Friday, June 28, 2013


what's the most important item in the news currently? that bloodbath at Wimbledon of course, that unique day when many top seeds in both the men's and the women's were upset or retired due to various ailments COUGH COUGH WET GRASS, all occurring on the same day, an historic clusterfuck for the tournament's future ratings next week. i mean, seriously, what the fuck happened? tennis is a star-driven sport, it's not football or baseball or ball ball, no team, just you, mano v. mano, it's solitary, a loner's sport, that's why i adore it. without the stars, you literally have nothing. watching for the pure love of the game? respect for the sport? rubbish. i tried, i tried one time to watch Djokovic vs. Berdych JUST to watch tennis, my brain couldn't comprehend and went into emergency sleep mode. i have a Ghost In The Shell cyber-brain in case you're wondering. without my stars to watch, my favorites, i can't do it, i fall in line with the rest of the masses who claim that tennis is boring, i have to agree in such cases.

...The Great Fed's career seems to be closing sooner rather than later...

...Sharapova and Serena quarreling over the same man, the same tennis stud who plays on tour. i must meet this man and copy his charms, fuck that VH1 guy's mating techniques, the proof is in the pudding, this dude is getting it done: Serena AND Sharapova? finally something to spice up this rivalry, the head-to-head speaks to this never being a started so well, too, with Shazza's princess win vs. Serena at Wimby which vaulted Sharapova out of Kournikova territory...i love tennis (babes) despite everything...

...Wimbledon's tedious to watch now...

i need my Federer, my Fed, my man-crush. Fed's loss in the second round wasn't just a freak accident i'm afraid, it wasn't just that he was caught up in the upset bug like everyone else that day...

...yeah, also, i forgot, there's no more Sharapova, no Shazza, AND no Azarenka and her sexy grunting, i watch women's tennis for the athleticism...i watch women's tennis for the babes...that was my cyber-brain correcting itself, it will always spit out the truth, it's a machine incapable of lying, like Data the android...'s indicative of something more with my beloved Fed. sure, this uncanny defeat breaks that insane consecutive Quarterfinal-appearance record at Slams he held which will probably never be broken...of course we all think his Ultimate Slam Record will never be broken but along comes Nadal and his uncertain, wobbly knees...we thought Sampras's record would NEVER be broken before Switzerland gave up trying to be neutral and graced us with Maestro Roger... but Fed isn't in it for the streaks snapped or the money, money buys happiness. he wants to be THE legend, THE icon. he is still, right? McEnroe recently proclaimed Nadal as the GOAT: Greatest of All Time. ol' Johnny Boy had a little egg on his face after Nadal's curious first-round defeat (his first-ever at a Slam) at this Wimbledon. perhaps not so curious, knees hurt after all. i still like Mac, i love him in fact, he's the best color announcer in tennis history, he should be our very first Tennis Commissioner, but i have to admit, his siding with the Dark Side hurt me. ESPN despises Fed, all of their columns do their utmost to trash him as hard and often as they can, i still don't know what that's about, Fed must have brushed aside an interview opportunity with Bud Collins or something and they've declared war on neutral Switzerland ever since. is it just that they can't forgive the foreigner who broke the American Sampras's record? they will never get over this? is it the posh RF sweaters that Fed wears? that he would be crushed in an MMA fight? that he kind of just lucked into his 17 Majors because he happened to become dominant when the rest of the field became incredibly "weak"? it's one of those chicken-and-egg scenarios: is it that Fed dominated everyone in the field so it seemed easy to rack up all those titles, or were the other players just a bunch of hacks and Fed easily conquered them all just being an above-average player?

go watch the youtube vid FEDERER PLAYING TENNIS AS A RELIGIOUS EXPERIENCE and we can debate more after that...after you don your monk robe and perform your morning chants.

when i was young, i thought nothing would rip baseball from my top throne, i was all about baseball, i played Little League (badly), it was just my thing, there was nothing better. then a wild-haired dude with a dangling earring and a lanky Greek guy who stuck out his tongue like Jordan when he served and ate a ton of bananas during sideline breaks entered my tv screen, and tennis was born for me. my love of tennis is fierce, blessed, from the womb, feral, sticking, all-consuming, forever, forever, forever. i played tennis, this was my sport, my life, my girlfriend-replacement, my love for a good five years or so, i had the goods to become a pro, if only i had taken that chance, slid into that one year or so of functioning stability to snag myself a Russian model before the depression took its final ugly turn and sidelined me permanently into a black hole. what could have been? it could have been me vs. Fed in The Greatest Match Of All Time at Wimby, me instead of Nadal, final score:

Federer defeats Phoenix 7-6 (14-12), 6-7 (12-14), 7-6 (14-12), 6-7 (12-14), 1002-1000

