What Makes You Laugh 3

What has been cracking me up over the last few days is a thought problem.

Everyone works to advance themselves in one way or another.  What happens when you find yourself in a field you can excel at, but have an Achilles heel for?  I am not a negotiator, but the field that I find myself in and doing very well with does not reward merit.  It rewards negotiation.  You are only worth what people are willing to pay for you.  If you would like to price yourself out of their range, you are more than welcome to do so.

The field does not operate in the same ways the rest of the customer service field operates.  If you want a job you can have one and if they ask what you would like to be paid you are welcome to write down whatever number you choose and they will come back to you with the starting and only number and you either say "yes" or you say "no."  Very simple.  Very straightforward.  Very easy.

I have been laughing trying to gauge what I am worth to other people.  In this field, what you are worth is an algorithm whose nuances run deep, parallel, and cross cut with sudden violence and stark contrast with blood and bone on the line should a miscalculation be made.  There is no room for guesswork.  Or is it that there is infinite room for guesswork because time is money and time is beholden to whom.  For whom does the bell toll these days?  For how long can negotiations continue and if you did get what you wanted, when would you feel armored and steeled and learned enough to ask for more?  To demand more.  Hell, if I know.

Given what I know, where I've been, the way I carry the fire like it is my pants on fire when the client's is, the willingness to tax flesh and artery until the tread falls off to make the date agreed on, I still have no idea what those values register on someone else's Richter scale.  I still have no idea what dialing my number means to them when they want something done right, done thorough, and finished to the dotted "I."  In terms of valuation, I don't know what I'm worth, but I'm pretty, inexactly, sure I am a cost effective means to whatever ends are summoned.

I am well trained and well versed in many modes.  Control is lacking, but only because it is not easy to corral 700 horses in one direction at the same time; we manage.  Adaptable, robust, and the commercial ends.

It does crack me up.  Folks tell you so-and-so should be paying you "X" amount of dollars.   Person "C" should have paid you this-and-that.  What is stopping you from paying me what I'm actually worth?  I'm not going to say no to money.  I'm not going to ask for more.  What's stopping you from returning a smile to me the way I gave one to you that you will enjoy much longer than the life span of the paper that passes from my hands to vendors?  That is what has made me laugh lately.

You hear the same thing from so many different people and it makes us wonder if my asking for more money will actually change anything in the right direction.  You've seen my body of work.  You know what I can and cannot yet do.  You know what you can ask me to do.  I know what I can ask us to do.  We are all familiar with one another and are either friends or thoroughly acquainted to a degree that we can rely on one another to follow through on our word.  Why don't you trust me yet to do what I say I can do and have done?  Why do I have to ask for more?

You've seen me operate enough times.  I've worked with you enough times.  If you believe I am some sort of benchmark to keep, you are mistaken.  I am skewing the market low.  What really, what really, cracked me up (because I had no option beyond cackle laughter) was thinking about all of the over paid clowns you rowd and rail about.  Wondering why this clown is somehow ten times more efficient, ten times more reliable, 60 times more faithful, five times more communicative, 100 times more driven, and ten times more accessible and somehow..............   somehow..........  worth less to you than the other, menial, infantry clowns you employ.

Grade S infantry?  "No, I will settle for grade D and pay them like a scientist apprentice."

Maybe, I'm just not cooperative enough.  Eventually the question will boil over and we will have a discussion to resolve points that our sextants align.  In the face of heartache, the only option is irrational, hysterical, laughter.




///Stereolab - "The Free Design" live

Money, Cash, Power, 'Spect... it's a Trap

I have been battling.  Not the usual demons.  Battling the allure of money and respect.  The two usually come in a dime pair.  And it's nice.  I recently realized I was using it's and its in the inverse of how they're supposed to be used because I rememorized a mnemonic device incorrectly.  One of those times when you say to yourself "yeah I remember that from elementary school," but your memory is actually completely backwards and remanufactured from parts and pieces of things that actually happened.  So I am trying to make an effort to reitify the memorization.  Only this time forwards.  Comma usage is still playing fast and loose like law dogs in westerns.  Anyway, been struggling with the potential for success.

