Things are so big for me this year. Nothing seems to be easy or go the way it is supposed to; the way it should. Massive, like, shifts keeps happening and I feel as if I'm living on a fault line (separate from, you know, the actual one I live on) and the plates keeps bumping into each other and I'm constantly thrown onto to the floor and glasses in the kitchen break and the picture I just hung on the wall has fallen for the sixth time and it hit me in the shoulder and I have a bruise that looks like Delaware and I consider just sitting where I landed but there is glass to be swept and a painting to rehang and I have to rebandage the shoulder, and so I get up and things are OK, not stable but OK for a while, and so I get a little comfortable, as comfortable as possible considering the circumstances, and the fucking plates start shifting again without so much as warning or consultation with me, and down I go.

So the little things become important. The little things I usually find too dull to talk about but actually end up thinking about a lot more than I consciously realize because, well, they're easier to get a grip on. What are these things...

I bought a new toothbrush the other day. It's all aerodynamic and shit and fits really well in the hand and reaches all the places it's supposed to be reaching. Problem. In making it all round and shit, they made it so that it doesn't lie flat on a counter with the toothpaste on it, waiting to be used. I brush my teeth in the shower in the morning but now I have to change my whole routine because it won't sit flat on the edge of my tub and so everything's out of whack. Why couldn't they have made it both aerodynamic and practical? I guess I'm asking too much from the design wizards over at Oral B.

My car is filthy. Crazy filthy. Like disgusting. I'm embarrassed to drive it. I was next to a pretty girl at a stoplight and I looked at her and she looked at me and then I realized what the fuck I was driving, and I put away my blossoming smile and just stared straight ahead until the light changed. Last night after rehearsal I got gas and decided to get rid of some of the garbage from the floor in back. It took me about 15 minutes and I didn't even make a dent. I got rid of about 60 pounds in empty water bottles, cigarette packs, gum wrappers, and post-it notes with directions. That was about all that was down there aside from the occasional CopyMat receipt, valet stub, and tape case. The post-it notes kind of served as an interesting little time capsule as I poured over addresses for events long passed or addresses to houses I probably won't need to visit ever again. I feel very bad for my car. I'm a bad bad owner. Bad.

Before rehearsal last night I stopped at the 99 cent store to buy a few minor props. Along with Casinos at 4am, rest homes, and animal shelters, I find them to be most depressing places on earth. But I found a kick-ass broom, old lady glasses, and some huge fake money each for under a dollar! Ooh, I also bought a plant. For 99 cents. What kind of cracked-out plant is this going to be? It's gonna be all, "Dude, can you, like, close those blinds. I had a real late night and I can't deal with that shit right now. Thanks man."

On Monday someone put signs all over my neighborhood about a lost orange bag containing his laptop with ten years worth of writing on it. He's offering a Five Thousand Dollar reward. For some reason this has really captivated me. I wonder how he lost it? Why does he know it's somewhere in this specific few block radius? Was he drunk when he lost it? Did a dog run away with it? Does he really have ten years worth of writing on it? Doesn't he have stuff backed-up? Shit, do I have everything backed-up? Does he really have $5000.00 to offer? Why did he buy such a fucking ugly orange bag (there are photos)? Why did he take a photo of his fucking ugly orange bag? Are there drugs or something more valuable than his computer in there? Why am I not out looking for it?

Yesterday on my way to rehearsal I saw these two dogs that live down my street booking up the hill past me, as they do occasionally. They get out and run run run and disappear and eventually they either come home or, as the owner told me one day when I was checking out her guest house that ended up being too expensive also, someone will find them and call her to come pick them up. Now I started noticing them doing this more and more over the past six months. And I'm never home. So yesterday when I saw this, I drove down and honked and saw her just sitting on her porch, with her little gate wide open. I told her that her dogs had gotten loose and she acted all surprised and concerned and then I realized: she's either letting them out, or she's fucking stupid. I used to be all worried and concerned when I'd see that they'd gotten out, but to not do anything about this escape problem - and nay, perhaps even be letting them loose - makes her a fucking rotten person. I hope someone finds the dogs and keeps them. Shame on her for that - and for charging too much for her guest house as well.

Random thought: I don't allow myself to get too happy when things seem to be going well (the whole "when the check clears I'll relax" mentality), so therefore shouldn't I not get too upset when everything suddenly seems to be going to hell? Things change so fast, I find. So fast. Sometimes I wish I could turn my head off. Okay, this isn't a small thing. Back to those.

