 

like bottom of the pile plantain.

Top lip the trail of black left behind

by a struck match.

Still, they're like us.

Companions, people in love.

Two things close together

or touching, even if they

grow tired of each other.

And I don't know how I feel 

about this, our relationship

you know. There are too many times,

like right now, where I look into 

my compact mirror and practice smiling

because I can't help but wonder

how you feel about 

how I apply my makeup.

I've got a hive of bees. I sneeze and pull stunts like MacGuyver.

I've started the graduate school crunch. The vice grips are on the University of Missouri-Kansas City. I'm not going to let up, ever. Sorry. I'm going to this school. Sent out the warning calls to a few former professors. Looking for letters of recommendation.


So yeah, did you get the hint? I'm moving to Kansas City. I want out. I want Louisville to turn into an escape, not some guilty vice. I drive to work everyday, look at the skyline and say, "That's it? Where's the spires that super heroes could fly around? Where's the sewer drains belching steam so the roads won't crack? The buildings don't seem desparate. The Ohio River is too dirty 'round here, and that just doesn't sit well with me."

It's time for a change. A real one. Already sent in my application to UMKC. Preparing my writing portfolio over the next few weeks, hopefully getting some of those letters of recommendation, taking the GRE, etc. I want to live somewhere quaint.

**

Alright, I'm gonna dig up all the David Carradine facts I can. You know, since he's dead now, it's gonna be all Hoover Dam and flow super slow with power until something major gets loged in the wall, pushes slow like mother's labor then BOOM.

You know... like this one. It's a start.

**

Okay, I was going to post up an article about nudist gardeners, but there weren't any visual suppliments. Fuck that, right? Right.

Coming October 2009.

Hello, Kansas City. From a future resident.

Come over here, I'll show you how to fake it.

I had a great idea for a blog. Now: it's escaped me. I think it was about the books I've been reading.

**

A few goals for tonight

• Mad shower. Not mad, like Sweedish Chef chasing the hen. But mad as in, "No dirt will survive." My body feels like sewage plant.
• Bark at the moon, Ozzy-style.
• Play Super Nintendo.
• No Chinese food.
• More water (at least three more glasses, my insides are sandy)
• Sleeping in a semi-circle

**

Alright, so I'm broke. Not shocked. My salary is river breeze: through your hair and off in ten different directions by the end of the day. No good. I mean, part of it is my fault, which is fine. Live and learn. Part of it is the economy. Part of it is the economy not letting me get a better job or take risks. Shittttt.

I want to go back and watch me spend money that was never there. I want to be standing behind myself whenever I blew 2 grand on carburetors, a throttle linkeage and a transmission. I mean, who does that? Seriously, a husband cringes when he does that for his wife's Camry, minus the carburetors. You add the carburetors, and that's bad math, sir. Maybe if I was able to be six inches from myself, it'd make a lot more sense now. Because, as I stand here at my work computer and type this, I'm making this really wry face. Probably photo-worthy, but no.

**

Wait a minute....

Alright, I don't judge people on their sexual activity, but umm, isn't auto-erotic asphyxiation supposed to simulate being choked? So like, my man David Carradine was pretending to die, then he actually did? Shoot, I'd say mission accomplished.

**

I'm really, really sick of seeing Jack-In-The-Box commercials when there isn't one within like 500 miles. Quit it. Your food doesn't even look good, suckers.

For Mark Wallace.

There's definitely a closeness between us,
yeah, a closeness,
the kind expressed with the rings
an empty glass of beer leaves on a counter.
The kind of closeness
that can only be explained with me
thinking about us being friends before we were friends.

So, if we would've been friends during junior high,
I'd invite you over to show you
the long list of metal I downloaded on Napster,
and we'd listen to ...And Justice for All on loop
with my bedroom door locked,
dominate dungeons on Diablo
while spending two hours trying to burn a mix CD.

Even if I would've known you before last summer,
I would've called you at two in the morning,
to tell you the same story that,
"Yeah, the part of my head right behind my eyes
really hurts. Burns, even. I don't know why it always hurts."
I'd thank you for listening,
come over and tell your mom she's a babe.
Come over the next day and clean your pool
and empty your fridge.

We'd go in your room and talk
about girls we love and had loved.
Like, you could've talked about
that time you and an ex
were coming home from the movies,
ready to lay on a ripped futon,
rest your head in her lap
and have her hum something Top 40
until your eyelids went clunk.

But no.
Instead of the humming,
the ripped futon nap,
she decided to try and go down on you
the same time a deer limped bow-legged
from a ditch, dropping its shoulder
right before the hood of your Celica
bent inward like a folded accordian
going for soft crecendo.

And in that instant,
what scared you the most
wasn't the penis dangling
in your ex's mouth like live bait
or the B-movie hatchet face
the deer made against your windshield,
but the fact that you realized
your windshield wipers didn't work
as you flipped the lever up and down
trying to scrape the clumps of hair from your line of site
so you could putter home
and nap.

I want to have this kind of power, or at least succumb to it.

Could you imagine being in front of that stage, trying to comprehend that kind of power? Deer in the headlights, maybe? Sideswiped by a drunk at the bar with a half-opened palm/fist concoction that makes your face all kneaded dough. Yeah, I really can't either. Hell, this picture is making it hard for me to breathe. I'd imagine each chord would melt the fibers wound together to make the strings on their instruments, then float through the air like some Noble gas, downing people like the plague until it got to my skin and made tiny cuts, Crucifixion whip-style, until only air was being pumped through my veins.

**

Lots of new music lately. I'm going to wager that....50% of it was produced by DJ Premier, 10% is from England, 15% was produced between 1980-1986, and the rest can't be categorized with really generic stats like that.

Okay, I use ellipses a lot. Sue me. Please, take me to court for it. It annoys me that I do it. But, it's like, I do it as a way to carry a train of thought.

**

So, I'm going on vacation with the lady. July 3rd through the 7th. Kansas City, then Chicago. Umm, barbecue? Yeah. Pizza, and hot dogs? Ikea? Maybe a baseball game? Yes. Lake Michigan with shopping? Duh.

Somebody please, I need a new job. It's a sinking ship.

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.