The Dead Man's Diaries

Happy Birthday to Me

2011-12-16T20:56:00.000-08:00

27 years in the making - and what have I accomplished? At times, my life feels like a parody of a tragic comedy. In other words, a Rancine or Shakespearian tale – from the creators of Epic Movie & Meet the Spartans. Suffice to say, it can be very annoying. No one ever strives to be, like, Al Bundy. But, there is a reason many people sympathized or empathized with his character; or even found him endearing.

After all, even in hell some demons have got to be better than others, right?

Spondylitis is slowly fusing my vertebrae together – and 2011 is definitely the year in which I’ve never been in more back pain. The long bike treks help. Plus, I’ve missed out on some really great events this year, which I’m none too happy about. Life without a car can be very frustrating, to say the least.

On the Brightside, not one, but two published authors have praised my work and have encouraged me to continue on with my pursuit of writing. The real question is – why the heck aren’t I published yet?

In all honesty, it has been a pretty sh**ty year for me. But enough about me; how about you?

Some of you became or are becoming parents for the first time this year. Congratulations! Some of you even became grandparents. More congratulations! Some of you are getting married. Some of you have gotten married. Some of you were even “groovy” enough to allow me to officiate your ceremony. I thank you and congratulate all of you! Some of you got divorced or lost someone that was very close to you. No loss is any more or less significant than anyone else’s regardless of how it may have resulted.

My point is, whether it’s been a good or bad year for you, a lot of great things have happened. I can’t promise any of you that next year will be better for any of us. However, remember this – abhorrent behavior is not an airborne virus. You don’t get it because you sat on the wrong toilet seat at a bus depot in Des Moines, IA. Something has to occur to have caused it – and it’s nothing to be ashamed of.

S**t happens! Get over it and move on. I’m 27 now, if I wanted to roll over and give up, I’d have every right to do so. “See, the luck I’ve had could make a good man turn bad.” But I’m not going to. I’ve been knocked down on the canvas a number of times and I’ve never NOT given up – and I never will either! When I walk, I sagely step with the expectations of a wall accepting defeat if I were to walk into it.

…and I expect the same amount of conviction from all my family and friends.

So, like every year, champagne for my real friends – and real pain for my sham friends.

Thank you,

Davey (David)

P.S. Of course, what I really want for my birthday is one night alone with Lindsay Lohan – and seeing as how she’s really hard-up for money, it’s something that’s probably not too hard to pull off. However, since beggars can’t be choosers – I’ll settle for a shot of scotch and a beer, and then call it a night.

The Dumb Luck Detective. Chapter 2.

2011-11-29T22:58:00.000-08:00

The Dumb Luck Detective:
A Hard-Boiled Tribute

by

David Knieling

CHAPTER 2
The First Cut is the Deepest

Ten o’clock AM on a Wednesday. As pathetic as it is to say, I hadn’t been up this early in years. I hated public transportation; most of all, the Los Angeles Metro. The smells. The people. The noises. I was hung-over from the night before and night before that, etc. – and couldn’t help but feel at least six pairs of eyes peering over at me from their papers, iPods and cell phones. This, unfortunately, was no delusion – as I was fighting a serious case of delirium tremens. These folks look like they’ve never seen a drunk before. This was, after all, Los Angeles – and I was riding the bus. If I didn’t get off the bus soon, I was going to hurl. I had a few blocks to go before I arrived at my destination, but decided to get off now and walk the rest of the way. I couldn’t take the stares any longer.

I knew that if was going to be back on a case that I had to be sober – so, before I passed out last night, I threw out all the bottles of alcohol I had in my apartment. When I woke up, I had forgotten all about what had transpired the night before and upon seeing all the empty bottles – went out to a nearby liquor store and restocked, then had myself a morning beer. It wasn’t until I received a text message from Ms. 45 that I realized the carelessness of my mistake and threw out my morning beer – but kept the bottles of scotch bourbon, whiskey & tequila for safe keeping until I could think of a better use for them at a later time. This was going to be harder than I thought. In retrospect, perhaps I should have taken Michael’s offer to enter rehab for my alcoholism – but alas, now I had to do this all on my own.

The text message I received, read: STARBUCKS. 10:30 AM. BE THERE! CALL U LATER. And, so, I complied.

Now, what I neglected to ask was – which Starbucks was I supposed to be at? Let’s hope I was being followed.

I arrived at Starbucks around 10:15 AM. My cell phone rang, I answered, “Hello?”

“You’re early. That’s good,” said Michael.

“Where are you?” I asked her.

“Hawthorne. Homicide. Sorry, I don’t have time to stop and chat over coffee,” she mockingly answered.

“How did you know I knew where to go?” I asked.

“I don’t. I’m good, but I’m not that good, sugar,” she flirted.

My mind wasn’t yet ready to process what was going on yet. I needed a drink. But I couldn’t let myself down!

“Text me the address, Sean, I’ll have our client meet you there. Grab a coffee and sober up,” she ordered.

“Okay, I’ll do that, Michael. Just give me a moment to collect my thoughts first,” I responded.

“Please, don’t fuck this up for us, Sean. This is a HUGE case that can change both our lives,” she said to me.

I hesitated, but had to ask, “What is our case?”

My question was met with ten seconds of dead silence, finally she answered me “Sharon Cabot was murdered.”

Sharon Cabot. Now, there was a name I hadn’t heard about in years. Former 1970s Playboy bunny turned actress. Once considered one of Hollywood’s brightest and most gifted upcoming young ingénues, she drifted into obscurity in the early 1980s, due to an almost two grand a day cocaine habit. In 1990, she married soft-porn film producer Roman Kowalski, who ended up producing a majority of the latter films she appeared in. Over their twenty year marriage, they’ve had their ups and downs – many of which have been super market, tabloid fodder for the masses. Everything from Roman secretly having six wives, which could have been true for all I knew – to Sharon giving birth to an alien love child, which of course, Roman disapproved of. Virtually nothing was known of their real life drama by the same blue hairs that read the gossip rags almost religiously – but having personally dealt with Roman on more than one occasion myself, I was privy to some pretty personal information about the both of them.

Sharon, well, her movie star mother abandoned her at age 17, due to her relationship with Hugh Hefner. Once Hugh grew tired of her, she became “arm candy” for a number of big name Hollywood actors in the 1970s. One night she met Warren Beatty, the next night it was Jack Nicholson – not long after, she meets Robert Evans who casts her in a bit role in “Chinatown” and soon after, her Hollywood career was well on its way. Her career, however, never really took off – most likely due to her ill-conceived decisions regarding the offers she accepted. By the end of the 1970s, she was best remembered for having starred in four adaptations of Jacqueline Susan novels. Not exactly a career milestone. Her life was marked by tragedy, not unlike a Marilyn Monroe – she was a “little girl lost” in a “big man’s world” as she viewed it. All she wanted was to be loved. Four of her pregnancies ended prematurely, a fifth ended in stillbirth – and her final “miracle” child drowned in 1994, in the pool of Roman & Sharon’s Hollywood Hills home, which once occupied silent film stars Mary Pickford & Douglas Fairbanks. The child was only three years old.

Roman had close ties with a number of big shot mafia syndicates in both Los Angeles and New York – and had been busted for trafficking on more than one occasion. It was also a well-known fact that he owed money to the Mongols after a drug deal gone badly left sixteen men dead – Kowalski was acquitted of all charges and or connections to the said incident. Perhaps it was only a coincidence that several members of the Hell’s Angels heavily guarded Roman any time he was seen in public thereafter, then? This case seemed pretty open and shut, to me. He killed her!

“How did it happen?” I asked her.

“Stabbed to death. Sixteen times,” she answered.

“Well, seems pretty obvious to me. Has Kowalski been charged yet?” I asked.

“Kowalski is gone. Fled the country,” she said.

“What?” I exclaimed.

“Cabot was murdered ten days ago, six days later Kowalski was arrested for unlawful sex with a minor. A day later, he posted one million dollars bail. Yesterday, he left for France. He’s not coming back,” she said irritably.

“Wow, I really got to start watching the news more often. Or at least read the papers,” I said to her.

“You see, Sean,” she said, “If I solve this case, I become the most high-profile detective working in Los Angeles – which would be a huge boost for this dying profession. If you help me, you’ll no longer be remembered as…”

“I’m going to stop you there, I get it,” I grunted.

“Go clear your head, throw up or do whatever it is you got to do – I’ll do the rest, got it?” she asked me.

“Yeah. Yeah, I do,” I said to her, unsure of myself.

“Good. I’ll call you later to swap information. Remember, Sean, I’m counting on you,” she told me.

“Goodbye, Michael,” I said to her.

“Goodbye,” she said to me as she hung up.

Counting on me? I can’t remember the last time anybody was counting on me. I was way in over my head here – I felt a panic attack coming on. Just remain calm, old boy, remember to keep composure. Too much is at stake for me to just inactively throw it all away. I ordered a tall mocha latte, sat down and waited for my client to arrive.

My first case back in almost four years – and it’s a murder. Outstanding, I thought to myself sarcastically.

Eleven o’clock AM. I get another text from Ms. 45. It read: CLIENT ON HER WAY. REDHEAD. PETITE. LATE TWENTIES. NICKY CABOT. SHARON’S DAUGHTER. GET READY! Sharon’s daughter?! Sharon didn’t have any children that lived. Was that some sort of stupid, smart phone mistake? Maybe she meant Sharon’s dog walker?

Just then, a pretty young woman who fit the description Michael had just given me walked through the door. I made my way over toward her, asked, “Are you Nicky Cabot?” When she shook her head, yes, I said, “Ms. 45 sent me.”

We sat down to discuss further business.