Yesterday morning I noticed a thread hanging off some pants, so I yanked it very hard, and sliced the fuck out of my finger. If thread is so fucking strong and hardcore, how come it keeps coming loose in the first place?

They are opening the Brad Pitt movie I made fun of recently, "Snatch," as "Snatch'd" here in the States. Good call.

The other day I finally got rid of a list of long-term shit I wanted to do, that had been sitting here on my desk for over a year. Yes, a lot went undone but, dude, I'm dancing as fast as I can.

John Mahoney of Frasier (and the Steppenwolf Theatre Company) said the other day, in reference to the SAG strike against advertisers, "...and scabs should go to hell." Fuckin' A.

The producers and directors came up with a name for the one-act show made up of three plays I wrote. And the title includes my name; not my idea. But at least it's not one of the horrible puns that can be made with my name, which they played around with for a while. Every night I'd get a call,
"How about _____ (Giggle giggle)?"
"Oh please."
"You don't like it?"
"No. Just don't. Please."
"Oh. OK, then."

The top of a huge ten-foot spiky plant I've had for over four years broke off the other day. Now it's all bare and ugly. I guess I have to throw it out. I was supposed to do that with a ficus M. left at my place, but I couldn't bear to get rid of the dying thing, so I hauled it out onto my balcony where it still sits - a jade plant having somehow decided to also grow in the massive pot. The ficus has been nearly dead for over a year now, but continues to exist in some mutated and ugly but alive form. I'll probably end up dragging this big thing out there too - it'll be my 2nd plant graveyard, the first being my back porch. Death Becomes Me.

I was thinking about getting fish again. I don't really like fish and olive would probably make it her life's work to eat the things, but I have stuff up on the shelf waiting to be used - a bowl, food, etc. Problem: last three times I've gotten fish in this apartment, they've all died. Seriously. I do everything right too. I should never be a father. I once had a parakeet but my cat at the time knocked its cage over and gave it a heart attack.

Yo, I just found out a storytelling/music group I've loved for years are Scientologists. I feel ill.

I'm afraid I'll jinx it by saying this, but the weather here in LA over the last 2 weeks has been unbelievably wonderful. I cannot wait for the fall. The summer is not my thing.

I want my new couch to arrive, dammit.

You should listen to Nina Simone and Ben Folds Five if you don't already. You should hear Fountain of Wayne's version of Hit Me Baby - it's real good. Oh, and someone go up to Minnesota and help Prince find what he lost years ago. Then stop by Billy Corgan's house, slap him, and then find out what happened to him. (Incidentally, when Sharon Osbourne quit as the Pumpkins manager and said that Billy is talented but fucking insane etc. etc., I immediately sided with the Ozzy's wife. Well, I now hear that Sharon is a fucking monster as well. So I don't know what to believe.)

Some journal people are going through really bad stuff like deaths and break-ups and I feel for all of them. They are all in my prayers. Well... they would be if I actually prayed.

Oh, and I slept with your girlfriend the other day. I did and we both enjoyed it. I'm sorry.

And lastly, my newest, longest ever, and I think pretty funny Road Rules recap is live. Go read and sign up for the mailing list, bitches.

The Forum

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The Anna Nicole Smith Happy Song Corner

 
 
I never seen you looking so bad my funky one. You tell me that your superfine mind has come undone. Any major dude with half a heart surely will tell you my friend. Any minor world that breaks apart falls together again. When the demon is at your door. In the morning it won't be there no more. Any major dude will tell you. Have you ever seen a squonk's tears? Well, look at mine. The people on the street have all seen better times. I can tell you all I know, the where to go, the what to do. You can try to run but you can't hide from what's inside of you... speaking of which. Um... what's a squonk? Am I supposed to... wait, y'all, am I supposed to know what that means? Am I really just... I'm not that dumb, am I? I'm not. I'm not, y'all. But you know, my sixth grade teacher Mister... Mister... damn, what was that guy's name? That guy had a spelling bee and he was all, "Spell banana." And I didn't know what one was, y'all. It wasn't my fault. We just never had any bananas at my house. So if I'm supposed to know what a damn squonk is, then it's just cuz we don't have none of them at my house, y'all. We don't. We don't. Stop laughing. Stop laughing, y'all. Man, you all can kiss my grits. And yes, I know what those are! That's what we ate cuz we didn't have no bananas. Mean ol' fuckers.
 
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