This Morning
09.08.08 | There was a guy walking up the subway steps in front of me who had a tattoo on his calf of the gypsy moth from Silence of the Lambs.
I don’t know why somebody would do that. I just hope that any prospective dates of his that might make the connection I did, wouldn’t waste time with that question.
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Olympics
08.22.08 | I was just speaking to my friend about something that has always bothered me & seems to bug her too. Where the hell does McDonald's get the nerve to be the sponsor of the olympics?
Every one of those athletes would be beaten over the head by a team of trainers if they ate a sliver of that poison.
It's as absurd as bowflex putting morbidly obese people in their ads.
"(wheeze) Well, you just set the tension to the desired level, (wheeze) put your arms back in position, push forward and....have a heart attack......"
Im trying really hard to not paying attention to the olympics, but there are a few details about them you cant get away from if you go to bars as often as i do:
1. Michael Phelps, although not very bright looking, is apparently a very good swimmer.
2. There are people out there who have given every shred of themselves to activities and (so called) sports which the majority of the world does not give even a tiny piece of shit about.
3. Running super long distances is not good for you. And by "not good for you", I mean, if you're interested in looking like a healthy human being. But, if you want to look like an emaciated freak that could drop dead at any moment, then run, run, run. Just remember, as your knees grind together without even the faint memory of cartilage, "There was literally NO reason for you to have done that. Nobody cared."
4. Dudes aren't as ashamed to cry as I think they ought to be.
On a separate note, I'm doing more stand-up than I have in a long time. Ill try to post a schedule soon.
P
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Dream
08.13.08 | I had a dream last night that I was on a special task force assigned to find an elusive creature. This is how it went down, verbatim:
The leader of the team is holding a folder marked top secret, and he ominously said to all of us, "We're trying to find and capture a beast that has been attacking and feasting on human sideburns."
I laughed and sarcastically asked, "Human sideburns?"
"Shut up! People are getting hurt!", He snapped at me and threw a pile of black and white photos on the table of people with devastated looks on their faces, missing their sideburns, of course.
Here's a design I did for a T-shirt. If you've got the time please vote, It'd help me A LOT.
Thank you.
Paul
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My New Deal
08.01.08 | I want to be more regular about updating this site, however, I forget/don't for many reasons including laziness. I don't like that, so here's the deal I'm making.
There is an actual "book" titled, "Thong On Fire: An Urban Erotic Tale", by an author named only, "Noire". You might remember her or him as the author of, "Thug-A-Licious" (#1 Essense bestselling "book" ).
I came across "Thong On Fire" on the subway. I was standing next to a very large black woman who was sitting & reading it. I love to read over people's shoulders in hopes that I'll find something this great.
There are 291 pages in, "Thong On Fire", (which I now have access to a copy of) and every one of them is more hysterically sad than the one before it.
SO! - as I was saying, because I'm being a lazy piece of shit about this site, every week I don't have a new thing of my own to say or post I'll be flipping, "Thong On Fire" open to a random page, touching that page with my finger blindly, and typing the paragraph there under.
------------------pg 122--------------------
""Yeah," she moaned, then slid down to her knees and pulled my thong to the side. She gave my pussy a big deep lick, then started sucking my clit and teasing it with her tongue as I opened my legs wider and tried to push her whole face up in my stuff." - (Pg. 122, Thong On Fire, NOIRE. 2007)
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Just a small thing
05.24.08 | When I first moved to New York I lived right near Union Square for a little more than a month, and in that time I got used to the type of characters that are drawn to it by a weird gravitational pull. Every time I'd come up out of the subway there was a group of fire dancers, or a guy on a megaphone going on and on about 9/11, or some pudgy Asian dude in hot pants with all the jingly things he could attach to himself, prancing around whispering, "bro job" to people.
So, seeing a guy dancing on the sidewalk at 2:00 in the afternoon was relatively standard. He wasn't off to the side shaking it for money, no, he was in people's way and he was doing for free. But what was most interesting about him was his confidence.