Blowing the costs out of success way out proportion.  Thinking things like, well if I am successful how will I be able to live in an apartment that costs more to live in and is slightly smaller than the one I currently occupy?  The answer is: the extra money will be what you can apply to owning a runabout and getting out to other places so you'll be spending less time cooped up anyway.  But that's not the answer in my head.  In my reason, it is the answer.  In my head the answer reads more like... well you know.  I need not jump it that hard.

I guess with making more money I won't qualify for my hundred dollars of food stamps that has become less a mark of shame and more like "holy shit, it is the eighth of the month and time to buy all the foods I've been dying to buy for the other twenty days out of this month, jesus christ no more peanut butter and jelly and pasta."  The truth is I hate eating out.  With a passion.  Not because it costs more for no reason because for whatever reason tipping motivates service instead of service motivating service (I'm just incorrigibly service oriented) and for some reason getting what you pay for only applies in the food sector.   I hate eating out because I hate having people make food for me, as though I am somehow above making my own vittles and prone to being upset if said vittles aren't ready in five minutes or less.  I am a creature of patience.  Violent, violent patience.  I am content to wait very, very, long periods of time to get desired results...  ...sometimes quietly, sometimes silently, sometimes very loudly, but at the end of the day I will accept having to fold my hands for a time and wait out results, if not for seeing the fruits of my labor then for the reappearance of opportunities past or yet to come.  I did always like the tortoise.  Fast hands, slow feet, can't lose.

I practice making fists throughout the day.  Throwing fists.  I keep an eye on my footwork too.  I suppose maybe I am a little obsessive compulsive, but only toward the end of self preservation.  It was kind of hilarious, the job application for temporary day to day labor.  I believe it asked no less than eleven times if I though fighting was important, or if I thought the ability to win a fight was important, or if I thought the ability to defend one's self in a fight was valuable.  I answered the questions honestly and then accidentally scrapped the test (given with an inferior keypad interface, it really was an honest lucky mistake) and then asked the branch manager what was up with all the questions about fighting.  He clued me in and told me to answer no, not ever, for all the fighting questions regardless of experience or training or ability.  Apparently temp labors brawls are less the exception and more the rule.  Regardless, the upside of being conscious of how you place your feet on a moment to moment basis makes you less susceptible to slip and falls when you are focusing on other things.

Just one of those sorts of things I guess having to use your body as the foundation of your livelihood instead of your brain makes you conscious of.  I'm kind of inclined to go back to using my body more, but I wouldn't know where to start here.  This place kind of frowns on that, hilarious enough as it is probably two cuts above a slum, but I'm not here to argue.  One less trap.

Getting back to that though, I'm having some trust issues.  Massive ones.  Questions bouncing around.  "If you were me, with everything you have at your disposal would you say yes to the offer being given you from your mouth to me, me being you?"  Questions like that.  I don't really know when I'm being used.  I damn sure don't know when I'm being abused.  The not knowing hurts more than the knowing.  The discovery hurts more than both combined.  I don't know if people are or aren't, but I wish they would just tell me.  That's the upside of selling.  It's clean cut.  This is what's going to happen, this is why, and this is what it's going to cost you.  That is the danger of friends.  Nothing is clean cut like that.  That's probably why the people I count as friends has thinned so much.   That and just being a crazy fuck.  Laughing too loud.  Neighbors banging on walls.  Laughing harder.  Sigh.  It's good to be live.  Better to be alive.  I'm working on that.

Money, cash, power, and respect.  Everybody wants it.  I want to be money so I can get cash and be granted enough power to sway enough respect to buy some land and a home so I will have no need of money, cash, power, or respect and can just be.  There's no trap in that.