Sampras was my first love, i loved that strange, awkward guy with the Muppet eyebrows and that fucking one-of-a-kind serve that still can't be beat. that serve won him so many easy points, so many aces, easy points at crucial times, that serve motion landed him a blonde model/actress. hey, that's all life's about for a man, y'know, that and cheese fries.

when Fed came along, i wasn't sure, i sneered at the newcomer, but the dude pulled it off, he broke Sampras's record just six years after Pete's accomplishment, i mean it was an unholy but fascinating thing to watch, this record which was clad in gold that EVERYONE AND THEIR PET GOAT knew would never be touched was broken apart in six short years by this unassuming Swiss genius on the court with the then-flowing hair who looked like Quentin Tarantino. i mean, really? is this happening? but i grew to love Fed, and now i'm a blind devotee of his. don't ask me to choose between the two, let me just have my fun threesome dreams.

then, this week happens, i dunno, Sampras did come back from an early Wimby loss to win the US Open. will this happen for poor Fed? i'm thinking not, i'm thinking he'll probably never again win another major. it was a glorious run, but the point i'm making with all this rambling is i'm thinking that tennis is done for me as a whole. who am i gonna watch now? the Djoker? hell no, he's cool because he keeps Nadal at bay, but...oh shit, am i gonna have to go through the transformation with Novak now and learn to finally love him like the end of 1984, learning to love Big Brother? i have so much love to give, but no woman is willing to accept i slum around with tennis players.

yeah, also, Fed's bombastic claims of wanting to play at the next Olympics at Rio is, i mean, come on, even Superman has his limits. Fed, i love ya, but a kryptonite racquet is being fashioned as we speak, ya feel me? you had that ultimate, gorgeous chance in London to complete your trophy cabinet with the Singles Gold, it was right there for you to snatch, but that insane Del Potro semi the match before just tanked you, huh? plus, the weight of history with Murray in his homeland (sort of) kinda just depleted you to where you saw the Ring, but Muzza (Murray), who looks like Gollum, stole his Precious as Gollum is wont to do.

so close, so fucking close...came back haunted...

folks, i'm done, tennis is dead, tennis died according to a Newsweek article from 1988, but this time, it really is in my heart. what's the point anymore? who will i watch and cheer for and get out of bed for? i used to place my Swatch Watch on the tennis racquet i used to play my dad with early cold Sunday mornings on empty courts (25 cents for one hour), i'd place my watch on the racquet as a symbol, i'd set the watch for early in the morning, 6AM on Saturday and 6AM on Sunday, for Breakfast at Wimbledon on NBC, i made sure to never miss that event, all the pomp and circumstance i associated with tennis while i was watching my heroes Sampras and Fed.

here's my list: Cobain, Reznor, Corgan, Sampras, Fed, and the Zelda games...and cheese fries

i'm done, i'm done with everything, life isn't exciting anymore...wanna go out to the courts with me for a quick hitaround, some volleys and overheads? i once saw monks playing on the same court complex my dad and i used one time, i'm not shitting you, that was definitely a sign about my future. wanna hit with me? wanna hit me? that's it, let it all out, i can take it, that's hot. love-15. 15-love. i love you 15 times over...


Wednesday, June 26, 2013



click above for #2 of 4

Supermoon, i feared you, i bought insurance to protect myself,
but Neil Degrasse Tyson cleared things up with his twitter pizza analogy,
he knocked me out in the first round with his wisdom and my Little Mac finger-arms rested comfortably.

i no longer am scared, i'm calm and composed
enough to compose
this on a blog no one reads or cares about, i am strong enough to pray alone.

the Pac is back,
when i watch his Ghostly Adventures and see that at the end of the 22 minutes
Pac's zit problem disappears conveniently because of the portal,
i wish i had a portal to fix everything,
or at least i wish i had my own tv show.

the kitchen is divided into two spaces, the one that is lit by a bright-white neon bulb
and the other side which has remained dark for 6 months because everyone is too lazy
to screw in a light bulb:


what was so important that we denied ourselves light? no wedding or funeral can mean that much, can it? no job or relationship or party or necessary function we thought we needed to attend in order to continue functioning? a function function? it all fizzles away eventually, right? despite our best efforts, nothing remains except the dark

and the light we could have strived for.

