This is an unedited collection of all Tomatoes’ blog posts on Myspace and Facebook. 130+ posts in five years. Over 100,000 words. Most of it is only accessible to Myspace friends.

The photos are the photos he himself posted on his Facebook blog.

I did this because I think Tomatoes was a very good writer and he deserves to be remembered for it. It also helped me make some sense of his senseless  death. If someone can do a better job presenting these writings on digital or printed format please go ahead.  If I’m stepping on anyone’s toes by posting this please let me know.

Marino Pascal




Tuesday, February 22, 2005 

My Dead Grandmother

OK, get ready for a depressing blog entry. Hopefully it's interesting. Maybe it'll just be boring, I don't know. I've been wanting to write this for a while but I''ve been really busy. The other day, I had this bad dream. I was at my mom's house in Houston. I was standing in her bedroom talking on the phone to my granmother. And she sounded really tired. She sounded so exhausted. I told her that I was going to come visit her, and all she would say was, "OK, Panchito, whatever you say. I'll be right here." In the dream, her voice really worried me. I became convinced that she was preparing to die, and her fatigue was a sign that she had quit and was giving in to death. I got real alarmed and I started sobbing; really, really, really crying. It was the first time that I've ever cried in a dream. It was very interesting. I truly was experiencing the sensation of crying. I was running around the house looking for my mom because I was going to tell her that her mother, my granma, was about to die. I couldn't find her though. I remember in the dream, it was daytime and there was lots of sunlight coming in through the windows, but there was nobody there. And then, I stopped right in the middle of the living room, and I was just standing there in the middle of the room, and that's when I stopped and realized that it was all just a dream, but you know how sometimes when you realize that you're dreaming, it makes you wake up? Well, that didn't happen. I just remained there standing in that living room of my childhood. And then, I began to wonder: "Wait, I thought my grandmother was already dead. Didn't she already die, Tomatoes?" "Tomatoes, you gotta stop and think this over. Why don't you remember whether or not our granma's dead or not?" "OK, OK, OK, now I remember. She died in October. Remember?" And then I woke up and all day and even up until now, obviously, this whole mentality has gotten me wondering. You see, I moved to California from Texas about 5 years ago. At first, I made it a point to go back to visit twice a year and then each visit, I would stay at least a month. I would talk for hours on the phone with my friends back in Houston and Austin. I remained very connected to Texas and my friends and family there for a good three years. In the first year that I was here, I was working as a cashier in a book store, and my girlfriend at the time got the news from my mother that my grandfather had died. She called me at work and told me. At first, I took it with no emotion. I went back behind the cash register and began ringing people up, but after 15 minutes or so, out of the middle of nowhere, I began weeping violently. I was ringing up a customer but I suddenly dropped the book and the scanner, looked at the customer's bewildered face, said, "Excuse me," and then stormed off to the boss's office to announce that I was going home for the day. I went and got drunk and sunsequently, got over it. After all, my grandfather was very ill, so it wasn't any big deal, but it still hurt. Last October, I woke up one morning and I went to work like I always do. After an hour or so, I took a break to go to the bathroom. As I was sitting there on the toilet, it dawned on me that my granma would probably die soon, so I should send her a nice letter telling her how much I loved her and everything. I never got around to it. I had lots of work to do, so I couldn't stop to write a letter. Then, a couple of hours later, over the loudspeaker at work, they called me to tell me that I had a call. It was Sarah Anne, a very close friend of mine here in LA, and she was calling to tell me that my mom had called and said that my granma had died. She sounded so concerned for me, but I was completey unmoved. It had been three years since I had seen my granma and she was already a little dead to me, so I couldn't get too upset about it. But, still though it's weird because my granma raised me almost as much as my own mother did. The last time that I talked to her in person, it went a little bit like the phone call in the dream. I kept on begging her not to die: "to let me come and visit at least once more", but she was very scary and she kept on telling me that her days were numbered. She had this very scary look in her eyes. It was like out of a horror movie or something. Somehow the word had spread amongst friends of mine and I got phone calls and e-mails, everybody acting all concerned, but me still not caring. So, after she died, a couple of weeks later, I went to visit family in Houston, and I went to see my grandparents house before they sold it off. Now, I expected that it was going to be really hard on me and that it would at last finally make me cry about the death of my granma. I spent a large portion of my childhood in that house. Half of my dreams take place in that house. My grandparents had lived there since the early sixties, but when I went, still no feelings. My mother, aunts, and uncles had already gotten rid of most of their belongings, but there were still a couple of sentimental things there: a little green and yellow salt shaker that my granma would always have on the dinner table, this piano that I used to bang on when I was a little kid. I went into the bedroom that I used to always stay in, and there was still this ugly painting on the wall that one of my aunts had done when she was a teenager. I guess they couldn't get rid of that. I went out in the back yard and there was this tree that I used to always climb when I was little. I climbed it one last time. I came down and I remembered how my granpa had tied a swing to one of the branches for his grandchildren to swing from. But, I felt nothing. Well at least not in my head. I definitely felt the humidity and the boredom and the dreariness of the suburbs of Houston, but not a lot more. We went and visited one of my uncles. We had dinner, and then afterwards, me and him took a long walk. He was telling me about how he hadn't gone by a single day without crying since her death. I still felt nothing. Other people that I know have died, young people that got killed or overdosed or suicided. I'm not going to go into their stories here; more is discussed in my book, but the same thing applies to their stories: I can't bring myself to give a shit. I think death is cool.






