It occurred to me, as I drove to a meeting at work this morning, that I exist in a place that people save up to take vacations at. They put aside money; they make little plans in little books and print out little maps for their little cars. And one day, off they go, with money in pockets and cameras in hand... just to arrive in a place I see every day.

...But you know, that really doesn't help me want to go to work.

Figures.

I keep thinking. Maybe maybe maybe.
And maybe it's just the alcohol, but don't you think?
Maybe? Maybe. May be...

Fantastic....

A penguin walks into a bar, and asks the bartender if he has any plums. The bartender, confused, tells the penguin that no, his bar doesn't serve plums. The penguin thanks him and leaves. The next day, the penguin returns, and again repeats his request for plums. Again, the bartender tells him that, no, the bar does not serve plums, has never served plums, and, furthermore, will never serve plums. The penguin, a little ruffled, thanks him and leaves. The next day, the penguin returns, but before he can say anything, the bartender begins to yell: "Listen, penguin! This is a bar! We do not serve plums! If you ever ask for plums again, I will nail your stupid penguin beak to the bar!" The penguin is silent for a moment, and then asks, ''Do you have any nails?'' Confused, the bartenders says "No." "Good!" says the penguin. "Then do you have any plums?"

Yeah. We're definitely due for a change.
Black, blue, and green are lovely and all, but...

Yeah, definitely time to change.

For now, though, sleep.
Tasty, gooey sleep.

If I had my shirt pulled up over my head, would you look?

Desperate desperate desperate calls for attention. Fuck 'em. You and I both know the stakes, and I'm drawing the line here. Right here at your feet, at the toes of your lizard skin shoes.

If I rolled in the dirt, clawing to stay on, would you try to pull me up?

I'm too far gone for your attempts, your bitter-fueled flawed comaraderie. I learned your secrets long ago and opened up that door. It was dark and it was cold.

But if I'm closing my eyes and cupping my ears, maybe you'll start to scream...

Ahhh.... the weekend. Say it with me folks... Ahhhhhh....

Okay fine, be that way. Just because most of you start your weekend on Saturday...

:P

I took the boat into the middle of the water and laid down in its belly on my own. I needed the undulations of the water, the slow rocking like a new mother at three a.m. "There's a waterbed in the next room," they were thinking to themselves in exasperation. "Why does she always have to be so goddamn dramatic?" But from the center of the lake, slinking to and and fro like a cat in heat, the boat and I were oblivious to their disapproval.

I knew I had a hole to fill.
The water would help me forget.

I wish I could destroy people.

Just twist them with jealousy and anger and passion.
Because that's power. That's self-love.
The kind I've never achieved.

If only, I tell myself, I could make someone cry...

"If you take the Christian Bible and put it out in the wind and the rain, soon the paper on which the words are printed will disintegrate and the words will be gone. Our bible IS the wind and the rain."
Herbalist Carol McGrath as told to her by a Native-American woman

Fabulous.

Whatever happened to learning for the sake of becoming a better person?

I was asked recently whether the job market for my major was tight, which as we all know is nicetalk for "Are you just lazy or do you have a worthless degree?"

I went into an English major with a literature concentration because that's what I'm good at and liked most. If I really wanted to, I'm sure I could find some menial job at a newspaper and work my way up the ranks to fulfill some cultural career requirement. But I went to school to avoid getting a job for four more years, not to pad a resume for a future life in service of a paycheck. I ended up coming out of college not only with four work-free years behind me but with wide open eyes as well.

College - given the right concentration - makes people better. No, let me rephrase that. Liberal arts colleges - given the right concentration - make people better. The humanities, philosophy, literature, fine arts - these are the things that set minds spinning into wide open avenues and dark alley detours. The experience of opening your mind to entirely new ways of thinking is alone enough for me to appreciate the college experience. But there are those (coughbusinessmajorscough) who see college as a mere steeping stone to a fatter wallet, even if it does nothing for their minds but give them new ways to market crap people don't need to people who can't afford more crap.

I don't want a career. I want to be happy. And however that comes to me is however it comes to me.
And once other people realize that, maybe they'll stop wasting time asking me about my "next move."

The day began like any other day off, with the singular exception that something inside us drove us to get in the car... and drive. ...and drive. ....and drive.

Began Driving: 8:20 AM
Stopped Driving (Finally): 8:30 PM

Among The Results:





The Cherry Patch Brothel. Big Pine, California. Some creepy set of graffitied old buildings. A nuclear waste container in transport. Death Valley. And more Death Valley... which, by the way, was 121 degrees at 5pm.

