Until I can get a new computer then (which I’m not in a hurry to do—I need a new motorcycle first), I’m really not interested in doing much besides the obligatory checking email and downloading porn. As far as this blog goes, I may put something up if I’m having a good run of my files not getting corrupted before I even finish writing them, and other things that’ve been making me want to kill someone; but I can’t promise anything. You’re still welcome to check in, say hi, send nude photos and video; but really, the fewer expectations you have, the better; just like being in a relationship. I had considered folding it up altogether for a while, but I still get a lot of Google traffic on old posts, so I may as well let it ride.

That’s all I got right now. Enjoy your summer, everyone. I sure hope to.

-II-

Some people love all these things; and they may also love movies, or TV, or sports, or dining, or travel, or theater, or computers, or cars, or clothes, or whatever-the-fuck. They may even love blogging, despite all good sense. I even enjoy some of these things myself, within reason. And yes, having over 36,000 tracks in my iTunes library is perfectly reasonable. Music, more than any other thing (besides maybe food), can bring people together; and by together, I mean sexually. You see, that’s what it’s all about for me; and not just with music, but with everything; because at the end of the day, there is no single thing I will ever love more than pussy.

If you put me in a cage with a button that releases food and a button that releases pussy, I’m pushing the pussy button every time. A movie button, same thing. A blogging button, not even a fucking contest. A car may have a shot, but it’s gotta be a Goddamn sexy car; and I’m talkin’ Italian sexy; not American, or Japanese, or even German sexy; because those are oxymorons. I’ll take pussy over a Lexus or a Beamer any day, any way. A Porsche might have a shot, but only the Carrera (want to be Italian much?). Porsche can shove its faggy Boxster and 911 up its ass. Also, If someone ever asks me, “Did you see that show the other night?”, my answer (usually internal) is, “No, but I saw some pussy.”, or “What kind of laptop should I get?”—“Pussy.”, or “How was your trip?”—“It was too short…on pussy.” You get the idea.

And it used to be that pussy was pussy, and whatever you were getting was serviceable enough to be worth the effort. As I get older, however, I’m finding that my taste in pussy has been growing ever more refined. I was reminded of this just the other day after taking a shower. What happened was, I had just bought some new shower soap, and I hadn’t put much thought into it at the time. After all, it’s just fuckin’ soap, and I’ll buy whatever’s on sale. It wasn’t until I got home and cracked that bitch open that I noticed it was called “Crème Douche” (on the French side of the packaging). When I first read this, I threw it across the bathroom, because I thought I had wasted 3 bucks on some chick bullshit. But when I realized this translated as “Cream Shower”, I instead punted it all the way across the street because I had actually bought soap that sounded like a gay porn flick. The only problem was that I now had no soap and I needed to take a shower for work. So, after convincing myself that it sounded more like a facial money shot (a very hetero facial money shot), I streaked across the street (while dripping wet) and retrieved the Crème Douche. If anyone had happened to take notice of the Crème Douche and the wet, naked guy retrieving it, they surely would have called the cops. I knew I was safe though, since the cops are a bunch of fat, lazy fucks that never come unless you’ve committed a traffic violation they can collect extortion money on.

After my douche, I went to work; and the truth is, I felt way more fresh than I usually do. What really tripped me out though, is that even like 6 or 7 hours post-douche, I still felt and smelled so damn fresh that I actually wanted to go fuck myself. Since I couldn’t, I just played with my nipple rings a little and cupped my ass. I also now realized that douche wasn’t just something you called your boss, but is probably fundamental to my love of pussy. If I think about it, I’ve probably just been lucky, since I find most pussy to be pretty fuckin’ delicious. I know now though, that a lot of care has gone into the prep of this delicious pussy. I can even draw a direct correlation between the amount of exterior maintenance and the quality of pussy contained within. I dated a girl (very briefly) that had some Sheena: Queen of the Jungle thing going on, and the fumes coming out of that hot spring made me want to wretch. I said (from a safe distance), “Holy fuck! Did you just vacuum a barn with that thing?! It smells like a fuckin’ landfill site in there.”—not fish, Petra. But then, on the opposite end of the spectrum, I had a girlfriend that shaved bald; and she smelled and tasted like peach cobbler ala mode—one of the most delicious flavor combinations known to man—and I can’t remember a time when I didn’t want to lick that plate clean, if you know what I mean. So, that’s pretty much your scale. Jungle=Landfill to Bald=Peach Cobbler Ala Mode. In fact, if I were to manufacture douche, I already know what my first prototype would be.