finally i take time out of my busy schedule of watching tv shows and reviewing said tv shows to change the damn light, the bulb's glass housing is sick sticky with disgusting dust and grime and bug eggs nesting and making a home there, but it finally gets washed and screwed

and i'm screwed, because i forgot, we all forgot, that this side of the kitchen has a bulb which is yellow, distinctively different from the white side, so now our kitchen expresses a strange hue combination of white and yellow lights depending on which side you are on, a dizzying blend of the two colors if you're standing in the center of the room, bad for the eyes and brainwaves, so it ends up not really being a fix. perhaps that is why we never bothered to change it, our subconscious was allowing us to laze, the inner workings of our daily routines and patterns are forged through years and years of trial and error, i must learn to trust my body more and what it's whispering to me.

as i help Mom with packaging the cookies for the homeless, one chocolate chip in each plastic-bag half, i am blessed to be living this vignette and i pray to the Supermoon that the cookies she and i are preparing don't end up in my hands ten years from now when i am homeless. incurable mental illness has a consequnce, y'know, you can't skirt around the issue forever, ignoring it with video games and pomegranate cider doesn't disappear it, eventually i can't live here anymore.

i've been permanently living in the underground, my hands are stuck to the muddy walls, a doctor is needed to free me, no an archaeologist's pickaxe is needed. i shall become a fossil of futility. i shall never again escape to pop my head outside and breathe in the success, sex, love, money, and happiness of alive, active society. but do i have enough energy for one more song? can i spill a little of the aboveground sunlight onto me and the other mole people gathered here through my extra-sensory perception, by concentrating hard enough, by straining my third eye to recount tales of my past, when i was still healthy and walking down a bustling campus street? it's still the underground, but maybe it can be a


but it's still my Mom and I jabbering back and forth over nothing, i must cherish this scene, don't know when this all ends, when the Supermoon will decide to strike, i worship out of fear the way any strong system is maintained. i guess i still do fear.

is any of this getting through? are my prayers empty psychological thoughts or are they real Pac-Man scared blue ghosts traveling through space to their intended target? Supermoon, the Sun of the Ancients, whichever Celestial Body will listen, does clasping my hands together, ruining my kneebones on the floor, does this stance help matters? do you hear me, see me imploring you for aid?

i beg you, i beg you, i beg you...let me not get used to begging


Monday, June 24, 2013


1. have you ever investigated having an open relationship? ever tried to have one?: yes, on many occasions, i take what i can get, i take what's granted onto me, beggars can't be choosers, but they all inevitably failed, i'm just not a strong person i guess, i can't take the slings and arrows of life, i don't know what i really want. you know what i really want? i want sex. no. i want to be happy. no, strike that, i want to be rich. naw, i'm a simple man, i merely want the upcoming new Nine Inch Nails album.

2. do you have any sexual phobias? what have you done to manage or overcome them?: i love that word "manage", that's what i do with my depression, just enough to be functioning, but never really curing anything. i don't have any sexual phobias, i'm into all things weird, so the stranger, the better. i am afraid of getting naked, though.

3. what is the best new sexual activity you've tried in 2013?: guys, there's this thing called a Solo Adventure, i just learned about it on last night's Venture Bros. yeah, it relieves tension, it helps you during the dry spells when you don't have a lover, just make sure you do it in secret 'cause not everyone is cool with you taking work days off to go on vacation, not everyone in society has the same "ticket to ride" as you do, if you catch my ocean drift.

4. have you ever called into a sex advice radio/tv show or written to a sex advice columnist? was it helpful?: no, but i wish i had. whenever i watch old-skool Degrassi, i feel if i had been at Degrassi during the cheesy '80s, i definitely would have raised my hand when Dr. Sally asked if anyone in class felt funny at times, if anyone in class wanted to touch themselves but the Nuns forbade it. as for Dr. Ruth, well, she's my heart, we have a connection, we joke and we learn, now and forever, until the end of time, she's my cool grandmother from another mother.

5. would you use the services of a sex therapist? why or why not?: only if she looked like Helen Hunt...

6. should sex therapists be allowed to engage in actual sexual activities with clients? why or why not?: GOD YES!!!

bonus: recommend any good adult sex-ed books lately? the Madonna Sex book, those pics, i mean, i still can't get's actually Vanilla Ice...also, Archie comics, MAD Magazine, i learned so much more about sex and sex terms from these than i would have with a dry talk from our neighbor Old Man Larry across the street. besides, Mom didn't want me talking to Old Man Larry and his mustache...




Friday, June 21, 2013


they tried to have this ad banned because it was scaring some folk. folks, imagination is a powerful thing, it can please as well as frighten, leave it to the professionals, they will never harm you, leave it for the out-of-work actors like me and the advertisement industry, those Mad Men know what they're doing, they have the television ratings to prove it.


after viewing, in the comments, please list 3 THREE things which caught your eye in this ad. IKEA stands for I Know Everything's Alright. let's calm ourselves with yoga and garden-hose tea. gnomes are our friends, they help protect by planet by killing all the extra elves, they are the only ones willing to do these low-paying jobs, write your congressman for better immigration reform. they got mad here because the nice family was encroaching on their territory. let's keep the garden parties to a minimum and the wild in the wild, that's the solution, i'm a solutions-based individual.