People walking around him would occasionally give him a look, as if to say, "What you're doing is rude and crazy", but without the slightest hesitation, almost reflexively, he would hit them back with an exaggerated version of the same look they had given him. As if to say back, "No, you're the rude, crazy person! What are you doing walking on my dance floor?"
And the way he did it was so quick and believed by him that these grounded people, who'd spent their last 25 steps deciding to defend the order of their reality with a dirty look, got slapped in the brain. And their facial expressions said something their mouths never could, "Whoa, maybe I'm wrong about all of this."
By the time they reached the next corner they'd be back to knowing that a man dancing on the sidewalk is nuts, but for that little moment they didn't. For about ten seconds they were shaken off of their assemblage points, and susceptible to outside suggestion. I mean that in this way; during that brief window of time, had every other person on the sidewalk around them started dancing too, they would've snapped into formation without missing a beat. No questions. No weird looks. Not even a break in the conversation. It would've been happening like it happened every day at that exact time, and they just forgot.
But as it was he kept all his rhythm, and the people who'd tried to correct him walked away with a tiny piece of their minds missing. Not anything noticeable. It's like a bump on your face that's hard to find in the mirror, but feels huge to your fingers. Just the smallest little crack, nothing really, but the the place where a problem might start if it did.
Then they'd drift into Forever 21 to buy shirts they left the apartment really wanting, but make less sense to own now for some reason. And when they'd wear them and look in the dressing room mirror, the normal people they'd seen wearing similar things would bleed through their memories, and they'd feel better.
So they'd step outside, and let the cool air brush their faces, and seeing the faintest wisp of breath leaving their mouths, insanity would sink deep enough that they could talk about the run in with the dancing man. The jokes would be bad and hurried, but the laughs would need to come out so badly that it wouldn't matter. Walking through the square people would say all of the millions of normal things normal people always say. Hot cider for sale. Just like a movie. Just like the most regular thing in the world, and the tension on a familiar anchor could be finally felt again.
But across the open area, through the scattered people, they'd see the man was still dancing, and cold panic would near the surface so closely that its tail would make a ripple. Then they'd turn and nervously smile at each other, and touch their shopping bags to make sure it happened. Remembering how small the crack was, and that everything would be fine.
Because honestly, how much bad could really come from such a tiny crack?
When jingly noises would get louder behind them and the voice would whisper, "bro job" between their heads that question would be answered, a drip would come through the dam, and their pace toward the train would quicken.
I sat there on a bench watching that man dance for twenty minutes. Eventually, I understood that the reason he'd chosen the spot he did was because that was where he could best see his reflection in the store windows across the street. No grand scheme. Nothing more than a confident lunatic enjoying the look and feel of sunshine on his dancing body on a cold day. Then without the climactic event I'd hoped for, he suddenly stopped. He picked up his bag full of god-knows-what and melted into the crowd.
But for almost a half an hour he was a rock in a river that split the surface. He was the best example of what I've been unable to express for so long, and that is that truth and sanity aren't fixed things, they're just a majority opinion. And with a strong enough belief and behavior, tributaries of what is established as true and sane can very easily be formed and fed.
David Koresh knew that just as well as Karl Rove and the guy who owns American Apparel do now.
I'd say it's something worth remembering, but we're all just in living in Bob Newhart's dream anyway.
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Hello?
05.23.08 | I stepped into the freight elevator of my building to go upstairs and change my laundry. The door closed and as I stood there a voice from the speaker on the button panel said,
"Hello?"
I said, "Hello."
The voice asked, "Did some one call from this number?"
I said, "This is an elevator."
The voice said, "An elevator?"
I said, "I find it unusual as well."
The voice asked, "Where are you?"
I said, "The third floor."
The voice said, "No, where like. . ."
I interrupted, "You mean like, on Earth?"
The voice said, "...yeah."
I said, "Brooklyn."
The voice said, "hmm."
And I got out. |
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