A funny thing began to happen though, as I was painfully trudging my way through the mountains of nonsense that are blogged about on a daily basis: people started reading my own nonsense, and commenting on it in hate-mail and death-threats (mostly from uptight chicks). This was fucking fantastic as far as I was concerned. It isn’t until you’ve managed to piss people off enough that they actually exert their energy on wishing you dead, that you can know for sure you’ve produced something meaningful and worthwhile. To be liked can be effortless and boring, as you need only regurgitate what most people want to hear; and to elicit no reaction at all is an utter waste of time.

That said, and despite my finest early efforts, there has been a whole other segment of readers that have not only refused to wish me dead, but instead, continue to say and do nice things in support of my blogging efforts. Well, a guy can only take so much of this niceness before he’s completely helpless to really like these people. For example, take Claire of A Little Piece of Me. You may have noticed on entering that my new banner looks a lot like one of her doodles. This isn’t because I’ve managed to cop her doodle style; it’s because I told Claire I needed a new banner and she made one for me. I know, I know; you’re thinkin’, “Claire did something that nice? No way in hell.” It’s true though. She even doodled a nekkid stripper and a couple of my own favorite characters: the one-armed, lesbian trucker that made me wear lipstick and the Mexican boy that shines my shoes for Vicodin (when potting soil’s scarce). Six months ago, I could never have imagined that the fucked up shit in my head would make its way around the globe and be given life by such a receptive and fun-loving British chick that’s prone to bursting out of her top (yes, I like that story).

So, as much as I thought death-threats were the only way to go, this nice thing ain’t so bad either. The only problem is that it makes me want to be nice too, and no good could possibly ever come from that. I’ve been feeling lately that my writing has been getting too soft and sloppy; like a gooey, toasted marshmallow you can’t get off your fingers. This wasn’t by way of anyone saying I needed to do that, but has been somewhat of a self-imposed filter I’ve been using in an effort to embrace a wider and more diverse range of visitors. Really though, what the fuck purpose does that serve? My intention from the beginning was to be wholly “unfiltered”, yet I seem to have lost my way. I mean, this isn’t the fuckin’ Disney Channel; it’s the internet; and if you can’t be free to fully express yourself on the internet, then where can you? It’s not like I’m getting a paycheck for this or am forcing anyone to read what I write. If they don’t like it, there are a gazillion of other sites about puppies and rainbows they can fondle themselves over. And also, as my intent has degraded, so too has my interest to continue on. There are other factors involved, like the fact that I haven’t even wanted to look at a computer after getting off work lately; and also, that I have a shit wi-fi connection in my new place and can barely load anyone’s pages, including my own. The whole deal just hasn’t been very fun lately, is the bottom line.

Rather than just quietly drift off, however, what I’m going to try to do is bring the Headspace back in check and stop worrying so much about rubbing all these visitors the wrong way. I don’t even know whom these hundreds of people a day are that I’m trying to cater to. It’s only a handful of them that ever really contribute anything, and I can throw all kinds of crazy shit at that handful, knowing full-well that they can take it—and even throw it back.