Wednesday, June 19, 2013



click above to start the new series, 1 of 4, ectoplasm not required to click.

my collarbone story is as permanent as my tats stories...

now see, this is what i mean, the Spurs choking away their NBA Championship Rings last night is exactly what i mean.

in life, many times, more often than not, you have but ONE chance to make something happen, to achieve your dreams. the timelines work with one key at one hole at one location at one part of day for the rest of the years. you have to talk to a specific babe at this corner-shop coffee-shop in order to make the other connections which will allow you to sing on stage for a living and not starve. the Spurs expended all of their energy last night, they knew they had to win yesterday 'cause they weren't winning a Game 7 in Miami. Old Man Duncan stretched his dusty bones to the limit in the first half, the Spurs packed one day's worth of clothes, they wanted the trophy NOW. they were even wheeling out the championship celebration with minutes to go in the fourth quarter, the Heat "fans" were filing out because there were better parties elsewhere i guess and the handy traffic excuse. everybody and their grandmama knew the Spurs had this in the bag, but a couple of shaky free throws and Ginobili flailing away, swimming in costly blunders at the end, and the golden opportunity is missed.

the opportunity isn't just missed, it's forever gone, the Spurs are doomed, last night was their chance, their only chance, they made sure to play well so they could wrap it up, they will not win tomorrow in Game 7, you can book that, they are exhausted physically and spiritually, they are devastated beyond belief. imagine thinking you have something, you have obtained Excalibur, you picture the glorious sword in your hilt, you are touching it, but it is just a dream, the reality is that the Black Knight punked you, beat you over the head with Excalibur while you were daydreaming, and you are left with just your head above ground cartoon-style lamenting the fact that your dream was just that, a dream never rooted in reality. you are still the loser with no sword. so close, so fucking close.

that is my life.

the Spurs won't just lose Game 7 and the Finals and the championship that was there in their hands, they will wave the white flag, they will get destroyed by 30 points, it will be a laffer by Period 1's end. they will show signs of despair and grief, they will try to move to block and rebound, but their bodies will show externally what their internal psyches cannot bear to perceive but still do: they let it slip from their fingers, they couldn't grasp hard enough for a few more seconds.

the Spurs experienced something ghastly, horrible, and now they are haunted. you can see during their press conferences last night that they are haunted. they didn't even really try to cover it up, it was just too painful. sure, Coach Pop gave his reliably empty assertion that everything is okay, the team will simply rebound by getting back on that bus and playing another basketball game, but even the great legendary Coach Pop is being questioned today, his decisions are being challenged, something you could never imagine happening. as Trent Reznor puts it:

I'd listen to the words he'd say
But in his voice i heard decay

decay, that is all the spills out of the poor Spurs as they lean in to the microphone to try to explain their sadness. only i can see it, it physically manifests itself to me, it's a ghostly white trail that issues forth when Ginobili talks about the devastation, Duncan realizes that this is a difficult loss, Tony Parker laments that they were close to the 'chip. the words don't matter anymore, it's the heavy feelings which come out of their mouths, a straight line-drive mist which surveys the press corps then quietly ascends to the ceiling, the after-soul of humans, athletes striving with every cell but coming up short, of grand humans becoming bodies before the weight of failure, the decay of trying, trying, trying but not succeeding.


this is my life precisely.



Monday, June 17, 2013


HOW DO YOU LIKE YOUR_____________?

1. eggs cooked?: the same every morning, oil in the old, crusty little pan, swirl that around like i swirl my penis in the morning, one egg cracked into the center there, no more swirling, and you have one fried egg. sometimes i treat myself and buy at The Store a bag of already-cooked-but-cold hard-boiled eggs, i steam up an oversize pot of water, let the hot steam hit my face, it's better than an orgasm, and place not one but TWO hard-boiled eggs into the pot to transform them from cold to hot. routine is the key to happiness. i arrange my eggs much like the pic above into a happy face, that necessarily starts the day off happy for me...except i don't give the breakfast face a toast-and-butter hat, that would be ridiculous. while researching this, i entered the weird part of youtube and was viewing vids on some delicacy known as eggs and brains, pork brains in milk gravy...the happy breakfast egg face's bacon-strip lips are turning upside down...