“So, are you, like, her assistant?” she asked me.

“Something like that. I’m a detective. Or, I was – and now am again,” I told her.

Suddenly, I was hit by a wicked dose of acid indigestion.

“Are you okay? You kind of look like you’re about to die,” she said.

“Yes, I’m fine, thank you. I’m just a little hung-over,” I explained to her.

“Are you sure you’re a detective?” she questioned me.

“Forgive me, Ms. Cabot, but I wasn’t aware that your mother had any children?” I said to her questioningly.

She shot me an ice-cold look, and said, “I was adopted.”

This was going well. “I’m sorry, Ms. Cabot, if I was being too forward. I had no idea,” I apologized.

“It’s okay. Not many people did. Roman thought it was a good idea for mother to move on after Miracle’s death. So, he adopted me from an Irish orphanage in 1996 when I was 13, my real parents died when I was very young. Fifteen years in this country, plus the help of a voice coach and I’ve learned to talk with virtually little accent these days. Roman had my last name legally changed to Cabot, as he had plans to turn me into a film star – and other plans as well,” her eyes looked down at the table and she became very silent for a moment, “Mother disapproved, so I was sent away to live with my adopted grandmother and uncle. But that didn’t stop mother from coming to visit me at least once a week and treating me as if I was her own. I loved my mother, mister, and I think she genuinely loved me and I know Roman resented her and I for that – but I don’t think he’s capable of murder – was he?” she questioned.

“There’s a lot about your stepfather you’re unaware of, Ms. Cabot,” I told her.

“Well, there’s a lot about my stepfather YOU’RE unaware of, too, Mr… what’s your name?” she asked me.

“My name is Sean, Ms. Cabot. Sean McQueen,” I replied.

“Sean McQueen? Are you, like, the grandson of Steve McQueen?” she asked.

“No. I was born Shawn Queen, but had my name legally changed to Sean McQueen because my agent thought it was more marketable. Sean with an EA instead of a HAW because of Sean Penn – and McQueen, well, yes, because of Steve McQueen. I’ve been going by that name for so many years now, I never thought to change it back,” I said.

“Wait a minute; your name sounds REALLY familiar to me. Were you the guy from that one show…” she asked.

Oh, Christ, here it comes, I thought to myself.

“What was the name of it? Brad & Bob, Bill & Bob, Bob & Blake,” she continued on.

“Blake & Bob,” I said to her, as I winced.

“I knew it! That is you! Wow! I can’t believe you’re a detective now. Christ, what happened to you?” she asked me.

You solve five Hollywood homicides in one year and no one notices. You commit to three seasons and one half-season of guest appearances on a stupid Nickelodeon sitcom from the 1990s and everybody remembers your name!

“I moved on, Ms. Cabot. About your case…” my poor attempt at changing the subject.

“But why?” she interrupted, “You were great, man! I mean, why didn’t you branch out into movies? Why are you a detective now? Shouldn’t you have, like, at least a cool million stashed away for safe keeping?” she asked.

I was getting annoyed. I hadn’t thought, let alone talked about any of this in years.

“No, Ms. Cabot. My parents gambled away all my earnings, so I legally emancipated myself from them. One year after ‘Blake & Bob’ was canceled; my parents were involved in a fatal car accident on Pico & Sepulveda. They both died instantly from their injuries. I never got the chance to reconcile with them – or at least, say, goodbye,” I said.

“I’m so sorry, Sean,” she said sensitively.

“As far as acting is concerned, in the late 1990s, early 2000s, if you weren’t built like Vin Diesel or looked like Tom Cruise, it was damn near impossible for guys like me to find any good roles. Oh, sure, I did get offers. I would get sent scripts for crappy direct to DVD or made for Disney channel movies, like, ‘Dex: The Talking Duck’ or ‘Diaper Baby: The Musical’ Those roles paid scale, and producers requesting me had me typecast under a specific category ‘Teenage Rick Moranis type’ The roles eventually dried up, and I got burnt out. I haven’t acted since,” I told her.

“Wow, that sucks, man,” she said. “Hey, what was that thing you always used to say on the show?”

I looked up at her pitifully, and answered, “Let me at ‘im! Let me at ‘im!”

She smiled, and shouted, “Yes!”

“Ms. Cabot, if any of this is at all helpful in allowing you to become more comfortable with me dealing with your case personally, then I’m glad this was of value today. But if not, can we please talk about your issue now?” I said.

“No, Sean, you are being very much of value to me right now. I haven’t smiled this much in weeks! I can’t fucking believe Blake from Blake & Bob is my goddamn detective! That’s hysterical!” she said while laughing riotously.

“Thanks, I think,” I said to her. “Do you have any other questions before we proceed?”

“Oh, just one more question. So, do you have any Hollywood actor friends?” she asked me.

“No. Wait. Just one,” I said to her.

“Who?” she excitedly asked me.

“Don Johnson. At least, I think so. He might be an alcoholic hallucination, honestly – because, sometimes he appears to me as an anthropomorphic, talking donkey that likes to talk about Miami Vice,” I explained to her.

She looked at me wide-eyed as her mouth hit the floor.

“Whoever it is, he’s a nice guy. Loves vodka. Knows a lot about Melanie Griffith,” I said to her.

“Are you sure you can handle this case, Mr. McQueen?” she asked me.

I was losing whatever little faith she may have had in me.

“Ms. Cabot, I can assure you that once I am on a case that I make it a rule to be completely of sound mind. That means, no monkey business, no hanky panky, no smoking, no slacking off and most of all NO ALCOHOL,” I said. “Believe me; I plan to treat your case with the utmost respect and importance. I am to remain attentive while acting completely objective and make note of all observations concerning this case with great focus and detachment.”

“Detachment?” she questioned.

“Ms. Cabot, this is my job – I must do it well and do what’s right should the moment present itself. There are no good guys or bad guys – only us guys. Everyone is suspicious until otherwise deemed honorable. I can't and will not allow myself to get emotionally attached to any suspect or client. I shouldn’t have said that last part,” I sighed.

“No, you’re right, Mr. McQueen. You’ve certainly mastered detachment,” she joked. “You’re hired.”

I hadn’t heard that being uttered in years. It felt great!

“Is there anything you would like to add, Mr. McQueen?” she asked.

“Yes. Will you be paying me in cash or check?” I asked her.

“Check. Oh, and I’m not the one paying for this – Grandma Cabot will be. She wants to know who murdered her baby girl just as much as I do. She’s sorry she couldn’t meet with you today herself, but you see, she has to stay home and take care of my uncle who just recently had knee surgery. I certainly hope that is acceptable,” she said.

“More than acceptable,” I said to her. “Excuse me, but did you say that Veronica Cabot is alive?”

“Yes, very much so, Mr. McQueen. Grandma Veronica lives in Silver Lake these days,” she told me.

“She did a film many, many years ago with Victor Mature. It was one of my favorites when I was a child, but for the life of me, I don’t seem to remember the name of it now. If it’s all right with you, Ms. Cabot, I’d very much like to meet your grandmother sometime soon – and ask her a few questions regarding the case, and her career,” I told her.

“I think that’s very appropriate, Mr. McQueen. Please, come over this Friday if you’d like?” she said to me.

“Indeed, I will,” I responded. “Indeed, I will.”

The Dumb Luck Detective. Chapter 1.

2011-11-28T23:39:00.000-08:00

The Dumb Luck Detective:
A Hard-Boiled Tribute

by

David Knieling

CHAPTER 1
In a Sentimental Mood

Quiet night. The barflies scamper back in and out from their cigarette breaks. Jenny, the bartender, laughs while flirting with Noel, my former AA sponsor, hoping to get earn a decent tip. Sappy music that I’ve heard playing at least six dozen times before blares over the jukebox. The name of the song? Couldn’t tell you. Wouldn’t know. Every time I get up to head over to the bathroom, the door is locked. A fly lands on the bar. It sits still for a good half-minute till someone lifts their glass up and scares it away, but not for too long. As it makes its way back to the bar it lands in the glass of one of the patrons. The man doesn’t notice the fly in his beer and proceeds to drink.

This is my life. This is my world. This is my job. The place I work. It wasn’t always like this.

“Sean, get back to work! No one is watching the door,” says Daryl, my boss and bar owner.

“Ain’t no one else coming in tonight, Daryl. I can watch it fine from here,” I answered.

“Well, how bout you watch it from home? Goodnight, Sean. Same time tomorrow,” he told me.

I gulp down the rest of my drink, set it down, and make my way out. “Have a good night, everybody.”

The streets of L.A. are a wild bunch. Some better than others, some much, much worse – you pick and choose carefully which ones you’re going to walk down week for week, day for day. Eventually, walking down any mean street becomes second nature to even the most frightened individual – which I am. I hate riding the bus home, but I don’t have a choice. I haven’t driven a car in almost four years, let alone ridden in one. I couldn’t even so much as attempt to comprehend doing so these days. There was a time when I thought to get my life straightened out, but thoughts such as those are fleeting, and often make me nervous – nervous about the change it would bring about.

Change isn’t always good. Just ask any man or woman who has died trying to bring about change. What good did it bring them other than death? The man who wanted to change up his routine by having a hot dog before work, only to drop dead of a heart attack hours later – or the woman who wanted to put a stop to her husband’s cheating by confronting him, only to be shot dead in a fit of rage by a jealous mistress. How is any of that fair? Life is not fair. Neither is change, or asking anybody to change who they are and what they represent – even if it’s without merit.

Let the dumb continue to be dumb. Let the vain continue to be vain. Let the spoiled continue to be spoiled. And allow me the freedom to continue to be a basket case in peace. It’s all I’ve ever really wanted, I think.