My stable of friends.  Wow.  I don't know.  That's a lie.  I do know.  I like to say I don't know so I can imagine it's larger than it is.  It's teensy.  Oh god, I just tried to rattle it off and got to four, counting family members. Is that even something I can fix?  Does it need fixing?  To that, I can honestly say I don't know.  If I stepped off my spaceship, when I do step off my spaceship, there are essentially four people who can relate to me, but who I can also relate to honestly and semi-openly... on a sit down basis.  Everything is open over the waves.  You can turn that off.  When you're with someone, you can't turn that off.  It's there.  I am there.  I want your eyes.  It's very different.  Sadly different.  World changingly different.  I think that's the nice thing that opens me up when I'm talking to you that I don't get to experience otherwise.  You can turn me off.  Unsubscribe.  Break up.   All that wonderful shit and I don't have to know and you don't have to know and we're just the same with or without eachother.  The beauty of.  The fantasia.  The crazy fucking nasty wonderful idea sex one night standiness of it all.  It's not always that.  But sometimes.   Whatever, it's fun.  Ive nothing to justify.  And everything to justify to myself.  I assume you realize we are arguing.

We've agreed we'll keep on because the dreams have been to die for.  They really have.  They've been the sorts of things a body could wish to never wake up from.  But, it's a trap, isn't it?  Maybe not.  Maybe I just have to accept that there are benevolent forces beyond myself.  People that don't know me, that don't want to punish me once they do get to know what I am.  People that don't want to me punish myself, that are trustworthy beyond a shadow of any doubt and worth more, in fact, than all the trust I could muster if I turned every cell toward the task.

a kid can dream.





///Gorillaz - "On Melancholy Hill" Five hours to get this out. Happy to put my thoughts to good use. Unhappy I couldn't do more. Bed and jobs beckon. can't wait til I'm a housewife with nothing to do but tend after bastards, count my government checks and bide the time until I'm raking in Rowling esque millions when I have nothing to do but write and feeding myself is last on my list of major concerns. So melancholied. So half finished. I wish I was sipping brew on a plastic beach.

The Edge of Amazement

I've been told by some that I am easily amused. Well, I am. I spent twenty minutes today laughing at my laughter. I've been told by others that they wished they could be as easily amused and see the world through similarly eager and easily impressed eyes. I don't know about that. Not to harp about money not being able to buy happiness, but it does. Sort of.

What it buys is a buffer. The edge of the reality of situations. Unpleasant. Where you live? You live in a low rent shit hole in a building occupied by wellfare comped degenerates and people that may or may not be wholly insane and or meth addicts. Sometimes it can be difficult to be happy in a situation like that. What you can buy with money. Fantastic appointments. All the little things that will make your low rent apartment much more enjoyable to live in and obscure the reality of the situation. Or enough drugs to fantastically appoint the hardware in your head and buffer it that way. It's not technically, to the T of the definition, happiness, but it's pretty close. Happiness enabler. I'll take some helium.

Pizza isn't special. In and of itself. It is to me. I can't buy it more than once or twice in a month because I have a lot of other things way more important and necessary and life sustaining to buy and try to save for than expensive cheesy and pepperoni speckled and italian sausaged and dipping butter for the crust ridiculously delicious pizza. So I guess when I hear people say I've got it good because simple things amaze and entertain me because I don't have much in the way of a reality buffer it irritates me. The edge of amazement cuts in two directions and the back stroke is serrated. So, don't forget that. I'll trade you places next time you want to be grounded. I'd like to spend some time in flight

... buffering ...


with giant slices of pizza and area rugs two dozen feet wide and ceiling fans and air conditioning and a shower curtain that reaches all the way across my bath tub. That would be amazing. I will probably cream my pants if the day that all of those things come together actually happens.



///Aphex Twin - "Donkey Rhubarb"

A Sense of Urgency (or The Real Reason Black Men Don't "Get Ahead")

So I'm at work and I basically kill it every night. Sure I'm a little hyper. Sure they probably think I fire a couple lines into my brain before my shift. Whatever, I don't care all that much. One thing that happens in the disincentivized environment is that the only reward for a days work is the satisfaction you personally derive from putting in a solid days work becomes its own reward. That and the paycheck.