I am damn tired.

Mark Morford never fails to impress me, and once again, the man is right on in his debunking of Pat Roberston and company....

Because believing in God should not make you dumb. Believing in divine power should not make you a blind lockstep jingoist zealot right-wing homophobe drone, bowing and kneeling and feeling unworthy and sinful and then changing the channel to ESPN2 and watching log rolling.

Believing in your own divinity should, of course, make you radiate. And think. And squirm. And ponder and investigate and get calm and wonder and explore and lick and drink good wine and make love to any gender you like and allow that divine definition to shift and transform with time and self and breath. Simple, really. And also very, very messy. As it should be.

Hallelujah.

Alone tonight.

Empty beds have this way of making you feel open and vulnerable, like you're falling through the air with everyone watching but no one offering to break your fall.

So I'm alone tonight in a big empty bed.

There's lightning outside the window, and an echo inside the room.

This story deserves reiteration. So if you've seen it before, see it again.
Author Unknown... sadly...



I like monkeys.

The pet store was selling them for five cents apiece.
I thought this was odd since they are normally a couple thousand apiece.
I decided not to look a gift horse in the mouth, so I bought 200 of them.

I like monkeys.

I took my 200 monkeys home. I have a big car.
I let one of them drive. His name was Sigmund.
He was retarded.
In fact, none of them were really bright.
They kept punching themselves in the genitals.
I laughed.
They punched me in the genitals.
I stopped laughing.

When I got home, I herded them into my room.
They didn't adapt very well to their new environment.
They would screech and hurl themselves off the couch at high speeds and slam into the wall.
Although humorous at first, the spectacle lost its novelty halfway into its third hour.

Two hours later I found out why all the monkeys were so inexpensive:
they all died.
No apparent reason.
They all just sort of dropped dead.
Kinda like when you buy a goldfish and it dies five hours later.

God damn cheap monkeys.

I didn't know what to do. There were 200 dead monkeys lying all over my
room; on the bed, in the dresser, hanging from my bookcase.
It looked like I had 200 throw rugs.

I tried to flush one down the toilet.
It didn't work.
It got stuck.
Then I had one dead, wet monkey and one hundred ninety-nine dead, dry monkeys.

I tried to pretend that they were just stuffed animals.
That worked for awhile, that is, until they began to decompose.
It started to smell real bad.
I had to pee but there was a dead monkey in my toilet and
I didn't want to call a plumber.
I was embarrassed.

I tried to slow down the decomposition by freezing them.
Unfortuantely there was only enough room for two at a time,
so I had to change them every 30 seconds. I also had to eat all the food in
the freezer so it didn't go bad.

I tried to burn them, but little did I know that my bed was flammable.
I had to extinguish the fire.
Then I had one dead, wet monkey in my toilet, two dead, frozen monkeys in my
freezer, and one hundred ninety-seven dead, charred monkeys in a pile on my
bed, and the odor wasn't improving.

I became agitated at my inability to dispose of the dead monkeys and
I really had to use the bathroom.
So I went and severely beat one of the monkeys.

I felt better.

I tried throwing them away, but the garbage man said the city
was not allowed to dispose of charred primates.
I told him I had a wet one.
He couldn't take it either.
I didn't bother asking about the frozen ones.

I finally arrived at a solution:
I gave them out as Christmas gifts.
My friends didn't quite know what to say.
They pretended to like them, but I could tell they were lying.
Ingrates.
So I punched them in the genitals.

God, I like monkeys.

Time: 2 hours and counting before my return to legal slavery
Feeling: Sleepy sore like I've been beaten over the back with a baseball bat
Strongest Biological Need: Liquid, of some sort, and the sound of Jack's water fountain isn't helping.
Last Dream: Rushing a plague-stricken friend to a hospital with the help of a friendly stray cat and a few frat boys in a pickup truck towing a boat, but upon arriving at the hospital, we realized that all but one of the doctors had died of old age. The single remaining doctor was busy assissting in the birth of twin future golf stars. What that means is anyone's guess. But I think it has something to do with unreasonable quantities of rum and tequila before bed.
Hearing: The Shins - Caring Is Creepy... nice....
Whispering: Strange little secrets into the great big metaphorical darkness
Honestly: I'm just babbling.
Dreading: 105 degree indoor heat with 70% indoor humidity... ughhhhhh...
Now Hearing: Local H - Half Life.... "You know the lies they tell are told until they're true." Rawk. That's right, with an 'aw,' baby.
Realizing: I should probably get my lazy ass into some clothes.