The bus dropped me off on my route around 10:30 PM. I’m usually off work around 2 AM, but since business has been significantly slower, I’ve been gradually getting home earlier and earlier over the last two months. Pretty soon, I won’t even be able to make rent. Daryl and I went to school together. After my “accident” he was one of the few people who continued to talk to me afterward. That and he was also one of the few people left I still trusted.

He hired me to work at his bar, first as a bartender, but that didn’t go over so well – so he hired me once more a couple years back, this time as a doorman. Now, it’s an unwritten rule that most doormen or security guards in front of bars and clubs tend to fit a physical height and weight requirement of about six foot two, two hundred and twenty lbs. In other words, the average sizes of an ideal NFL quarterback. Myself, I stand about five foot nine, and weigh around one hundred and seventy five lbs. An NFL cornerback perhaps, but not at all physically imposing.

It’s good to have friends in mid-to-high level places, because without this job, I would have no means of prosperity, nor would I have any reason to ever to leave my apartment – which I only do for work and sustenance these days.

My apartment sits atop of what was once an old-fashioned movie house built in the 1920s. Nowadays, the building is rundown and no longer used for showcasing films. These days, it’s the home for a Mom & Pop produce business run by a charming, elderly Chinese couple who speak very little English, but are nice enough to offer me a free mango each and every week when I come in shopping for fruit. Whether or not this is a friendly gesture on their part or they just have an overabundance of mangoes every week, I do not know. Still, though, I find it sweet of them to do so. They knew nothing of the building’s former glory, till one day, tucked away in one of the closets they came across about ten or so classic movie posters, which they also warmly offered to me when they saw the look on my face upon viewing them. Once again, whether or not they offered these to me as a gift because they were in such bad condition to begin with – I am not sure, but much like the mangoes, I was touched by their neighborly gesture.

When I was a kid, growing up in the late eighties, the theater was used to showcase adult films – but that didn’t stop my father from driving me out to Hollywood every Sunday, buy ice cream for the both of us, pistachio for me & black cherry for him – and sitting across the street from the theater while telling me all about all the old classics he used to watch there with his father, mother, uncle or friends. I loved listening to him talk about the films he watched there, every single one of them. But my favorites were always the stories about the detective films he watched.

It was because of those lazy Sundays with my father, that I grew up idolizing all the great film and literature detectives, from Bogart to Mitchum to Clift to Sherlock to Sam Spade and back to Marlowe himself via the printed words of Raymond Chandler. It wasn’t till about a month after I had graduated from college, and was offered an opportunity I had only once ever dreamed of before – that I realized how dull the life of a private detective really is.

As if the bumpy bus ride back to Hollywood from Los Angeles wasn’t bad enough, now I had to walk six blocks back to my apartment. Six blocks of derelicts, drunks and drug addicts – each and every one of them asking for a handout. This was once a very beautiful city, now it reeked of the proverbial open-air sewer it had truly become.

I walked into my apartment around 10:50 PM. Now, the funny thing about being followed is – a person doesn’t realize they’re being followed if you get to their destination before them. The average person will be followed at least sixty five times in their lifetime. However, it’s one thing to follow a person to work or to a coffee shop – it’s another thing to enter their home without permission. A quick scan of the place, nothing is missing – but there are a few picture frames no longer in their correct place. My lack of dusting and obsessive compulsiveness noticed that.

“Hello, Sean,” a husky-voiced woman uttered.

I darted toward my bedroom to grab the revolver I kept in my bedside table, but was promptly punched in the face. When I woke up, a six-foot tall Amazonian goddess with golden blonde hair was pointing a weapon at my head.

“Feeling better?” she asked.

I sneered, and let out a quick sigh, as I shook my head and responded, “So nice to see you again, Miss 45.”

“Sean, you’re one of my oldest acquaintances – call me by my given name, please,” she said to me.

“Okay, Michael.” I responded.

Michael Friday. Daughter of former Police Chief Joseph Friday, who always wanted a boy – and boy, did he get more than he ever bargained for? With a name like “Joe” Friday, he was born to be a cop – and he made sure he taught his daughter, and only child, everything he knew. When Joe retired back in 2001, he passed the mantle of police officer onto his daughter when she joined the force – but she soon grew bored and branched out on her own, becoming a licensed private detective – and these days, his girl, Friday, is known to her clients only as “Ms. 45.”

“How did you find me?” I asked her.

“Stupid question, Sean, I am a detective,” she responded.

“That’s why I’ll ask again, how did you find me?” I demanded to know.

“The truth is, I went down to that bar you work at earlier today, and Daryl told me where you live,” she said.

It’s nice to know you can always count on your co-workers to give away private information, I thought to myself.

“Why are you looking for me?” I asked her curiously.

She helped me up off the floor; her green eyes stared directly into mine and said, “I have a proposition for you.”

“Still got a thing for me after all these years, I see.” I joked.

“Oh, please, don’t flatter yourself, Sean. You’re still every bit the runty, little puppy you used to be,” she said.

“Puppy, eh? Well, at least you think I’m cute. So, it’s business you’re after, then?” I asked.

She nodded her head in a “yes” motion, while she glared at me infuriatingly.

“Well, then, I’m going to need a drink,” I said to her as I made my way over to my liquor cabinet.

“Before we proceed, I have to know, Sean, when was the last time you worked on a case?” she asked.

“Well, I worked on a case of Pacifico last night – but that’s probably all gone by now. Bourbon?” I asked her.

“I’ll pass,” she murmured, as her tone grew increasingly annoyed.

“…and I’ll fumble, once more, with my attempt at seduction.
I hope you don’t mind if I drink --- heavily, because I’m still going to do it regardless,” I said to her.

“Gee, Sean, why’d you ever leave the investigation game? After all, you’re still such a dick!” she snarled.

I poured myself a high ball of bourbon, gulped it down, poured myself another and sat down.

“Okay, why are you really here, Michael?” I asked her.

“I want you to work on a case – for me,” she said sincerely.

I gulped down my bourbon, sat it down on the table and flatly responded, “No.”

“Why did you stop, Sean?” she asked me.

“I don’t know. I just couldn’t do it anymore. I can’t. I’m sorry,” I told her genuinely.

“I know you are, Sean. Daryl told me you had some sort of accident?” she questioned.

“Oh, that,” I laughed. “The truth is, there never was an accident. The only accident there ever was – was me, becoming a detective in the first place. It’s been almost four years now, and I don’t miss it at all.”

“Did you just stop caring?” she asked me.

I paused, thought about it, sized her up a bit, to make sure she wasn’t trying to pull a fast one on me and answered her justifiably, “It just became way too much for me, man. The cases, they stayed with me. It’s one thing to worry about some philandering husband or wife finding out you’re staking them out or taking incriminating photos of them – but it’s another when some guy who’s been charged for murder threatens to blow up your car, or kill the people you love – or send some thugs over to your house and kill you. Constantly having to look behind my back took a major toll on my mental health – eventually, my physical health began to decline as well. So, gradually, I started only investigating simpler cases. But even those got to me as well. I thought to myself, why is there so much evil and backstabbing going on amongst the people in this town? I took a break. I missed one opportunity for a case involving kidnap during my leave of absence – and a child died. That, I suppose, was an accident, and it got to me. Soon after, I just stopped answering messages, emails, phone calls regarding cases from different people – and never looked back. Eventually, I quit the game entirely, sought out professional help, and was soon after diagnosed with having, from A to Z, just about every type of phobia there is starting with Agoraphobia and ending at Zoophobia.”

“Sean, I understand this is hard for you – but I need your help,” she said to me.

“Why me?” I asked her.

“Because, this case involves Hollywood actors – and I can’t stand them! But, because of your background, you were always really good at dealing with them. Dare I say, one of the best – if not the best I had ever seen,” she said to me.

I just sat there with my hands on my head, slowly stroking my hair back and forth with my left hand, while rubbing my right side temple with my other hand. I couldn’t believe what I was hearing. The thought of even considering going back to do another detective case was giving me major anxiety. I felt nauseous and was sweating profusely. Usually something that occurs quite often with me, but this time it wasn’t alcohol induced. I was going to be sick.

“I seem to recall you once referring to me as an ‘Inept, Acting Detective’ a few years ago,” I said to her.

“Look, Sean, you don’t have to answer me now – but I know you could really use the money right now, and I can pay you! This is a really big case, Sean. The client, she’s offering me fifty thousand dollars to solve her case. I’ll give you twenty thousand dollars of that cut if you can help me solve it. Ten thousand dollars now, the other half once the job is done. All you have to do is talk to some people, ask some questions and relay their answers back to me – and I’ll do the rest, I swear. I’ll even pay for whatever rehab or counseling you might need myself,” she said.

This was happening way too fast. I needed my pills to calm my nerves, but had been drinking all night. The last time I mixed my pills with alcohol, I slept for two full days – and worried that if I ever did that again, there might be a good chance I wouldn’t wake up ever again. This was a big decision. I really did need that money. I’d be able to get by on rent for a while, plus could finally afford to buy myself a car – which would mean I’d have to teach myself how to drive all over again – but I was worrying myself over another bridge I had yet to even cross, so focused my attention once more to Ms. 45’s proposition. Was she being legit with me? What was her real reasoning for choosing me? Did it matter? As she sat there on my couch awaiting an answer from me, I noticed her skirt was riding up high enough to expose her luxuriously, luscious thighs. I stared at them for a long, hard seven seconds – thinking to myself, one of these days, I really got to “get down” on Friday, till she noticed me staring, pulled her skirt down, nervously blushed and sat up off my couch. She left me her business card, as she made her way toward the door.