2. your sandwich cut? in half, down the middle or diagonal?: funny you should ask, i go to The Store once a week, they call that weekly, to get my hot sandwich, just a hot sandwich, not a blowjob. since variety is the spice of life, sometimes i opt for the potato wedges and hot wings sitting all morning under a broken heat lamp. they're, well, never tasty, chicken is wiry, potatoes taste like concrete. sometimes it's good, you have to catch it right when they're put into the chafing tray, otherwise they've been coagulating for hours while you were eating your breakfast egg face, and now you have egg on your face. diagonal cut is only for the sophisticated class, thus i choose it, it's pretty and symmetrical and mathematical, Adventure Time!

3. your coffee?: Starbucks, it has to be Starbucks. this isn't me being a corporate shill, it's just that they have through the years transformed me into one of their advertising drone bots by creating those bottles of coffee and mocha Frappuccinos. i distinctly remember the very first time i tried a Frappuccino, it was at Cal, they were giving them away in an ice bucket at the front of the campus gate, never had one before, but i couldn't turn down free drink. i even remember what that dude was wearing who in passing me said to his friend, "yeah, dude, free Frappuccinos, this way." he wore hipster-yellow mittens. never heard the term Frappuccino until then...took an old-college-try swig of the i can't bodily function without it. it's weird, though, because although i intellectually realize that the stuff tastes like cat piss, my tongue concurrently sends the signal to my brain that the stuff is good and rich and creamy and milky. science: it fucks with you.

4. your tea?: tea Earl Grey hot, exactly like Jean-Luc Picard orders it. i want to lick that man's strong bald head.

5. your ice cream---cone, cup or condom? yes, that's right, your ears are working properly, we said condom. Google it, just Google it: oh Japan! oh Japan, i love You so! you fit my personality perfectly, you're the grandest combination of creativity and weirdness, a chap like me can only hope to one day live inside you, wriggle inside around you, and never be birthed out. Japan and the UK, hopefully i can set foot in these two brilliant countries before i die alone.

6. you hair---long or short? up or down? straight or curly? permed or natural?: my relationship with my hair led to my depression. i hated my frizzy hair, i always wanted long, nice, straight, raven-black hair like Trent Reznor, but alas, it turned out unmanageably frizzy. curly i could cope with, but it was fucking frizzy and nasty. we tried everything: straightening it, but that became too expensive; crying, which was always comforting; until i made the decision to simply shave my head each month and be done with it. Dad always used to say after each of my monthly visits to the straightening guy's salon, "hey buddy, hey Phoenix," Dad called me Phoenix, "i thought girls liked dudes with a little curl in their hair."

is that true by the way? do the babes like curly hair, is it that straight hair is actually boring? please tell me my online friends.

7. to have sex? in what position?: scrunched up into a tiny ball, otherwise i don't feel the thrusts anymore.

bonus: how do you like your lovers?: real.



Wednesday, June 12, 2013



click above on Martha Stewart to end it all again.


somewhere along the way, my life went wrong.

click, click, click

i remember the click of the joystick controller on the Centipede arcade box station which was planted on the right side of the old modest mom-n-pop fries-and-soda shop near grade school. Dad would always pick me up right on time at 3PM no matter what he was doing, what troubles were surveying his soul, and we'd take the short walk from my school across the street to this place for hot fries and refreshing cola. man that coke tasted so much sweeter, those fries were salty and alive, this wasn't normal food, it was a treat, a break from all of that school-learning each day, it was my Dad, that's what made it taste heavenly. i got pretty good at that Centipede, almost broke the high score, it wasn't impossibly-wondrous Zelda or anything, but it was a nice simple game to take my mind off bullies and hot teachers and awakening sexual feelings and my emergence as the highest GPA in class and all the pressures and isolations which came with that. that game honed my reflexes, my hand-eye coordination, little did i know then that that would be my limit of that sort of training, i never would drive a car. always one quarter's worth of game, no more, no less, that was perfect from Dad, it was just enough otherworldly space and shooting space mushrooms in my spaceship and space-centipede excitement for a boy without me becoming a glutton for the violence but also feeling that i wasn't getting denied fascinating pop-culture. homework and all As were the most important things, but a nerd needs his video games, his escapes, too. a year later, in a move that would reflect the rest of my life, the poor, little fries stand was razed down. the day before, we were allowed to take a picture in front of the shack and what a beautiful photo that was, my favorite of all time still: a boy hugging his beautiful, glorious father with a Christian side hug in front of a special small place no one else knew about, but the two of us knew, and that was all that mattered, a moment in time captured forever on film that spoke at once of nostalgia, the heartbreaking end of nostalgia, and fear of the future.

click click click...