Where was I? Oh yeah... I'm trying to keep this tight... so I basically go in to work with the perspective: I am going to destroy my work load today. I see everything that management does as a direct challenge to my capabilities and every single work day is staked with taking their expectations and ramming them down their throats. "So you think I'm going to struggle with X or Y, well check this shit out: I'm gonna set X on fire with how pro I am and Y is gonna get put in its place like a redheaded step child and go tell its friends about how badly I kicked its ass and its friends will rue the day I show up to work 'cause its gonna be on from the second I walk through that front door."

Which brings me to why black men, aged 18 to 40 will, by and large, never get ahead. They're way too busy trying to convince everyone that they're unruffled. It's beyond "too cool for school" or "too cool for pants that fit" or even "too cool for rules." It's this projection of well in hand that, more than anything else, fires flares of stupidity in all directions. Well, not even that. It's not about being on time, or late, or clothing, or rules, or education. More than anything else it's this projection of such super lensed self consciousness that is so tightly clamped around their throats that you just want to shake them and scream "will you wake the hell up!?"

Maybe it's a symptom of the layers upon layers of stereotypes that are, essentially, the new slavery. Growing up beneath that burden and governance can turn the most capable human being into a club footed clown. I feel bad for them. Well alright, I'm getting loose again and dropping a lot of "wells". Let's refocus. I'm training this kid and the equipment I'm trying to explain to him is located in a lot of different areas and we have to keep criss-crossing to see the things that I'm trying to teach him about and so much time can be killed walking too and fro so I'm walking at a little better than my usual clip. I walk like I need to get somewhere unless I'm just getting lost for the sake of forgetting the world. Time is short already, without adding in the burden of having to stop and explain everything I'm doing, so I'm making tracks and this guy is just lagging.

I have no idea why. There's no one else in the area except him and me. There is no one to judge him or make fun of him for walking fast. There's no one to make fun of his pants if he tightens them up so he can actually use his gotdamn legs for ambulating. Is he worried that he might get made fun of later or that I'm made fun of for moving so quickly and speaking fast and sure? I have no idea what his problem was. I get where I'm going and the whole time I'm thinking, well hell if he would make an attempt to keep up I could explain more shit to him en route instead of having to do it all onsite. So I get there and I have to wait for him to come moseying along.

I'm all for taking time where time is available, but for the love of God when you're on the clock will you pull up your fucking socks for once and act like something more than whatever the hell you fucks are into is worth showing up for? No, I don't always want to be at work. No, I am not always buzzing at 100 miles per hour. No, I am not best friends with management, but fuck my life if someone is paying you to do something then do it right and do it on time and fuck image. At some point you have to just say to yourself "I do not care what the rest of my peers think of what I'm doing because THEY DO NOT WRITE THE CHECKS THAT BUY ME FOOD OR (insert whatever thing it is that sustains your well being).

I don't know. I guess I'm venting. I'm sure there are exceptions because I know some of them. But until we get over this weirding thing we're socialized and typed into we are going to have a black history month that says to the rest of the world "hey, we do stuff sometimes too."

Idiots. Give me two of this guy I'm training and I'll have half the output I need. Disappointing. I'm sure he's a great kid too. But personality by itself does not get shit done.


///Goldfrapp - "Deer Stop" pick them off, one by one. There is no urgency among them.

P.S. it really is just sad how self... self... what's the term... self reciprocating? I sware it's like an entire segment of the population is involved in this recursive loop. I'm no social climber, but how is it that the things I view as standard are viewed among them as exceptional, strange, and ridiculous. So mad. Retards. When the world ends, they're all going to die like lemmings. Worse than lemmings. Like deer before intelligence. Why is intelligence so eschewed???? I need to relax. No I don't. Obviously it's not just them, but I feel among them this weirding thing is most rampant, rooted, and disgustingly viral.

The Farce of Human Interest

The upside of funemployment is free time. The downside of funemployment is day time television. I won't come out with a blanket statement about the demographic that watches or is available to watch daytime television on a regular basis, but what I will do is call out the insanity of the supposed human interest story featured on daytime television.