“I need a cigarette, and you need a cold shower. I’ll be waiting for your decision soon, Sean,” she told me.

“Wait,” I shouted out to her before she could leave.

I couldn’t believe what I was doing, what I was about to say. I don’t know if it was because of the money. I don’t know if it’s because she asked me nicely. Maybe it just felt good to be needed again? But I did know, for four years now, I hadn’t done shit with my life. Here I was, with a gorgeous woman offering me a chance at a real case again, I knew opportunities like this don’t come knocking on the door every day – I had to take a chance again. So, I did…

“I’ll take your case, but you keep your rehab,” I said to her.

“Very well, Mr. McQueen. Get some rest, and sober up. I’ll call you with further details tomorrow,” she said.

“Thank you, Michael,” I said to her genuinely.

“It’s good to have you back, Sean,” she smiled alluringly as she slinked her way out of my apartment.

For years, I laughed and joked about what has become of me, as those around me winced in discomfort at my shocking honesty. Then, I cried each and every time I poured my emotions in a bottle and drank away whatever remnants I once had that resemble sanity. Now, there is to be no laughing, there is to be no crying. I had a job to do.

I owe it to myself to do it well.

For Whom The Bell Tolls

2011-10-13T00:01:00.000-07:00

Staring directly at a blank word document for over half an hour, I realized something - writer's block had found itself another hapless victim. So I asked myself, What would Hemingway do? Before too long, the words fluttered off the tip of my tongue, "Sun Valley, Idaho." Of course! It's where Hemingway got a lot of his best work done. I'd go there and do everything he did. I'd relax, drink, fish, read, write, shoot mysel..... Oh shit! Abort! Abort! Sigh, well, back to staring blankly at this word document.

Goodnight, America, wherever you are...

Send Me An Angel

2011-10-11T00:01:00.000-07:00

I could never own a gun. At least nine times a day I'd consider using it on myself - and at least ninety times a day I'd consider using it on others. To me, that's gun control!

Goodnight, America, wherever you are...

The More You Ignore Me

2011-09-27T00:01:00.000-07:00

Things I'm proud of this year: 1) Talking a complete stranger out of committing suicide; 2) Punching some idiot in the throat on St. Patrick's Day while at the Anarchy Library.

It's been a slow year, I guess.

Goodnight, America, wherever you are...

Everything Is Not Yet Lost

2011-09-23T00:16:00.000-07:00

The longest walk, ever - on what was easily turning into the longest day ever. Why did it happen? My thoughts drifted back and forth on year's past. A friend of a friend of a friend of a friend of a friend turns out to be an enemy. I remember not sleeping at all.

Unkempt, unshaven & absolutely filthy, I went to work. For nine hours, I sat there. I still had egg smell on my hands from the clean up duty earlier that morning.

Years later, I can admit it - it was my fault. I was too passive - still am. I had a great girl who wanted to be with me - and I blew it. Why had this thought come to mind?

I needed a cigarette, but I was running low. "Fuck it," I thought to myself, and lit up anyway. As I ingested that puff of smoke ever so slowly, I thought about venting my frustration by beating up some scenester kid along the strip and calling it a night.

But my plans must not have been meant to be, as my friend turned around, looked up at me, pointed to his GPS system and said, "The bar should be two blocks that way."

Why was I such good friends with this man? For that matter, why was I always closer to those so different than others? Well, for starters, they're smart. I liked that. Notice the pattern? Now, look at your life, who are the type of people you hang out with?

When we got to the bar, it reeked of severe fart smell. "Whatever," I thought to myself - "at least Sportscenter is on." I'll be off my feet for a bit, order a few beers, and drink off the long walk I just endured - and no doubt long walk I'll have endure again trying to find our way back home. My mind began to wander on once more. One such thought popped into my head, was, "Where are all the single women at?" Judging from all the other desperate looking men here that night, I wasn't alone in that way of thought.

We Envy the Angels

2011-09-19T00:01:00.000-07:00

No, lady, I think you misunderstood me. I did not say I was the Sid Vicious of the group, what I said was, "I am the Syd Barrett of the group." Do not misquote me!

Goodnight, America, wherever you are...

Red Right Hand

2011-09-16T00:01:00.000-07:00

To any woman who has ever accused me of being incapable of being faithful, I have always said, "Talk to the (right) hand." Because, that, my friend, no matter which way you try to argue it - IS NOT CHEATING! So, with that being said, I rest my case.

Goodnight, America, wherever you are...

Thug Life

2011-09-15T00:01:00.000-07:00

Wow, the dad from Malcolm in the Middle sure has come a long way and become quite the accomplished actor. All he had to do was shave his head bald, stand around in his underwear while a meth lab explodes in the background as he shrugs and makes a "What? Me? Worry?" Alfred E. Newman expression. What a revelation!

Goodnight, America, wherever you are...

On The Air

2011-09-07T00:01:00.000-07:00

I had fish for dinner. Do you know how much it cost? A scale!

Brave little fish. Boy, it had guts!

His name was Gil.

Goodnight, America, wherever you are...

Tie 'Em Up, Tie 'Em Down

2011-09-01T00:01:00.000-07:00

Ever accidentally choke a woman out while f**king her because she forgot the safety word? Not that I have (and enjoyed it), I'm just making pleasant small talk, you sicko!

Goodnight, America, wherever you are...

Same As It Ever Was

2011-08-30T00:01:00.000-07:00

There are many philosophical questions we all ask ourselves during the course of a day, let alone our lifetime. Questions, such as: Who is she? Where am I? How did I get here? Where the hell are my pants? And, why is there an autographed photo of Jerry Lewis on the wall? If we're lucky, one of these questions will be answered.

Goodnight, America, wherever you are...

Pico & Sepulvada

2011-08-26T00:01:00.000-07:00

I've never been a big fan of superfluous cosmetic surgery. It makes once gorgeous looking women with tiny flaws look like odd-looking transgendered men with big flaws.

Goodnight, America, wherever you are...

Burn

2011-08-25T00:01:00.000-07:00

They say it only takes one small spark to start up a forest fire. If that were true, then why the f**k does it take so damn long to get a camp fire going, huh? Smokers of the world unite - and flick your cigarettes into one giant fire pit! By Smokey the Bear's logic, we should all have a nice A-bomb to keep us warm. Okay, I'm done.

Goodnight, America, wherever you are...

L'Hippopodame

2011-08-23T01:42:00.000-07:00

Seems like all I have to do in order to fix my FIOS internet connection (overpriced DSL) is yell at it for an hour and a half. F**k you, Verizon! Thank you, Mr. Gainsbourg!

Goodnight, America, wherever you are...

War March of the Priests

2011-08-08T19:00:00.000-07:00

My life? My life is, like, waking up one morning after being imprisoned for many, many years. At first, you're happy to be out - and content with what you have. Each morning, you tell yourself, "Every day is better than the last, because each day is one day further away from my darkest days." However, after two years or more of saying this to yourself each morning, you find yourself longing for those imaginary bars that you've created, begging to be locked back in. Because, even prison would be something different - something new - it wouldn't the same thing day in and day out...

The times, they are a-changing. The animal wants out...

It is time to unleash the animal within.

Soon, very soon.

Beautiful Failure

2011-07-11T19:55:00.000-07:00

My friends, I have tried and failed. But, I did try - and will try again. You can't keep a good man down; I've come too far to simply give up. However, for now, I need to reevaluate what is TRULY important to me. To the select few who know what I am referring to, "Thanks for your support." To the rest of you who have no idea what the f**k I'm rambling on about, just nod your head and say, "Okay, good luck." Thank you.

Goodnight, America, wherever you are...

In The Air Tonight

2011-06-19T20:14:00.000-07:00

So, what have I learned this weekend? As I was attempting to console my heartbroken friend the other night, I said to him, "Remember, 'tis better to have loved and lost - than to have farted all over a bunch of High School girls." By the way, true story, as I was exiting a movie theater last night, yes, I let out (and not a one-cheek sneak either, but) an obnoxiously loud fart that sailed into the direction of a bunch of teenage girls leaving the theater around the same time, followed by one of them shouting, "OMG!?!". This reaction of course produced huge, uproarious laughter from all those around who saw and heard this spectacle. Normally, I would be apologetic & genuinely embarrassed afterward. However, honestly, THAT WAS FUNNY AS HELL!

Goodnight, America, wherever you are...

S.F.W.

2011-06-13T00:00:00.000-07:00

In retrospect, perhaps I shouldn't have referred to that gorgeous Methodist girl as a "meth head" the other night. Not that I was being malicious, I was simply trying to think up a clever nickname for someone who was so enthusiast about their religion (while heavily under the influence of alcohol). Now, I know better! Speaking of which, it seems as though the phrase "taking my talents to South Beach" will now forever be remembered as a funny euphemism for taking a crap. Now you know, Lebron James!

Goodnight, America, wherever you are...

Everything to Everyone

2011-06-09T00:01:00.000-07:00

A friend of mine, nice guy, not the brightest, but not dumb either - he recently asked me if Socialism was what the Nazis and Hitler believed in. He asked me sincerely. Politically, he's a fairly liberal minded guy. I corrected him, and told him that although the Nazis identified themselves as "National Socialists" they were probably the furthest thing from that - and that what he was thinking of was Fascism or quite possibly Eugenics. Now, this made me realize something - if he is on the left-side politically and believed Socialism to be something the Nazis preached - what the hell do all the misinformed masses to the right-side really believe Socialism to be?

This thought sent me into a tailspin of vigorous depression - for there is far too much ignorance in this world and very little understanding & compassion when it comes to others ideologies and events in their lives that have lead them down such a path.