...went the birds who would nest atop the fries-shack roof. wonder whatever happened to them after the demolition? big oil companies never think of such things as precious nature, we're just statistics, not breathing souls. nature forced to move, my nature taking a turn for the worst.

what would happen if i terminated one of the infinite number of time threads on the Spool? alternate realities and alternate universes would crash into each other unexpectedly, certain people i would never meet, all of that potential stage drama would remain in my hand, not on paper.

i was destined for solitude, i never wanted the crown, solitude was thrust upon me, so much so it has become my nature, or is it still my choice?

so fucking tired all the time, i need a lie-down on the family couch before i think too hard.

half-eaten CORN chip, like my half-thought-out manuscript, my overlong short story that is dying to be put out of its misery with a tidy ending, but i refuse to be easy on myself, i have to fill this story, my last story, with everything that is me, it must be multi-layered to the maximum, to the hilt, hidden meanings inside every character, every word speaking a secret monologue that speaks to me and what i'm all about, what i ever meant to this world.

i have to stop getting into the routine of checking my email for responses 50 times a day, she will never answer back no matter how many times i click click click

fuck me, i still think there's a chance, huh? otherwise i wouldn't bother to move, to motion, i simply couldn't be bovvered.

even in death i am a Romantic.


i'm coming to see you, Dad,



Monday, June 10, 2013


isn't that first pic from way up above there just the greatest glass-reflection thing you've ever seen in your life?

PLANES, TRAINS, AND CARS, wouldn't that have been a better title? no, AUTOMOBILES, yeah, that's better, that rolls off the tongue glisteningly.

1. do you have more sex or less when on vacation? the last time i was on vacation was when i was in my mother's womb, and let me tell 'ya, there was a party in there for those 9 months, hoboy!'s exactly as depicted in Massive Attack's video for "Teardrop", exactly.

2. do you plan a vacation so you'll have an opportunity to have sex? that's the only reason to plan a vacation, i mean, what else are you gonna do, learn? many are in the Mile High Club, but only Betty and I are in the La Brea Tar Pits Club.

3. have you ever set up a vacation expressly for the purpose of sex? sure, that's what's known as a sex vacation. you go down to Brazil, on the beaches there, and wait for your soul mate to "accidentally" kick sand on your face. hasn't happened to me yet, but i go to Rio each year with that dream in mind. okay, i give, it's really a love vacation...

4. have you ever gone on a singles cruise or some other hookup-facilitating vacation? i don't mean to offend, but those things seem creepy to me, and that's saying something, it takes downright insanity to creep the Phoenix out. dunno, i look at those brochures and see all those people with perfect teeth smiling at me, they know about me and my troubles, they see me. maybe i'm just jealous that they still have all their original white teeth and i have a root-canal memory and a gold tooth.

5. have you fucked anywhere other than a car? planes, trains, cruise ships, bus? one time i was feelin' froggy after fucking at a Carl's Jr. bathroom that i whispered sweet nothings into the cute bus driver's ears on her route back to where i lived at the time. she got off her shift, she then got on her shift again, i paid my normal fare and she bus-rode me to that same Carl's Jr. and we fucked in the Carl's Jr. bathroom on her lunch break, I bus-rode her. that was the most filling lunch i'd ever eaten.

6. have you had outdoor sex on a skiing, camping, hiking, or boating vacation? i'm too poor to go skiing, though i love hot cocoa and the concept of ski bunnies. goths don't go camping, it's against their non-religion. the only hiking i enjoy is hiked-up skirts. and...well, you know what this one is gonna be...boating...yeah....motorboating...huge tits.

bonus: do you pack sex toys, lubes of 3.4 ounces or less, etc., when you fly? do you think about TSA finding them? has TSA ever found them and displayed them all out for the public to see and had you explain your sexual aids and your sexual tool? TSA didn't allow it, it was 3.5 instead of 3.4, that one-tenth destroyed my relationship. it wasn't lube, it was a very special bottle of perfume that is only mined for one day a year at the bottom of the ocean, scuba-divers have to suit up, it's called Eau de Furball, it was for my cat. now we've broken up...but we still live in the same house so it's tense.



Wednesday, June 5, 2013



click above for #3 of 4

you want the truth, right?

or what's left of it.

i'm too exhausted to care what others think anymore, about me or this meaningless life. the time, space, spacetime, and energy wasted on whether or not i'm good enough for love has weakened my body to the point where i can't make love properly anymore.

an incident at The Store yesterday highlights my many problems with the world and myself. i'm strolling along the frozen-food section, minding my own business, i rarely speak in public, do everything in my power to avoid being noticed, the anxiety has become my permanent hat. hehe, yeah, and i want to become an actor, do i? long way to travel.