So going forward, I’m going to pretend I never gave a fuck about getting tons of useless traffic. For starters, this means not trying to follow some arbitrary publishing schedule, but only posting things when my heart’s really in it. I’ve also already recalled myself from a number of directories and stripped all the community “widgets” off my pages. Entrecard is the last, and will only remain until the last ad (for the hair band loving Petra) in my queue runs, then that bitch is gone too (Entrecard, that is). The Javascript for Entrecard has actually been the biggest thorn in my side for page loads, but all that bloat (javascript, flash, APIs, ads) has been killing me, so it’s all comin’ down and getting disabled in my own browser. I even dumped Twitter, mostly because it’s just fuckin’ annoying. If I had to read one more damn “tweet” about what someone just ate or was planning to eat, I was gonna skull someone. Twitter manages to make people that are otherwise interesting become painfully boring. This isn’t to say I haven’t been guilty myself; the platform encourages, even urges, banality.

Basically, I’m rolling things back to how they were in the beginning, with the only exception being the fantastic banner Claire made. It will not only represent a fresh start, but will also remind me that I’ve at least met a few great people during this process that are reason enough to keep it going, even despite their lack of death threats. Thank you Claire, and others, for your continued kind words and support.

sounds like you need some 45 caliber

You’re telling me. Wait, why are you telling me?

testicles have gone numb

Have you tried rubbing some pussy on them?

white people are dangerous

This has been true for well over four score and seven years now. It’s okay, though. The day will soon be upon us when Whitey will officially be outnumbered. This is largely due to crystal meth and inbreeding.

best way to get laid on your birthday

repeatedly

i m a slut whore

I’m free after this post.

.45 caliber movie

First they want “.45 caliber t shirts”, now they want a movie. Everyone’s gonna have to calm down, I’m just getting warmed up. Anyway, I expect to be in the casting couch phase of pre-production for quite some time.

my sister is getting laid

I’m sorry to hear that. What happens next is: she’ll start nailing your friends, but your friends will find out that she’s also nailing half the football team—girls tend to hit the ground running. Your friends will then take it out on you, and you’ll suffer continual beatings until you’re able to move away to college. This will feel like an eternity if you’re close in age, since girls are having sex by age 12 these days (according to an HBO documentary).

he jizzed in my mouth

This must be the sister. You’re gonna want to get used to that sweetie, because as you’ll learn, the real way to a man’s heart is through your stomach.

shitting panties trailers

Jumbo’s Clown Room isn’t really where strippers go to die. They’re only allowed to work there until they become too incontinent to perform. When this happens, they are sent to one of these, usually among their peers in a shitting panties trailer park. See also: “white people are dangerous”

making of a slut

1 part alcohol, 2 parts low self-esteem. Chill until ready to serve.

can i jump rope if i am pregnant

You can, but you’re baby will come out sounding like Katherine Hepburn.

testicular self mutilation subculture

See: The Cult of Qelqoth

On a serious note: An old friend asked me to spread the word about a family that needs your help. “Three of their kids have needs: Jackson is autistic, Kiki has cystic fibrosis, and Alli had a liver transplant (from her dad).” The family had been chosen as finalists by ABC for Extreme Makeover: Home Edition, but had run into bureaucratic bottlenecks locally that caused them to get passed over. These issues have since been resolved and this website is dedicated to trying to get ABC to come back and do their house. By just going to the website and clicking on an already written statement, you will be helping the cause. It’s literally only 3 clicks. How could it be any easier to help a struggling and deserving family? Well, you can also help to further rally support by giving the site a Stumble. My friend has taught one of the children for 5 years. (Hopefully ABC doesn’t read this post.)

I used to do this sort of thing on Amazon, but as I’ve mentioned before, Amazon reviews are generally garbage; either written by paid reviewers or idiots, or both. I’ve also had the pleasure of writing a negative review, only to have the author E-mail me their life story (I read the dust cover) instead of better utilizing that energy to write a good book (after taking a class). Really though, should you take one guy’s opinion so personally? People tell me this site is crap all the time, and they’re right. What would be the point of my telling them my life story, just so they’ll feel bad and say the site rocks instead? They wouldn’t be doing me any favors, and if there’s one thing I’m always in need of, it’s favors, especially sexual ones. Okay, and bail money. I’m always in need of these two things. In fact, I’m going to put a bail money donation widget in my sidebar, just as soon as they give me access to a computer I can use to e-mail my online fiancé. A bail money donation doesn’t count as a favor, btw. A favor is taking somebody down on the outside, or a conjugal visit, or a Christmas card made of heroin. No, a bail money donation is completely different. You would actually have it returned to you unless I skip town, and I will.