The thought scared me so much, that I couldn't help but wonder whether or not I will still be living in the United States in another five years. If I had the money, I'd leave.

Goodnight, America, wherever you are... ...you're very selfish and too well-fed.

Me & My Arrow

2011-06-08T00:11:00.000-07:00

I remember when my Grandfather Knieling passed away quite vividly. I was about four years old. I had just finished watching an episode of The Smurfs. I went outside and started acting out what I had just seen and heard in the episode. My Grandmother asked me, "David, have you seen your Grandpa?" I proceeded to answer back in character from what I saw on TV. My Grandmother, most likely dismissing it as "kid's talk" let me be and continued on. An hour later, after a lot of bad noise erupting from inside the house - my Grandmother walked outside, and told me, "Grandpa died."

Being only four years old, I didn't fully comprehend this - and continued to play. Later that night, as my Dad dropped me off at home - he explained to my Mom, tearfully, that his Dad (my Grandfather) had passed away. She comforted him (this was only a few short years after they had divorced) as best she could, and when he finally composed himself and went home, I remember asking my Mom, "Dad was crying?"

He was carrying me around and hugging me closely while he was talking to my Mom, and I remember feeling his tears on the back of my neck - I had never seen my Dad cry before. She kissed my cheek, picked me up and said, "Yes, Daddy was crying."

About a week later, I have been told that I was heard saying the words, "Hi, Grandpa!" from my Grandparent's bedroom. Whether or not I was actually responding to my deceased Grandfather remains highly skeptical, because being a child, it's quite possible I was only playfully "kidding" around. However, for my Mother and many others in the Knieling family - it was a nice, friendly sign from my Grandfather to me (and the rest of the family), letting everyone know he was all right and that everything was going to be okay. Quite frankly, that's the way I'd like to remember it too.

From what I remember growing up, life was always so much slower paced at the Knieling house in Norwalk - compared to that of the generally rush-rush nature of the Ramos household (also in the same city). From a certain perspective, even though I haven't visited that side of the family in years, it still feels very much the same to me after all these years. I often wonder what my life would have been like today if I had grew up living with my Grandma Knieling rather than my Grandma Ramos.

Would things be all that different from how they are now? My ideology and outlook on life would most certainly be different. However, is that a good thing or bad thing? Maybe my Dad would have stuck around to raise me? Maybe he would have left sooner? Maybe Jim (my uncle Jim committed suicide in 2005) would still be alive?

All dust in the wind now, I suppose. I'll always remember that big backyard, neatly cut front-yard. The freedom of security of being able to play in the street until dusk. Truly, that house, on that block - was a picture straight out of the late '50s to early '60s stretched out and over into my memories of what it was like growing up in the late '80s and early '90s. It was all a part of my childhood - and I'll never forget any of it.

Goodnight, America, wherever you are...

Life in Reverse

2011-06-01T00:05:00.000-07:00

The romanticized notion of a writer being a glamorous and noble profession is a rather misinterpreted myth. It's a very lonely job, with no audience to play off of - only your own imagination to keep yourself from going insane. Perhaps, if this was the 1920s and the writer in question was F. Scott Fitzgerald, being a writer would most definitely be a "groovy" job. In my humble opinion, Theater monologue is where the thrill is at.

Welcome to June, folks.

Goodnight, America, wherever you are...

This Isn't It

2011-05-21T01:07:00.000-07:00

First and foremost, I could probably dedicate an entire blog post entry to the memory of "Macho Man" Randy Savage - but I'll save that for another time. Just know, that he will forever be one of my childhood heroes (I even had the Randy Savage wrestling buddy) alongside other WWF stars like Hulk Hogan & "Rowdy" Roddy Piper.

Anyway, there's a lot to discuss here - for starters, last night at around 9 or 10 PM I started experiencing moderate (severely annoying) throbbing pains on the side of my right temple; about an hour later, my entire left arm went numb. Now, having experienced the sensation of a sudden heart attack, I got scared to say the least. I have never had a stroke and wouldn't know at all how it feels and how long it's supposed to last. In this case, it lasted a few hours - so I took a Bayer aspirin around 1 AM and attempted to go to bed. Suffice to say, sleep was difficult - as I am also suffering from flu-like symptoms at the moment as well, I was afraid I was going to end up being one of "those kind of" deaths. I wasn't one bit amused by any of this.

So, finally, after about an hour or two of sleep at about 9 AM this morning (Friday), the numbness in my left arm subsided (perhaps I slept on it wrong and all the blood circulation in my body, including that to my head got f**ked up?). So, no longer fearful of a stroke - I proceeded to take some cold medicine to cure my flu and fell asleep.

However, the story does not end here - for now, I was about to have the first of many strange dreams, that often times felt more like a Native American vision quest at times. I won't go into all of them, although, I remember most of them vividly (which is rare for me these days) - the best being one where I told off the cashier of a restaurant that was attempting to rip me off - because the scenario played out so true to life - and another one about me on a job interview (where everybody already knew my name before I said a word) just struck me as incredibly bizarre and altogether intriguing.

That being said, the one that I want to write about is not an actual "dream" but a memory from yesterday's past that ties in so well and well-timed, that it reminds me of just how amazing our minds really are capable of being at times one would least expect. The reminder I needed, that all matter is merely energy condensed to a slow vibration - that we all are one consciousness experiencing itself subjectively. There is no such thing as death (take that Rapture!), life is only a dream, and we're the imagination of ourselves (too far?)! Ladies & Gentlemen, I had a wrestling flashback...

As I laid there dreaming, I had a play by play recollection of a memory from my childhood - of going to the bank with my aunt, with a WWF magazine in my hand. I couldn't have been more than 7 or 8 years old, and the security guard stops me - sees what I have in my hand, and says, "What do you got there?" I hand him the magazine to show him - and he smiles and says, "You like this, too?" I smiled back at him as we looked through that magazine while my aunt waited in line at the bank - and I conversed with that security guard about all things wrestling - and then, wouldn't you know it, some guy walked in with his girlfriend, saw what we were looking at - and shouted, "Ooh, awesome!" and soon, he too, was looking through that magazine with us, laughing, conversing and shooting the shizz about all things wrestling.

Folks, this was one of my earliest memories of bonding (ever). There have been earlier ones, but all my favorite early ones that I can remember where in some way related to wrestling. Why I decided to dream this old scenario up this morning, I don't know. But, as I woke up around 2 PM, Friday afternoon, still a little drowsy from the cold medicine and the shock of narrowly avoiding a stroke - I logged online, and saw the first story posted was, "Macho Man Randy Savage is dead." My jaw hit the ground.

I was devastated. Made me forget everything that had happened the night before - except for that old wrestling memory I dreamed about - that's been on my mind all day long. So strange, yet so rightfully timed. Someone, something knew. Anyway, just thought I'd share that with y'all - as I thought it was indeed worth jotting down.

I'll probably set up an appointment with my doctor next week to make sure I'm not on the verge of suffering a stroke - I think it's probably just bad circulation. I don't really think it has anything to do with my Spondylitis; but only one way to truly find out. So I'll take care of it as soon as I can. For now, one Bayer aspirin per night for a while.

On a side note, I think I'm falling in love with Annie Hardy of Giant Drag. Sexy voice!

Goodnight, America, wherever you are...

Brand New Key

2011-05-19T08:17:00.000-07:00

Ten months ago, a gorgeous young woman propositioned me - and I turned her down. We all got our reasons, and I had mine. Yesterday, I felt vindicated, as she came into the shop - nine months pregnant (glad I'm not the father). However, having passed a kidney stone before (the closest a man will ever come to knowing what it's like to give birth), it did make me reevaluate what it is EXACTLY women want. What women want is: understanding, mutual respect - and when the time comes, a damn good epidural!

Good morning, America, wherever you are...

Bored to Death

2011-05-15T04:17:00.000-07:00

Charles Bukowski spent over twenty years of his life working at the Post Office as a mail sorter before finally finding a publisher willing to produce his work. I have spent only six years at Cocoon. I will continue to wait patiently for as long as it takes.

Goodnight, America, wherever you are...

Mother by Danzig as sung by Bob Dylan

2011-05-13T17:29:00.000-07:00

Mad About You

2011-05-05T00:01:00.000-07:00

There was an old episode of Mad About You (yes, Mad About You - I used to enjoy watching that show a lot!) that involved the main character, Paul, unintentionally saying something insensitive about one of his friends during a road trip - thus getting stranded by that friend, only to have to explain his reason for being stranded to the locals - who all of course took the side of the friend. With him, on his road trip, was also his cousin and best friend, Ira. Now, Ira, was busy getting "acquainted" with a few of the local ladies (who of course were all also equally repulsed by Paul after word had spread about his story) - Ira decides to cheer up Paul by asking if anyone knows any good jokes (to lighten the tension.) One of the ladies raises her hand...

"What do you call a dog with one leg? Doesn't matter, it's not going to come anyway!"

Everybody laughs, except for Paul - who realizes the joke doesn't make sense, or was told incorrectly - and kindly corrects her by saying, "You would be able to hear a dog with one leg coming - however, a dog with no legs wouldn't come over to you."

How is any of this relevant, you ask?

Her response was, "A dog with no legs? How sad!"

BOOM! Right there, at that moment, I knew exactly how it felt to be Paul!

My question, what causes such a select reaction from a person? Clearly, she wasn't disgusted at the idea of a one legged dog - but a dog with no legs? Forget about it!

Is it because of the person - or genuinely because of what the person has said?

That, ladies and gentlemen, is what I'm going to allow you to ponder over tonight.

Goodnight, America, wherever you are...