suddenly, like a blogspot lurker who suddenly takes control of your entire blog and becomes a commenting vise on every post, a dude with a snarky smile and a menacing iphone with that microphone icon recording every one of my few words strolls up alongside me and asks if i could answer a few questions. you have got to be kidding me! i mean, seriously? buddy, this is the wrong time, and i am definitely the wrong man. do you know who i am? i am the famous blogger the late phoenix. do you realize you've sauntered up unknowingly to the guy who taught internet trolls how to be trolls, who is anonymous and Anonymous for a reason? i don't do this for publicity, if i did, i'd be Tom Cruise...well, okay, Johnny Depp, someone i can indie-cred respect.

why did i get targeted? i'm a soft target i know, i'm vulnerable, it's just me trying to make my way in this world, through the damn aisle grasping for my ridged french fries, wanting to make my entrance and exit out of this nightmare of scary people all over the place talking about food, expensive drink, and their lives which will forever be better than mine 'cause they don't contend with my demons. i wanted to imprint my tiny presence at The Store that afternoon like a magician who wears a mask and never signs his work, quiet as an atheist mouse.

maybe if i had other/human protection, a mom or a girlfriend clutching my arm, people would leave me alone. but no, the loner is ripe for ridicule and an unwanted spotlight. actor, ha! miles away. okay, i thought, well, maybe this is a good thing, i've painfully avoided controversy and human interaction explicitly for this reason, the mealworms of nerves in my stomach from decades ago are starting to bubble up as this guy won't let it go and is determined to talk to me like i'm any other joe on the street. does he not see my pain and discomfort? no of course not, i hide it well, have had to from my folks and "friends" all these years, he doesn't know me, i don't want him to ever know the real me, i'm an actor. time to confront, whether i want to or not.

"so can you answer a few somethings?"

"um," i stuttered, the first time in ten years i've talked to a non-family-member, a stranger, first time i've literally been FORCED to talk to a strange man, some nondescript dude on the street, i have to speak to move on with my life, "will this take long?"...okay, still have a somewhat listenable voice, cadence is still okay after all these cobwebs, the youtube vids i did recently really broke the ice, "i need to...", i stopped there, but man, i really wanted to just get my fries.

"what do you think makes for a great treasure-hunter?"

"oh, treasure-hunter!" i retorted. yeah, this isn't a useless, ridiculous question or anything. sure, i felt for the dude, his stupid boss at the newspaper saw his worth, a rookie wet behind the ears, the boss is laughing and snickering to his face as he sends him on this idiotic assignment to stalk members of a food establishment and ask them about treasure-something, this article will definitely reach the next-to-back page, if it was on the back page it would be seen, but the next-to-last page, that's where your little report on the left-hand inside corner of the page on the attitudes of this community on whatever it is---scuba-divers' rights, the hidden gold near the sea where we live, environmental concerns, or perhaps just speed freaks looking for a thrill after the bath salts wear off---shall land.

i didn't think, if i would have thought, i would have sunk into the ground on the spot. i assumed my blogging persona, the take-no-prisoners, don't-give-a-fuck-about-anyone-and-anything person i wear when i type furiously and stream-of-conscience, without a conscience, letting my extensive vocabulary fly as i describe the creative things in my brain, always clever, lying my ass off like any good actor does, always doble-entendre, filled with the loads of sex and lust i wish i could indulge in in real life IRL, snarky, rude, telling it like it is, i fucking hate that term "telling it like it is", that's the fakest thing you can do...and always inscrutably weird and nonsensical.

"well, you know, i know treasure-hunters, i was once a treasure-hunter myself, but my wife left me when she caught me licking that piece of silver instead of the dime-piece she thought she was..."

dude cracked a very creepy smile, and that disturbing mic icon on his iphone, it wasn't just capturing my voice, it was capturing my essence for when God had to decide Heaven or Hell for me later.

"what are the traits of the best treasure-hunters?"

seriously, what the hell was this for? "a good treasure-hunter must be..." i was thinking hard for the cleverest responses. man, this is like me trying to come up with youtube ideas and on the first take, i'm jabbering away about...something...nothing...and always have to take a second take, that first take is always a jumbled mess even by my standards..."a good treasure-hunter must never give up, must persevere through the bad times, must be a monetary genius when he cashes in later, must have a James-Bondesque eye for the ladies or it gets boring, and must love his family when he goes broke and gets his leg torn off from a shark's jaws and must live with Mom the rest of his life."

was he liking this? was the recording red light on? when will this torture be over? is this the end...of me? is he gone yet? by the way, after this was over, he strangely disappeared from out the store, nobody seemed to recognize that he was there, no one remembered him, he was out of sight, he literally vanished into thin air, did he talk to anyone else about this? no, just fucking me and gone. "um, can i get your name?"

"i use an alias, i like to remain unknown, i have this blog, see..."

"oh, you're a blogger, is that your profession?"

"yes, that's my "profession"."