But where was I? Ah yes, book recommendations. When not shanking punks, I like to read, and so, I usually manage to finish at least 2 books a year. I’m not going to give my own detailed reviews, because it’s been a while since I read these. I also get the books from the prison library, and they only give me 10 pages at a time. If they gave me the whole book, I would use it to skull my cellmate, again. He snores and I hate him. Even on the outside, I don’t like to own many books. I’ve felt this way ever since I realized that books are fucking heavy (to have to lug around (while on the lam)). The only books I like to own are those that I frequently turn to for reference and inspiration. I recommend these as well, and have featured them at the end of this article in a photo from my last known whereabouts.

So, what is slack-lit exactly? Well, much like this post, it doesn’t tend to have a specific point, or direction, or cohesiveness. Its characters are just sort of going through the motions. They don’t have the same motivations that drive most people and they neither belong, nor care to belong to what they perceive as the paint-by-numbers society around them. This doesn’t even bother them enough to feel alienated. They just accept what comes their way (relationships, employment, police investigations) with all the enthusiasm of watching paint dry. Ironically, their perspectives are always highly threatening to everyone else, because it calls into question their own transparent desires and senses of meaning and place.

And now, as promised, here is a photo of my “work”space featuring more books I recommend. If you’d also like to paint your own “work”space this color, just go to the paint store and ask for “Whorehouse Porchlight Red” (and tell ’em .45 sent ya!).

Updates:

First, I have to thank LOBO of Predator Press for his contribution to the Headspace and also strongly apologize. I was sooo grateful for his taking time to write a special post that I immediately thanked him by breaking the comments. I really was touched though. All his references to my archives here made me really sorry he had to read any of that crap, but it was a very nice tribute. If you had tried to leave him a comment before, but couldn’t, please still give a shout out here. Comments are working again, but I almost had to convince him that the ATF had shut them down. He thought it was the Jehovah’s Witnesses

I was also rather touched (and horrified) when Claire of A little piece of me brought my greatest fear, the character of Scallopman, to bone-chilling life in one of her signature doodles. She even had a backstory that involved an accident with cherry lube. We all know how those go!

Next, it was one loquaciously verbose slacker that actually got me to remembering how much I enjoyed these slacker books. Well this slacker, Jillian, has recently launched a shiny, new Wordpress site that she has very cryptically dubbed “Jillian Approved”. If you haven’t checked it out yet, I suggest you get your punk-ass over there before I skull you with my laptop.

Then, I also owe an apology to Relax Max of Britishspeak. He’s always had trouble with commenting for some reason, but to show him that I would have no reason (call it apathy) to moderate anyone out, I posted a fake comment as a fake commenter called “Relax Biscuits”. I guess people thought it was really him accusing me of being mean to “children and small dogs”. No, it wasn’t him. He would have been right if he had said that, though.

Finally, both of you may recall that I had previously mentioned that I was moving to L.A. Well, things change. I was literally 5 boxes deep in the U-Haul when I got a job offer in the Bay Area I couldn’t refuse. I’ll still be moving well outside of S.F. proper (in 2 days), which is good enough for now, but I won’t be getting back to Jumbo’s Clown Room any time soon. Sorry, Mercedes and Ginger. Someday.

Frustrated by various snags I’ve hit during the making of LOBO: The Motion Picture, I decided I needed to take some time to clear my head.

Nagging doubts began to seep into my conscience. Not about the movie -oh God no; this script is the best thing since Citizen Kane- but about Hollywood in general. It just seems like if it’s not a flick about gay cowboys or an abused chick dyin of cancer, nobody cares.