MOLEEDS

2011-05-03T00:29:00.000-07:00

About a week ago, SETI shut down. For those of you unaware of what SETI stands for, let me tell you - The Search for Extra-Terrestrial Intelligence. Already, some of you are thinking - what a waste. Well, you're wrong. You're wrong for all the same reasons one would tell me that I am wrong for being a major skeptic and question the existence of God. "What reason might that be?" you might ask. The best, HOPE.

You have never seen God, but you believe there is one - why couldn't these same people who believe so strongly in an otherworldly existence believe in something such as extra-terrestrial life? There's no signs of intelligent life here on Earth, but I still keep faith in humanity. Therefore, shouldn't someone of higher faith believe in ET?

Here's my theory, not a very popular one, but hear me out...

I call it, "The Lonely God Theory."

If there is a God, IT must be the loneliest being in our Galaxy. Think about it. God is always having to listen to billions of prayers, often times - all at once. Plus, it's always people asking for help, get cured of an illness, make them thinner & prettier - and when these prayers aren't answered, it's always people cursing God's name.

It must be so lonely to be God. All by himself/herself, doing their best to help EVERYONE in need. Really stop to picture that for a minute, see if you really can.

So, the next time you're praying, instead of asking for a raise or salvation from your miserable existence - how about you just say, "Hey, God, what's up? How are you doing? How are you feeling? If you ever need to talk, I'm right here on Earth."

Goodnight, America, wherever you are...

The Man Who Mistook His Wife for a Hat

2011-05-02T00:01:00.000-07:00

The thing about conspiracy theories is - most of them are just theories, plain and simple. Yeah, Bin Laden is dead. Let's move on. Took our last administration two TERMS to hunt and kill him unsuccessfully - took our current administration two YEARS to hunt and kill him. This much we do know. In the words of a rather famous theorist, in his own right, "DUH, WINNING!" Good job, guys. I tip my hat to you today. Now, let's allow our current president to start focusing on the issues that REALLY matter, rather than questioning whether or not he was born here. I do, however, have just one question - when it comes right down to it, why is it always about 9/11? I mean, now that Bin Laden is dead, does this mean the theories will stop? Does this mean, I could finally start asking questions regarding what actually happened to Kennedy without being accused of being a "socialist commie"? Yeah, I didn't think so.

Welcome to May, folks.

Goodnight, America, wherever you are...

Brief Interviews with Hideous Men

2011-04-30T00:01:00.000-07:00

Inspired by Harry Nilsson

2011-04-25T00:33:00.000-07:00

Well, in 1981 - a happy father had a son
And by 1984, the father walks right out the door
And in '85, the mom and son were still alive
But who can tell in '86 if the two were to survive?

Well, the years were passing quickly, but not fast enough for him
So, he closed his eyes through '95 then he opened them up again
When he looked around, he saw a clown, and they both began to play
And he left that night to join that circus clown - and run away

Well, he followed every railroad track and every highway sign
And he had a girl in each new town and the towns he left behind
And the open road was the only road he ever knew
But the colors of his dreams were slowly turning into blue

Then, he met a girl, the kind of girl he wanted all his life
She was soft & kind and good to him - so he took her for his wife
And they got a house, not far from town, and in a little while...
The girl had seen the doctor and she came home with a smile

Now in 2001, a happy father had a son
And by 2004, the father walks right out the door
And in '05, the mom and son were still around
But what will happen to that boy when the circus comes to town?

Purple & Gold, For Life!

2011-04-21T00:01:00.000-07:00

1991, I still remember the day Michael Jordan and his Chicago Bulls defeated Magic Johnson and my beloved Los Angeles Lakers in Game 5 of the NBA Finals. That day, I learned the true definition of words, like: rivalry, villain, bul**hit & bandwagon. Through the Del Harris coached Nick Van Exel/Elden Campbell years onto the Shaquille O'Neal/Kobe Bryant years - I stuck by the Lakers, through thick and thin. I remember the three-peat very well; being a plucky young kid (with the soul of a poet & heart of a champion) who immersed himself in the sweet taste of all their victories. And, in my heart of hearts, I still track the remnants of those cherished memories wherever I go, in my endless ride into the setting sun. Go Lakers! F**k all haters!

Gold Dust Woman

2011-04-20T00:02:00.000-07:00

I'm a bit obsessive when it comes to reading about the suicides of comedian Richard Jeni and monologuist Spalding Gray. Mr. Gray in particularly, simply because he is a major source of inspiration in my own work. Both cases, nonetheless, are equally sad.

I think, this is my first blog on the subject of death in a long, long time (not a bad thing). But, in keeping up with the theme (and name) of this blog, perhaps it is time.

In my early teenage years, I became fascinated with the films of Bertrand Blier. In particular, two of his films stand out in my memory. Going Places, starring Gerard Depardieu and another stupendous young actor by the name of Patrick Dewaere (more on him later). They went on to star in another film together, also directed by Blier, which has also stayed alive in my memory after all these years - Get Out Your Handkerchiefs. The reason any of this is relevant at all, is because, actor Patrick Dewaere - also committed suicide. Why am I so obsessed with troubled individuals?

It's something I've been trying to figure out for years, and am still not quite sure. Dewaere was an amazing actor with unlimited potential to only get better as he got older, but had a tendency to portray loners and losers who suffered from depression. Perhaps, the roles (similar to what happened to Heath Ledger) finally caught up and got the best of him. Richard Jeni was an underrated comic who perhaps felt he would never reach maximum potential due to society's LCD syndrome. He also suffered from schizophrenia. Finally, there's Spalding Gray. The last few years of his life must have been a living hell after suffering many atrocious injuries attributed to a car accident near the end of his life. Already a man who normally suffered from depression - on the brink of madness due to not being able to share his gift of words with the world.

At any rate, all three of these individuals are worthy of praise and remembrance. I encourage all who read this to seek out the works of Spalding Gray, Patrick Dewaere and Richard Jeni and learn more of their genius. They're gone, but not forgotten.

A Better Tomorrow

2011-04-18T01:00:00.000-07:00

You know, believe it or not, even more so than my desire and hopes to one day become a successful writer - I really, really wish to one day own my own movie theater. And, right next to that movie theater, to the left or to the right of it - doesn't really matter - I would also own a video store. I'd show mostly independent, art and foreign films of all kinds during the week - then, on the weekends, I would showcase a collection of some of my favorite weird cult films, special interest movies, short films, silents films and in majority, play a lot of movies that don't often get a chance to find an audience (including showing films by new and upcoming writer/directors). Plus, after people are done watching these movies at the theater - they can check out the video store and consider buying some of these movies I would showcase. Because, it's really hard to find some of the more obscure titles in most places.

Sure, I'll always be a writer, first and foremost, and even make an attempt to do some legitimate filming of projects of my own - but, I can really picture myself being a business owner in a venture I know I would strive in and absolutely love and adore.

Anyways, food for thought.

Goodnight, America, wherever you are...

American Splendor

2011-04-11T00:02:00.000-07:00

Nothin' much to say tonight, just listen to & read these pretty words by Eytan Mirsky.

I thought that I could be somebody
It looks like I was wrong
I thought that I could make my mark
But I'm afraid I've waited much too long

Where is my American Splendor
In a world that's cloudy and gray
Where life keeps passing me by
Day by day-ay-ay?

They told me I should grin and bear it
Whenever life gets rough
They told me I should sit in silence
But now I guess I've had enough

Where is my American Splendor
In a world that's cloudy and gray
Where life keeps passing me by
Day by day-ay-ay?

I'm no hero, just a guy
Who was born to live, suffer, and die
I'm a man, just like you
But I'll shout at the top of my voice
Till my point gets through

I thought that life was one long struggle
It looks like I was right
I know I'll never win this war
But I won't give up without a fight

Where is my American Splendor
In a world that's cloudy and gray
Where life keeps passing me by
Day by day-ay-ay?

Where is my American Splendor?
Where is my American Splendor?
Where is my American Splendor?

Hereafter Review

2011-04-08T00:01:00.000-07:00

My underrated movie for 2010 goes to Clint Eastwood's Hereafter. A film, about the afterlife, written with such lovingly, tender hopefulness by Peter Morgan (an atheist, by the way). I dare any religious zealot to write a more warm, honest film dealing with life after death.

The film stars Matt Damon as a retired professional psychic medium named George Lonegan - and already, I understand why some people might have been discouraged by the movie, as they probably thought they were going to see a film version of the John Edwards show. However, our main character isn't out to do this for the money - he wants to genuinely help people. But, after so many years, and seeing so many people hurt - he no longer wants any use for his gift. He swears it off, and lives his life modestly as a factory worker - who spends most of his nights listening to books on tape, largely those of Charles Dickens (as read by Derek Jacobi).

The opening sequence involves a french journalist, Marie Lelay (Cecile de Frace) on assignment in Thailand with her lover shopping for souvenirs, when a large tsunami comes to shore. Witnessing this effect on film before the tsunami that happened most recently in Japan was jaw-dropping, today, it just makes it all the more real and powerful.

Marie miraculously survives the tsunami attack, but not before having a near-death experience after nearly drowning. She sees a white light, followed by shadowy figures of human beings - the last she sees is that of the little girl she helped up (holding hands with her mother as they're both most likely dead) before succumbing to the tsunami's great strength.

The experience leaves her troubled and confused. This soon interferes with her work - and is eventually let go from her job. She decides to investigate her situation on her own - which leads to a split with her lover. Nonetheless, she is determined to document everything that she experienced that day - and wants to know of other similar experiences from others worldwide.

The third story in this film involves two twin brothers (Marcus & Jason) from London, England. Born into a poor household and raised by their alcoholic, heroin addicted mother. One day, their mother forces Jason to go to the local pharmacist to pick up her prescription of Methadone - on the way there, Jason is harassed by street thugs, and upon attempting to run away - he is run over by a van.