"what have you had to persevere through in your life?"

oh, now i get it. this wasn't about treasure-hunters at all, that was just the gateway question. this guy was actually auditioning me for a cult. "i'm really depressed, i don't want to get into the long ugly history of it, but i don't know if i'll make it."

"what's the one thing that will get you out of this hole?"

"a loving girlfriend, a good woman..."

stone-faced, non-responsive from him...story of my (love) life.

"can i get your name?"

"just use my blog alias."

"but it's not a real name."

"okay, use...Matt Smith...y'know, The Doctor?"

he laughs...but you can tell he's no sci-fi geek, he really has no clue what i just said.

"can i get a pic of you?" suddenly a bulky old-school camera unknown heretofore pops out from behind his back, he grasps it with his bulky man-hands and menacingly tries to take a shot of me before i can say no, he's trying to capture my soul...

FUCK NO! i thought. can't he see that i'm a wallflower, i shun the spotlight though i want to be famous? can't he see my contradictions? "no, bro, no bro, i just don't want my picture taken. i like to remain anonymous."

"oh, well, then, bye." he walks off. total waste of time, misspent energy, and nerves...story of my life, i'm racing around in circles, deepening my overall paranoia of other humans, wondering about ulterior motives, all i fucking wanted was my god-damn ridged fries in peace.



Monday, June 3, 2013


there's something in my fridge.......regret......and carrot sticks and my blow-up doll. what!? i have to keep the thing from melting somehow.

sex and food go together like.......well, food and sex, living and breathing.

pic 8 down from the top up above there reminds me of my new friend...

what is in my fridge:

1. anything alcoholic? beer, wine, champagne?: wine coolers, fucking strawberry and hard as hell. real men drink wine coolers. actually, i don't like bitter drinks, i have enough bitter inside me as it is, i need to balance the universe by consuming sweet liquids.

2. any guilty pleasures? anything chocolate? ice cream?: i don't consider any food and drink a guilty pleasure, it's necessary for this human to live. i mean, what's the point of going on if i can't have my Trix cereal and my shedload of cans of Monster Energy? i can't live in a world where i am denied the chance to be fruitalicious and speedballed like a motherfucker.

3. any really old bottles of condiments?: funny you should ask that, i have tons and tons of ketchup packets old and recently-old from In-N-Out Burger, Burger King, and McDonalds. i always get these packets included in my bags when i eat out, i don't ask for ketchup explicitly, it seems to be implied. don't get me wrong, i'm grateful for the sauce, but i always use my home ketchup instead, so i'm left with this large-ass plastic bag that now contains 800,000 ketchup packets and 1 relish.

4. frozen pizza? any other frozen quick dinners?: pizza, nom nom nom. i prefer hot, but i'll take cold, much like my sex habits. my favorite topping on pizza is pizza. i never got the extra cheese thing, are they ripping you off if you ask for normal cheese? i'm a bachelor, i have to eat frozen dinners, though sometimes i treat myself to a little cotton candy i make homemade in my backyard shed, secret ingredient, shhhh! don't tell anyone: moonshine. whether i'm chomping down on yellow ice---that's the macaroni-and-cheese gourmet meal, brown ice---that's the filet mignon, black ice---that's the roadkill special, some sort of, like, i dunno, meatloaf or something, i'm happy to be alive............i'm so fucking lonely, i need a wife to feed me properly.........

5. anything actually rotten or moldy?: my pride, my self-worth. as far as food, no, i'm surprisingly clean and well-kept in my kitchen mostly because i don't have a lot of food and drink to start with, so nothing lasts long enough to mold, except for that damn ketchup. i'm so fucking poor, i drink grape juice and pretend it's wine, i pretend i'm rich by making it rain Monopoly money in my den, i think eating hard salami makes me hard.

6. what do you have in your fridge that the rest of us probably don't?: well, the blow-up doll. okay, everyone has that, but does your blow-up doll speak to you in dulcet tones like mine does?

bonus: in Philip Roth's Portnoy's Complaint, the main character Alexander Portnoy masturbates using a liver steak and cored-out apple. have you ever masturbated with food?: damn, i missed that one English lecture in college, i was too busy trying to get my credits verified at the student center. dude helping me said he would only comply with my demands if i did a "Portnoy's Not Complaining Anymore" on his body. now i know what he meant.

bonus bonus: we're curious, how many phallic-shaped foods are in your refrigerator?: one, my penis-shaped bottle of cottage cheese. don't ask. okay, ask. well, the cottage cheese looks like...i tear a small hole into the bottletop with scissors, and...yeah...

i ate all the pickles and the carrots and the sweet potatoes and the celery. however, there are still the two radishes in the top drawer that look like my balls.