In its thinnest guise it is the paternity specials on talk shows and the daily freak shows created from people with actual problems who somehow think taking their children or families on talk shows will provide some kind of lasting solution to whatever it is that ails them on the inside or maybe just to make a buck and get a tv special pitched at them from TLC. In its thicker, more elaborate manifestations it's the two day back to back experience of the "half ton mom" and the expose' on teenage fight club sex parties and alarmist programs highlighting manufactured cultural tensions and real ones.

And I guess I'm just sick of people calling it human interest. Human interest, the term itself, seems to ask a little more of itself than to simply raise emotion and sympathy and "wow" from the viewer. Human interest should denote a desire or interest to view and understand human-ness or humanity. A term as charged as human interest shouldn't stoop to the ridiculous shallows of daytime television for any reason. Human interest should be about introspection and reflection and I guarantee you the people watching human interest stories are as interested in taking in introspection and reflection as a red head at the beach is interested in taking in an afternoon of sun bathing. Having to be around people purporting to enjoy watching human interest stories is like going to a meeting with 30 yes men. All they're doing is soaking up reaffirmation of their pre-existing beliefs. In the end though, I'm sure that's why the shows are on tv. That and to illicit all of the "wows" and "oh my Gods" from the people that are watching purely for the floor show.

Personally I like to take my entertainment from sports arenas and sit coms. Wow, that sounds snooty. You know what, I'm saying it anyway. It only sounds snooty in the context of the ridiculousness of this modern day reversal. So human interest is an enormous farce that people watch so they can say things and feel connected to problems they don't have and feel a conscience they never acknowledge for the other 130 hours of their week and feel reassured that drugs are bad and teens are dangerous and gangs live in every dark corner of every city and know that they're not so bad because "look at the tv, there're worse people than me." So what.

I don't know. I feel dumber for having brought it up. I suppose the takeaway is: at the end of the day, I just wish we could all stop conveniently naming and pretending and applying euphemisms and have lived with a smidge more awareness of ourselves. I guess it grates me to have to listen to the people that talk to each other and while one rests all they say is "yes" "oh yes" "you know, that's what they say" and then they talk and the other turns into the yes man and by conversation's end no one has actually said anything and no ideas or information has been exchanged. The thing that unnerves me the most is that as personal awareness erodes so does creativity and imagination until the person becomes part of the reciprocating cultural wheel, the ultimate feedback loop, and they're lost as though they never existed.

///Amon Tobin - "Straight Psyche"

Cum, the Internet, Other Disappointments (Plus 200), and Friends

200th entry. Glad I got that announcement out of the way before I forgot. It's been five years with you. That ties the record for the longest relationship I've ever had. They've been pretty good years, but this isn't a retrospective so I won't dwell on it.

You should know I tried to write a poem with the title "Cum", but I couldn't create anything more charged than the title, so I didn't. Sometimes you run into words like that in the English language, words that command so much attention and make people perk up and look for context clues instead of actually reading the text and before you know it you've completely lost them because, for whatever reason,you're content doesn't line up with whatever expectations they've come to harbor in connection with your title. I'll write a retrospective for the next entry mainly because I'm pretty sure I won't have much else to say as I've been gripped by the past recently. Maybe I'll write that poem anyway and just make it light hearted. I think that's a good way to both combat the "must read for juicy bits" response and also reward both the readers and the flybys.

On to my terrible internet connection. It was so bad over the past two days that I literally was not even able to open my email. You know when you get so mad that actually mash your fist into your keyboard hard enough to break the fucking thing. That's how mad I was. If I was not head over heels in love with my computer monitor and also too poor to replace it I probably would have hurled it straight out of the window hard enough to lay a 22" square dent in the door of the shed behind my house. A friend commented that though the speed is slow I "have done a lot with it" and I wanted to say well "for fucks sake, just imagine what I could fucking do if I didn't have to settle for third rate everything in this fucking world." Seriously. I was enraged, not by his efforts to offer encouragement, but by the framing of what has become typical of my life. Ghetto rigs. McGuyver set ups. Pulling magic out of my ass hole. Call it what you will, but I cannot wait for a phase of my life when I actually have the god damn tools I want and need already at hand to do the things I want to fucking do. No more of this having to work a three mile solution out of a 100 yard walk because no one is willing to give me the god damn keys to the front gate.