And that’s the problem with this city: Nobody cares.

Maybe it’s a Karmic thing. Perhaps all I really need to do is do a good deed or two. Once I fool a few people out here into believing I actually give a crap, maybe all this bad luck will turn around.

From Hollywood to San Francisco is about a seven hour drive. But I don’t get to California often; it would be criminal to not to pay a visit to one of my favorite bloggers .45 Caliber Headspace. Besides, I was already broke and didn’t have an inch of usable footage; I desperately needed a place to stay where I could mooch from a goodly supply of Tecate and peanut butter.

So I shoveled my trunk full of viable potting soil and went to the gas station. There, I signed over my government rebate check for a full tank and set off for San Francisco.

My first attempt at Karmic healing took place on the drive. Normally I drive like a banshee. But I tried to do the whole thing at exactly the legal speed limit, resisting the peer pressure of angry people trying to pass.

But after a while I just couldn’t take it anymore; I was trying to read Catcher in the Rye, and all that cursing was making it impossible to concentrate.

.45, clearly, didn’t live here anymore.

At this point, I started getting a little panicky. The apex of my Karmic journey was to find .45, and save him from the clutches of Satan; if I brought him back into Jesus’ fold before his Eternal Damnation, this would surely fool God into thinking my movie was worth making.

Despite my sinking hope, I dragged my heavy suitcase into his former residence.

Filled with issues of The Watchtower I had meticulously doctored with pornography and profanity to ease .45’s transition into Salvation, the suitcase weighed a ton.

But inside, I found nothing but cobwebs and chalk outlines of mice. And in the kitchen, there was no evidence of Tecate or peanut butter; all I found was a big pot with a chalk outline of a lobster at the bottom.

As a fan, I knew but few sketchy details about .45 and his personal habits.

Where had he gone?

Five hours later, I screeched up at Jumbo’s Clown Room back in L.A.

The guy at the door charged me $8 for admission, and $4 for my suitcase.

“But clowns give me the willies!” I protested.

“Wow,” he says, fondling my suitcase. “That’s a heck of a coincidence. Willie is the guy that gave me the X I’m rolling on. Say, is this real leather?”

Once inside, I was utterly shocked.

Women were walking around completely naked.

My deeply religious sensibilities were so offended, I wrested my suitcase from the guy in the bathroom and immediately dressed the nearest one in the only thing I had: the police tape I had ‘liberated’ from .45’s former household.

Three hours later, she came back.

“Wow!” she says. “I made $600 with this outfit. That was a great idea!”

“Well thanks,” I says. “But do you know where I can find .45?”

“Sure,” she says. “He lives four blocks down the road.”

“I’m not hauling that damn suitcase four blocks,” I says. “Screw him.”

Byline: When not Googling information on penis reduction surgery, LOBO writes for the clothing-optional internet publication called Predator Press.

Even more worrying was the flying squid beast that came out of nowhere. With tentacles aplenty writhing around, it attempted to defend the city against the giant robot menace. The squid creature let out a mighty, “RAWWWWWWR” prior to unleashing a beam of light at the robot, sending it hurtling into some building on the other side of the city.

The robot then retaliated by doing some silly Power Ranger dance which caused it to transform into a giant fish robot with a massive gun on its head. The squid creature, recoiling from a sporadic discharge of gunfire, summoned an army of lesser squids to take down the firearm so that the epic battle could continue.

It was around this time where a flying shark man in a yellow cape yodelled in the distance before joining the battle on his super charged unicycle. The caped crusader then launched an array of electric eels and Kanji at the robot, much to the approval of the giant squid thing. Damaged and screaming in pain, the robot uttered something in Japanese before flying back off into outer space.

—

Some news reports have stated that this incident assures us that there is life out there in the universe. On the other hand, other sources have speculated that The Cult of Qelqoth is just a sordid haven of LSD munching goons and that these people should not be trusted with journalism under any circumstances.