Honestly, I'm on the verge of moving to another country.

I've said it before (many times) and I'll say it again. As long as the DMCA is being enforced by lawless individuals like Howard Berman and organizations like the RIAA, America cannot look to the Constitution as valid. It has been raped, beaten, and de-spined. This country can go fuck itself if we allow this kind of government sanctioned bullying to continue.


Exhibits A and B
Upload a File, Go to Prison
Howard Berman is a terrorist. (I warned you people back in August 2002. And he's still in office??)

Today's one of those heavy days that wrap around you like a wet blanket. Maybe it's the humidity, maybe it's the boredom. But the air is thick with something. I'm twirling it through my fingers and examining it more closely. And in the light of a stratus gray sky, everything looks a bit like wait.

Three days later...

We awoke hazy, as though we'd all been hit over the head with ridiculously oversized mallets. In fact, that's exactly what had happened. Coming out of the mini-coma, I vowed to catch the rat bastard who'd done it, even if it meant sacrificing our treasure trove of chicken nuggets.

Okay, not really. I've just been lazy... and WORKING.

...And now I have nothing to tell you.

You can leave now.

Go on.

Scurry off.

Snap out of it, Jenny... I find myself falling lately into all too familiar mindsets, ones I'd thought I'd left behind for good. But I can hear them in the back of my mind, these voices and insecurities, screaming, "You don't belong... Who do you think you are?... Do people really deserve to be subjected to the painful sight of you?" And I shake them off and push them back, straightening my neck and lifting my chin in false composure, telling myself, "No, no, no.... I'm good, I'm great, I'm unique, I'm worth it..."

But I know it's a lie.

And the voices are getting louder.

I'm beginning to believe them.

'AOL Journals' To Bring Blogs To Millions:

"AOL this month began showing demos of its tools for creating Web logs, or blogs, to veteran bloggers. AOL has dubbed its service "AOL Journals" because its surveys showed that members found the word "blogs" confusing, said Rick Robinson, AOL's vice president for community products."

I don't know about you, but I think that about says it all.

I'd like to thank the person who found this site via the search string "What country has the highest percentage of Midgets?" Thanks for making my day a little funnier...

When you think about it, bunnies really have it all figured out.
No really, think about it.

Yeah. See what I mean?

Loving the little things #10:

My cat, Jack, has this white shoestring. He carries it around the house like a security blanket, and every now and then, I catch him fast asleep on the floor with his string between his paws...

"He who drinks beer is a man without a plan.
He who drinks tequila is a man without a liver.

....I'm too fuckin' blasted."
-Tony

Brilliant, no?
No... guess not.

I'm waiting for rain.
The clouds are building, just over those mountains there. I know you can't see it, but wait.
Just wait.
It's coming.
Can't you smell it?
Can't you smell it?
Can't you feel it in the air?
I've been waiting for months to just knock down this little boy blue sky.
It's got to come down. All of it's too calm.
And I see you have your doubts - but you always have your doubts.
The drought is gonna end. Just you watch.
Just watch.
Here comes the rain.

In the inane and superfluous half hour devoted to making video dedications on (name any crappy music channel), I saw a quote that would have broken my heart had I not expected this kind of thing from America's youth. You know... this came on as they were flashing little emailed dedication snippets across the top of Jewel's latest incarnation. And don't get me wrong - Intuition is the stuff nightmares are made of, and Jewel hasn't been slightly impressive since "Who Will Save Your Soul" - but when I saw this, I nearly cried. Well, not really. But it did depress me. Cue teenage idiocy...

"Jewel rockz! Her music sounds so much better now that she's dancing.... -Katie, OH"

Ohhhohohhhh.... my.... GOD.

What the fuck is that?! As though choreography enhances singing ability... It literally boggles the mind to think that this line of thinking made its way onto my TV. It's no fucking wonder the music industry is soaking in substandard non-music. Hell, she can dance; type up that record deal! God damn, people!..... AHHHHHH!!!!

Okay Jenny, shake it off, shake it off... move on.
(Breathing, breathing) Okay, I'm better now.

Hyphenated last names are a cop out.