No longer able to take care of his mother, Marcus is put into a foster family - where he mourns day and night over the loss of his dead brother he idolized so much.

Wanting to get a better understanding of his brother's death, and where he went - he seeks the advice of many different religious hierarchies, none of which give him the answer he is looking for, which is to know, "How is my brother doing?"

On a trip back home, Marcus loses his hat - he chases after it, which produces him to miss the train he was supposed to take. As he finally catches up to his hat, we see that the train he was about to take has exploded. Did Jason just save his brother's life?

Back in the states, San Francisco, George enrolls in a cooking class as a way to expand his meager, simplistic lifestyle - and perhaps catch the eye of a lady. He is soon paired off with a young woman named, Melanie (Bryce Dallas Howard), a recent divorcee. The two hit it off after a couple of classes and soon they're having a dinner date back at his apartment, where they attempt to make use of their recent cooking class skills.

An ill-timed phone call by George's brother, Billy (Jay Mohr) reveals what George really is a lot earlier than George would have liked to. Melanie presses George for a psychic reading, and George reluctantly agrees. They contact the spirit of Melanie's dead father, and the session ends with George telling Melanie that her father wants to tell her, "I'm sorry for what I did to you as a child."

Embarrassed and heartbroken, she excuses herself from George's apartment and bursts into tears. George (and the audience) never hears or sees Melanie again, as she never again returns to class either. Soon after, George is laid off from his factory job, which in turns fuels Billy to convince George to finally give in to what he is, and share his gift with the world. George agrees, but impulsively flees San Francisco and goes on a trip to London - in order to escape.

There, at a London book fair, he listens in on a live reading by Derek Jacobi. Soon, he runs into Marie - at another booth, who is there promoting her latest book, "Hereafter: A Conspiracy of Silence." He listens to her speak intently, when he is spotted by Marcus, who is there with his family. Marcus recognizes George from an online article he had read while trying to get a better understanding of the afterlife.

George flees, as he does not want to be reminded of his past life - but not before touching Marie's hand and getting a psychic flash of Marie's tsunami drowning.

Marcus follows George to his hotel. Where he stands outside his hotel window all night long, until George finally allows him in - and agrees to give him a psychic reading. Jason, through George, tells Marcus that he is happy in the afterlife, but he wants Marcus to stop wearing that stupid hat - and that's the reason he knocked it off his head that day, but he isn't going to help him out anymore - but not to worry, because, "We are one."

Marcus, having finally gotten the peace of mind he needed, stops wearing his hat - and having overheard which hotel Marie is staying at, gives George the address.

George writes Marie an anonymous note, stating he believes everything she wrote in her book to be true, and writes down the address of where he will be having lunch. Marie decides to join the anonymous fan for lunch where she sees George, and the film ends with the two of them hand-in-hand, with their shared glimpses of the afterlife helping them appreciate this life all the more. George finally finds someone who can understand him, and the same goes for Marie as well.

Perhaps, most people just didn't "get" this film. It's too gloomy to watch on a regular basis, but watching it on the right day or night - can hit you just right.

Damon's character lives his life through remedial routine that help him keep his mind at ease, for he knows, there is more to this world than what meets the eye. I understood and emphasized with that right away. He has the comfort of his friends from work and his brother to keep him distracted as well. But, sometimes, we need more than just our friends and family to keep us from feeling alone with our thoughts.

He needed a true love in his life. An inspiration. He needed someone who understands him. And, when you're blessed with such a unique gift - it's very hard for most people to understand you or where you are coming from.

Sometimes, it's just easier to sit back, and read a book or listen to an audio book and live out a regular existence as best as you could, because, it's a whole lot easier than knowing you're different. George just wanted to feel like he fits in.

Hence, the crappy job, the audio books, the cooking class. Myself, I often find myself taking on little hobbies such as learning Italian or playing the ukulele - just to give myself a sense of accomplishment when I feel like I have time to kill.

In George, I found a protagonist I can relate to. Something a lot of people can't or couldn't or didn't want to. To me, it's quite possibly Matt Damon's best performance. Very understated. My favorite Eastwood film since Gran Torino.

In the end, you don't have to take my word for it - but I will leave you to answer this question, "How often does Clint Eastwood really make a bad movie?"

Megan Fox Fanfare

2011-04-02T00:27:00.000-07:00

The proper way to spend a Friday night - is at home, listening to old WWF wrester's intro music themes for hours on end. Mr Perfect's theme will always be the best.

In other news, I wish Kiefer Sutherland would reprise his character from 24 for a new TV series. But, instead of setting the show within the confines of 24 hours in each season, they should just make it a variety show, titled, "The Jack Bauer Power Hour."

The Art of Trepanation

2011-04-01T00:09:00.000-07:00

It's not the things we say, it's all the things we never say.

So, what's it gonna be tonight? Kacey Jordan or Gianna Michael? Try watching animal porn - just for a quick change of pace. If that don't suit you - Asian rape porn!

Sometimes, I feel like a modern day Prometheus - other times, Jack Nance.

The older crowds love and prefer me. The hipsters, intellectuals, pseudo-intellectuals, literary types, posers - and god bless 'em (if you'll excuse my secular humanism) because without them I wouldn't have much of an audience. Because, all those still stuck in "High School" party every-day mentality (and there's a lot of those my age) - fucking hate me! I don't want to be a jack of all trades my entire life - I picture myself living comfortably with a cushy job more often than you might think. I dream, too.

Sometimes, it's better to be a King in Hell - rather than being a slave in Heaven.

No one listens to the radio anymore. Then, when their favorite radio station goes off the air - they complain and want to start an online campaign to keep them on the air. Well, here's an idea, how about you fucking listen to your supposed "favorite" radio station more often, then it wouldn't be off the air in the first place! Demand what you want to be heard, that way, they play it if you're tired of listening to all the same crap. That's the reason they keep playing the same shit over and over again in the first place. Lack of quality listeners! Thanks a lot, Apple! You fucking douchebags!

Sure, I'm crazy. But, I'd rather be crazy, than be a boring son-of-a-bitch like you! Oops, did I just type that? Sorry, I'm crazy! Queensbridge! Queensbridge!

Without me, the world would be a LITTLE less annoyed - and A LOT more boring!

Goodnight, America, wherever you are...

The Viper Room

2011-03-30T00:01:00.000-07:00

...and when I'm buried, and I'm dead - worms will come and eat my head.

Sucker Punch-ed

2011-03-27T23:03:00.000-07:00

Watching "Sucker Punch" was like one of two things; The first, was like watching someone play a video game for two hours, and not getting a single turn. The other, is like being at a concert for a band you really don't like; You hate the environment, but admire & enjoy looking at all the hot chicks that are there. It was a bad movie.

The Day Of...

2011-03-19T00:01:00.000-07:00

Well, I'm officiating a wedding at 10 AM today. I'm pretty sure I'm more nervous than either the bride or groom. I'm just going to hope for the best, and have fun with it.

Friendly Words of Advice

2011-03-18T02:52:00.000-07:00

Always remember, gentlemen, "Food before beer, makes you a queer! Food after liquor, gets your dick thicker!" And, so, ends my friendly words of advice.

I Drank The Bongwater

2011-03-08T00:16:00.000-08:00

Most of the time, I don't care. I don't care, until you've made me care. And - once I do, you're f**ked! Because, I'll never stop caring or worrying about you for the rest of my life. I commonly avoid showing this side to people, because too many people confuse caring with love. Even though love is an absolutely beautiful thing - people get scared and misinterpret it with "being in love." And we all know how it feels to have the wrong (unwanted) person in love with us. Instead of dealing with it head-on, we avoid it like the bubonic plague. What a withdrawn, f**ked up society we've become.

The "Hip" Factor

2011-03-07T00:11:00.000-08:00

I think there's different levels of elitism. I've reached the point of not being able to stand almost anything without depth or meaning - which is why most hipsters annoy the shit out of me - with their obsession for everything '80s in film, games and terrible taste in indie music and fashion sense (the chicks look hot though) - not to mention, terrible ideals for what they believe art to be - and total apathy in regard toward anything of depth or meaning or merit - and that "whatever" attitude they possess, because they couldn't possibly conjure up a better response, because they don't actually know better - and yet still feel they're better than you. To me, there's elitist and then there's just plain ignorance - and that's where the hipster factor plugs in.

The "Social" Network

2011-01-21T02:20:00.000-08:00

Every day, when boredom gets the best of me - I log onto facebook. Every day, I see the same posts and updates filled with repetitive, unoriginal banality. I see this and get depressed. Then, on a whim, sometimes I'll log onto myspace for old times sake and long for the days of an online social networking experience that seemed so much more simple and personable. However, in doing so, I see the modifications that have been made to the site - and get even more depressed. Oh, how far we have come as a society in this technical age we live in. We've come a long way - just to lose.

Goodnight, America, wherever you are...

New Post

2011-01-20T00:40:00.001-08:00

Last week, I was so sick - I couldn't feel my legs for two days. That was scary as hell. But not half as scary as being informed that you are now the only person in a household family of four who is employed. And so, the saga continues - it all falls on me now. Life doesn't get better, it just gets a little less painful each year.

Am I Wrong?