I've had some really fucked up dreams lately. I'll curb the swear words from here on out, or at least try to.

So the original Cum poem was going to be about how self destruction creeps into life, but is a necessary element of life. Self destruction, I think, prevents wholesale destruction if the person purposefully destroying their self can be isolated or at least properly contained. I'm pretty sure if I left myself to its own devices it would turn into a thing bent on dismantling life and civilization as we know it. To prevent this from happening I have to actively dismantle its constructions through every means necessary. Think of it as an atom bomb. Every single day my brain is refining fissible materials and building detonators and stranding wires and explosive plates and turning bomb housings and working out the science of sending the world to its grave and every day I have to go in and turn out all the filing cabinets and shred the research and trash the labs and sabotage the refineries and explode the stockpiles. My self hasn't gotten it right yet and I'm happy for that, but also ashamed that its even become a necessity. Sometimes continued success is thanks to my own efforts and sometimes it's due to bomb range and laboratory accidents and machine malfunctions. The result is the same though. Furious action leading up to an explosive and small and temporary victory and phenomenally steep come down, because I've both succeeded and failed yet again. I suppose the easiest solution would be to simply have all of the technicians brought before a firing squad and kill them outright, but unfortunately the crew working the device committee and labor union are also responsible for the non-lethal non-destructive life sustaining committees. So when is the need to eliminate a threat greater than the need to preserve a life? I don't have an answer for that, but I'll let you know when I do.

I'm sad now. I don't know why. I do know why. Part of me just left. He was disgusted. I'm disgusted too and angry and now sad that I'm by myself again. He'll be back later. We can't really stay mad at each other. No, wait we can. I just realized that we're usually pretty mad at each other. It just so happens that we're also usually in agreement on most things, with the exception of this and some other stuff. I'm the optimist. He's the deterministic pessimist. The realist. The public relations manager is not in at the moment, but should be back shortly.
I sometimes wish my friends would tell me what they think and why they don't tell me when their visiting, but then I remember that they must have their reasons and that I don't know what those reasons are because no one has ever fucking told me. When I think about the spectrum of existence I get the feeling that there's nothing in the middle of mine and I think that hole is what makes people apprehensive. I don't have a hard time feeling. I have a hard time feeling by degrees.

I dream about things. About tiny rooms and lying in bed with someone and sadism and being awful and being loved regardless and making something, making anything, with another person and being naked and great and taking off the mask that hides the teeth and the showing the smile behind that stretches from ear to ear for all of the reasons that are on their face unacceptable for reasons I'll never agree with and I wake up from the dream and wonder if I will really be single. And then I wonder if the rest of me will allow that to change. I know the answer is no, but can you fault me for wanting it to. I tear myself apart, but they're there. The upside is I'm always in orgy. The downside is none of the attendees are there because they love each other. And I'm rambling so I'll go do something else because I already know I'm running straight for a dead end and I have an irrepressible fear of corners.

///30 Seconds to Mars - "From Yesterday" Sometimes when I fall asleep and wake up into dreaming the world is big and beautiful and unlike the life I left I am moved to a state of utter bliss and so thankful that a thing like sleep is a part of day to day life.

buddy cops & jewish comedy

are awful movies. Mr. and Mrs. Smith? Suuucked. you mean to tell me first of all, that her noodle arms can do half of the things shes supposed to be doing? accurately? repeatedly? i mean come on. the world of pornography tells me that most girls with arms that fucking anemic cant finish off a hand job single handedly... let alone finish off a cock thats been warmed over by 45 minutes of bed breaking sex (not that that actually happens in the real world unless you do a few lines of body numbing coke first). i mean really? legs that thin couldnt carry that kind of body armor on that body for more than five minutes unless it was being carried in a shopping cart.

not to bash on the lady action heroes but bitches is runnin wild. makes no sense. okay fine, the human body is an amazing thing. ill grant you that. pain tolerance through the roof, sure, that too, who cares. i think guys and girls probably bear up the same under duress in combat situations anyway. id probably rather give birth than have my knees blown out with a .45 or have a bomb blast shatter the bones in my legs. fine. doing flips and shit... okay. ive seen the olympics. its doable. buuuut not with that body. maybe like venus williams body. or some other ridiculously jacked (for a girl) body.