They say, "Yeah, I understand that just because I married a man doesn't mean I have to forfeit my identity, buuuut... you know...." When a woman gets married, she's traditionally expected to give up her birth name and assume the identity of her husband's family. The hyphenated name appears to be, at least superficially, a way to retain one's own identity. So, is this practice actually accomplishing anything or is it just a shining example of Cosmo pseudo-feminism?

It's a cop out.

You might hear the argument that the hyphenation serves to preserve the woman's familial ties while still showing her bond with her husband. But men have never had to demonstrate this bond with their wives. It has never been expected of the man to take, in any form, the name of his wife to demonstrate the marital relationship. If the man isn't hyphenating his last name to include both surnames, then the practice isn't accomplishing any unifying effect for the woman. And as long as the woman is still taking on her husband's name to show that she's contractually obligated herself to her husband, whether she assumes it in the standard singular form or in a hyphenated one, she's still bowing to patriarchal social dogma.

It's just a load of crap. And I'm not buying.

You taste like carrot cake.

Even when my dreams are safe, my mind is cruel to me...
Dangling things in front of me that I can never have.

I had this dream last night that I mattered, that I meant something, that I was face to face with acceptance. I held what I never will and said things I can only feel.

Were it not for my dreams, I could be doing okay.
But just when I move too close to alright, my mind is there to remind me that I'm not.

And now, it's time for....
Conversations With A Bastard Ant!

Jenny: So, Mr. Ant... Bastard... May I call you bastard?
Ant: Go right ahead. After all, one cannot deny his true nature.
Jenny: Uhh, huh. Okay... So bastard, I see you've taken up residence where I work.
Ant: That is correct.
Jenny: You do know that you make the whole work ordeal even harder to endure, what with the biting and the crawling all over the pens and keyboard and what not, don't you?
Ant: Truly. Why else would I be there but to ruin an already difficult day?
Jenny: Yeah, I kinda figured that. So you'd say it's your job to piss me off?
Ant: Exactly.
Jenny: Well that's a pretty crappy job.
Ant: And you're one to talk?
Jenny: Shut up.
Ant: I am an annoying little piece of crap, aren't I?
Jenny: Quite. ...Well, I think that's all the time we have for today.
Ant: Got any candy?
Jenny: Go away. ...Goodnight folks! Join us next time when I interview that little cricket fucker who hangs out by the window all night.

Happy birthday to me
happy birthday to me
happy birthday, dear jenny....
happy birthday to me

wow. that song is freaking brilliant.

(sigh)

Time stopped this morning. Was I the only one who noticed that?
Okay, so it didn't. I'm just dumb.

I woke up, foggy and stumbling from the edges of another work-based nightmare, rolled over and blinked at the clock. 5:25. "Why the HELL am I awake right now?" I asked myself. So I slipped back into the dreamstream for just a wee bit more torture.

But true enough, when I awoke a second time, due in no small part to dying a gruesome death in my subconscious mind, the clock still glared a quietly confusing 5:25.

I stared at the thing for about a minute as though I could will it to explain itself, and when it failed to speak up, I concluded: "Well, that's weird. I guess time stopped." Yeah, I already told you I was foggy and still half-asleep; what do you expect? It took me nearly 1.5 minutes to realize that Tony had left the clock's display on Set Alarm and for me to reach over and reveal that it was actually 8:05, and you know, that's about 1.4 minutes too long.

Oh brain, you really disappoint me sometimes.

In a closet, in a box, there's a bag made of paper dressed in rainbows and bowing flowers. Carefully written in pink crayon drawl, round and big just beneath the glued-on handles, are the words, "To Rachel: my Best Friend." And in the closet, in a box, the little bag sits, never given, never received, a prisoner of disuse since 1986.

I don't remember why I never gave the bag I made to Rachel.
I don't remember Rachel.

But somewhere along the way, in my six year old head, she was the best, my Best Friend, worthy of capitals and a precocious use of punctuation. She was rainbows and daisies once upon a time.

But I don't remember Rachel.
Not a single giggle or grin or whisper.
Not the color of her hair or the dresses she wore.
Not a single thing we did or a single word we said.
Nothing except her name.
And only that because of this sad little bag.

That's it. I'm going back to bed.
Waking up voluntarily at 6:30 in the morning is where I draw the line.

...would you like to touch my penguin?

So I've made myself more available than necessary.
If you have nothing else to do, feel free to spread the boredom.

Damien Rice - Volcano

"what i am to you is not real
what i am to you you do not need
what i am to you is not what you mean to me
you give me miles and miles of mountains
and i'll ask for the sea"

damienrice.com