2010-12-27T22:46:00.000-08:00

Ever get that feeling like you're getting your life back on track? Like, everything is falling back into place - the way things used to be? Ever stop to wonder right afterward, "Hey, did I really like my life the way it was all that much before to begin with?" I'm not sure either. Anyway, here's my top ten films of 2010 list:

1.) Greenberg

2.) Black Swan

3.) Toy Story III

4.) Leaves of Grass

5.) The Ghost Writer

6.) The American

7.) Winter's Bone

8.) A Prophet

9.) Monsters

10.) Best Worst Movie

From the Heart

2010-10-30T07:42:00.000-07:00

It's 7:30 AM, and I'm slightly buzzed on flexeril and cough syrup - trying to wrap my brain around the word, "euthanasia." I'm fairly certain my epitaph will read, "Way to go, Heath!" I got the final word on Bonzo's condition yesterday afternoon. Too unhealthy to adopt? That's like telling me, "Too unhealthy to love." That's like killing someone for failure to live up to their potential. Go ahead, take my heart - I don't need it. It's the only thing I have left that can be compromised. So long, old friend. You came back to me to die in peace, but I failed you by not knowing it was too late - and I'll regret that for the rest of my life. So ends one of the longest goodbyes I've ever had to say - a long, strange and often times incredulous saga - that, nonetheless, ended way too soon.

Now That's What I Call Dancing, Vol. I

2010-06-19T04:22:00.001-07:00

The Used Rubber

2010-05-26T00:39:00.000-07:00

I tend to believe most people are retarded anyway. The problem is, so far, I've yet to be proven wrong.

Just Another Dead Rat in a Garbage Pail (Behind a Chinese Restaurant)

2010-05-06T00:03:00.000-07:00

A genius without accomplishment?

Is that why my behavior is the way it is?

One day, beaming with genuine brightness.

The next day, a complete asshole.

A lover without a love.

A poet without poetry.

A failure. A beautiful failure.

Just like everybody else.

Do I need success in order to make me happy?

Love is just a quick stab in the heart, and nothing more.

If No Man Is An Island

2010-04-20T00:08:00.000-07:00

Then why am I Ibiza?

When I first started bartender training I thought it'd be like that Tom Cruise movie. You know, Mission: Impossible? Instead, it's like that other Tom Cruise movie. You know, Rain Man?

Cute girl in class. Pretty face. Dark hair. Pale complexion. Thick black-rimmed glasses. Laughs at all the stupid things I say. Shakes her head in agreement at all the non-idiotic points I attempt to get across. Takes the bus. Cool tattoos. Great laugh. Beautiful legs. Perfect. She have a boyfriend? Yes, of course, she does...

...and so continues the saga of my life.

Did I leave out anything? Nah.

The Little Things

2010-03-30T00:05:00.000-07:00

A lot of people are afraid of getting older and growing up, I however, am quietly and utterly enjoying it. The other day, I went into Costco (of which I am now a proud member of) and purchased several items that would've come to the sum total of about 75 dollars if I had not been thrifty enough to remember to bring coupons. Total savings of up to almost 30 dollars after coupons. This made my day, and put a genuine smile on my face. I felt like I made the right decision. It really is the little things in life that make life worth living and keep us all content. :-)

Off topic, but I've always loved this picture.

RIP Stan Winston (April 7, 1946 – June 15, 2008)
Creator of all my favorite childhood monsters.

I'm Your Huckleberry

2010-03-25T22:56:00.000-07:00

I've been re-editing and re-formatting "Life in Rose" recently. It's a project I started work on almost five years ago. I completed it four years ago. Since then it's been lying on the shelf collecting dust. Anyways, at 120 pages in length - it's really the only written project I've ever finished. Turning it into an actual script has been fun so far. It's nice getting reacquainted with old characters that I enjoyed writing about, and identifying with. In reality, "Life in Rose" was the last time I ever identified with the characters I was writing about.

Ironic, I suppose. Being that the main subject of "Life in Rose" is love. A subject that's fairly allocentric to me. So, it's funny that I could identify with it. Hell, nowadays if a pretty girl smiles at me - I don't whether she's flirting with me or making fun of me. Probably both. Be that as it may, it's good to be writing again. It's good to be back to writing a project that I have faith in.

I've tried to branch out and expand my creative side by making attempts at writing other genres such as science fiction and fantasy to little or no success. The ideas are there, but the approach is often too contrived or unfeasible. My mind simply operates on the level of that of dealing with human beings and being human. In other words, I get people - but I'd give my life to be a robot someday. And thanks to modern day medical science, that dream just might come true.

It's an odd feeling that, being human. Does anybody really have any idea just how important and vital daily human interaction is to our psyche and development as human beings? Each and every word we say to someone can make a huge impact (positive or negative) on another. Just being there, or listening, can make all the difference in the world. When someone's daily routine is disrupted by something out of the ordinary, or we're just not there that day for that person, it often times lead to messy consequences. This of course leads to the "I fucked up" phone call at 2 AM.

So why, as human beings, do we care? Why do we invest so much time and effort into people (all of us) who are so prone to "fucking up"? None of us are immune to it. We all do it. We're all someone's standby, replacement, go-to man (or woman). So why does it hurt so much when we see someone else fail? It's their fault, not yours. And logically, everyone should be held responsible for their OWN actions. So why do we do it? Why does it hurt us so? Because we're human. And that's what being human is all about.

We fuck up, we go to bed, we get up the next day, think about what we did, accept it, go on with our day, then we go to bed, and then fuck up again the following day.

This is a never-ending cycle that will continue on forever as long as we remain a society of people intent and content on living our lives through others rather than focusing on ourselves. I'm guilty of it, and I'm sure you (yeah, you) are too.

It's called the human experience, we live, we learn, we suffer, and we do it again! We're all gluttons for punishment, so bring it on, we could take it! The next round is on me!

Is there a point to any of this? Probably. But it's lost on me, because I'm tired and I'm probably not smart enough to figure it out anyway. But, be that as it may, it's something I felt the need to bring up. Because - love it or hate it - we're all human after all. Warts and all. Being human, and the things we do, would be considered disgusting by just about any other form of life out there. And in truth, we are all pretty damn disgusting. Which is why I hope to one day be a robot. ;-)

Bye Bye MySpace

2010-03-09T02:41:00.000-08:00

I deleted it. Surprisingly, it was a tough decision.

Any Human to Another by Countee Cullen

2010-02-23T23:24:00.000-08:00

The ills I sorrow at
Not me alone
Like an arrow
Pierce to the marrow
Through the fat
And past the bone

Your grief and mine
Must intertwine
Like sea and river
Be fused and mingle
Diverse yet single
Forever and forever

Let no man be so proud
And confident
To think he is allowed
A little tent
Pitched in a meadow
Of sun and shadow
All his little own

Joy may be shy, unique
Friendly to a few
Sorrow never scorned to speak
To any who
Were false or true

Your every grief
like a blade
Shining and unsheathed
Must strike me down

Of bitter aloes wreathed
My sorrow must be laid
On your head like a crown

Logic

2010-02-06T06:14:00.000-08:00

1) No interesting poems are unpopular among people of real taste.

2) No modern poetry is free from affectation.

3) All your poems are on the subject of soap bubbles.

4) No affected poetry is popular among people of taste.

5) Only a modern poem would be on the subject of soap bubbles.
___________________________________________________

Therefore, all your poems are uninteresting.

Post-Birthday

2009-12-21T01:02:00.000-08:00

The Danzig show was great. Although, I'm pretty sure I got a couple of bruised ribs from getting into the pit. Fuck it, it was worth it! :-)

Oh, Give Us A Drink & Make It Quick

2009-12-18T01:39:00.000-08:00

Five shots where fired about an hour ago in my neighborhood and now the police helicopters are on the lookout for the shooter. Yup, that's right, it must be my birthday!

December, December

2009-12-14T22:28:00.000-08:00

My birthday is coming up, pretty soon. 25 this year. December 18th. Half-way to 50. Don't plan on really doing anything for it this year. Just maybe a family dinner and spending time with friend's afterward. Danzig Concert on the 19th, though. Really looking forward to that. That's my real birthday present to myself this year. :-)

I had lost my cellphone charger, so bought a couple of replacement ones to take with my on my Big Bear trip (which was a lot of fun, by the way). Neither one of them worked, and actually managed to drain the battery. So, now, I've ordered a proper replacement one off the actual Samsung website. I sure hope it works.

Last Tuesday morning I woke up and heard a loud popping sound, followed by seeing flames shoot out of my mini-heater in my room. I got out of bed, shouted, "Fuck!" and then quickly unplugged the heater from the wall. Picked it up, ran out of my room, to the kitchen, and out the back door to throw it outside in the backyard.

Noticing it was still on fire, I then proceeded to turn on the water hose and put out the fire. It was cold out there, I tell you. Of course, I didn't notice that till after all the unfortunate events that had just unfolded had happened. So, consequently this is the story of how I ended up outside in my skivvies at 4:30 in the morning putting out a fire started by my mini-heater.

Anyways, that's been my December in a nut-shell, essentially. I'll write more later.

Your Lucky Day in Hell

2009-11-20T18:44:00.000-08:00

It was a slow day at work. I'm feeling particularly agoraphobic today, too. Oh well. Ivan's Birthday Bash is tonight at Spike's Sports Bar and Grill. I feel obligated to at least make a cameo appearance. We'll see how that goes. After that it's off to see "This Is It" at the AMC. I really, really just want to stay home tonight.

Bad Blogger

2009-09-01T00:32:00.000-07:00

I'm sorry, I've been a bad blogger so far. I promise to try and be more productive on here in the upcoming weeks. Oh, fuck! That goddamned "Uno Dos Tres Quatro" is playing in the background. Fuck! That pisses me off. The guy doesn't even say Tres he says "Tre" like a jackass! Anyways, I better wrap this up. Back to the subject at hand. Yeah, me, bad blogger. But... I'll get better. I promise. You're welcome!