"but the guys arent totally jacked, waah youre full of shit..." am i? have you watched professional combat anything. sure there are hyper jacked dudes, but most of them arent ridiculously cut from marble or anything like that. so i could understand the guys doing similar things without an eye popping amount of muscle. but most importantly, inevitably, we run into the head shot problem in these movies. dumb one liners are unavoidable. always have been in any buddy cop movie... but in the guy girl variety they come with that special blend of "buut shes a girl... she cant shoot guns or do guy stuff" tom hanks pitched humor delivered with the subtlety of SNL. but the head shot problem. youd think someone... anyone would get lucky. i went shooting for the first time and yeah i used maybe 30-ish rounds... maybe 40... but i still got 5 maybe 6 bullseye. just pulled em right out of my ass. my eyes were completely closed cuz shooting was just that jarring and i kept flinching... but still thats about a 6% head shot rate... by accident. if these goons are firing off hundreds of rounds every MINUTE someone should be able to hit jolees apple head at least once. by accident. and if not her head than somewhere on her unprotected paper thin frame.

and am i to believe that .... whatever. losing interest. as we type. greenberg is gonna suck too. another sad jewish guy just cant find happiness in life because he hates everything. awkward relationship jokes, go. awkward past relationship jokes, go. cue every single woody allen flick meets every single adam sandler flick meets ben stiller getting old and contemplative meets .... i dunno.... meets a donkey dressed as a mule out on the town looking for some hot horse poonanny. is that how you spell that... poonanny. doesnt look right. looks gross. poo does not belong in that word. greenberg does not belong in this world. if jolie died today i bet the retrospective would be enough to make every single one of her million children committ suicide courtesy the angry hands of brad pitt. OR ... tila tequila will ... i dunno... insert something completely asinine and repugnant. burn.... all of them... what if there was a car accident involving those two. i dont think id be sad at all. but then i wonder .... well i dont suppose i wonder... i know someone is probably thinking that in my direction.

lethal weapon is the gold standard for buddy cop action/drama films and has yet to be dethroned. 1,3,2,4 in that order. closest runner up? the first die hard. second runner up? fuck if i know. they all blend together after that. oohhh wait... rush hour. forgot about them boys. new order.... LW1, DH1, LW3, rush hour, LW4, beverly hills cop1, LW2, RH2, the naked gun. that is all.

every time two hate filled thoughts butt heads another child is born. also every time two club rats meet face to face. thats why they only talk directly to each other via bathroom mirrors. its a service to humanity. im not going to have kids. as a service to humanity. i will fuck them up for life if i do.

///aesop rock - "gun for the whole family" clap clap encore.it sucks when some mc s are considered too cerebral to make club music. no wait... thats awesome. or... hmmm im not sure where that thought started. well its a great song that is in my opinion about the mores and quirks of violence in societies, specifically ours. and i do so love the medium i was brought up in.

amsterdam is NOT in canada 01/02/06

Subject : Amsterdam is NOT in canda
Posted Date: : Jan 2, 2006 7:06 PM

News to me. Last I heard there was an Amsterdam in canada. There was a red light district with canals and Amsterdam coffee shops and Amsterdam fun and excitement right across our friendly canadian border. Well guess what! LIES ... ALL LIES... there is no amsterdam in canada my friend... not a one... nary a scrap of netherland goodness to be found across that friendly canadian border.

and whats more? there are places that prey upon this misguided knowledge of teary eyed, wet nosed hopeful americans like you and me and call themselves shops directly from Amsterdam! "importers" of that genuine amsterdamanian flavor. So the next time someone says theyre going to amsterdam dont ask them to smuggle back booze and pot in their car because its not going to work... what with the fucking atlantic ocean to cross and all...