 Friday, February 25, 2005 

pointless times

I was intending for my next blog entry to be about how much I hate christians, but I just don't feel like spouting hatred today. You see, it's my birthday weekend. I took the day off of work today just for the hell of it, and I've never even done that once in the year and a half that I've had my current job. I've never even called in sick. I used to have this real shitty job when I was living in San Diego taking catalog orders for "International Male" which in case you don't know, is like Victoria's Secret for gay men, uh, no comment on that besides the fact that it made me want to throw up. For the life of me, I can't figure out gay men. nor can I figure out heterosexual women but lucky for me at least they work in my benefit. OK, OK, OK I know this is getting totally incoherent. I just want you to have to wonder what in the fuck it is that I'm trying to say. It's kind of like poetry which by the way I fucking hate. I wanna round up every poet in the whole entire world and slice their fucking throats. I can't think of much more that offends me other than poetry. Spit it the fuck out, asshole!!!!! What in the fuck is it that you're trying to say, motherfucker!!!!! I don't have time to sit here and try to pay attention to your meaningless, insincere bullshit while you try to bedazzle me with fancy lad bullshit wordage!!!!!!! OK well anyways, I had this job and they would try make me come in on Sundays which I hated. I didn't even care about clocking in hours because my girlfriend at the time was loaded. I'm despicable, huh? So, I would always call in sick, and my boss, I fucking hated her, . . . She was this middle aged, white, suburban like woman. That's not necesarily why I hated her though. I probably hated her because she didn't feel loved. You know the way that people act when they don't get enough love? They're not very nice. not very nice to be around. So, I would always call in sick, and finally, she started to ask me what was wrong with me, and I started getting very inventive. First, it was "explosive diarreah" Then, I moved on to "a really bad case of genital warts" and "harsh symptoms of rectal itching". "A plugged urethra" started to go sort of far. She suggested that I go see a doctor. I refused, but the next week when I told her that I was vomiting something that "smelled like feces", she insisted that I must bring in a doctor's note if I was to miss any more days. I was surprised that she was tolerant enough to even let it last that long. Oh man, that was such a weird period of my life. Me and my girlfriend at the time were living in this really fancy condo a couple of blocks from the beach. It was three stories tall. Our bedroom was on the top story and it had a balcony that you could see the beach from. It was so fancy, . . . by far the fanciest place that I've ever lived in to date. There was four bathrooms, and i made it a point to take a shit in a different toilet every day. I was really into heroine back then too. I remember I would always get it from this shoe shiner in Tijuana. He would shine my shoes and sell me heroine. To this day, I can't smell shined shoes without thinking of heroine. Those were pretty sweet days of my life, But here was the catch: they were trying to sell the condo while we were living there. So, we would totally be sitting there in our home having like a personal moment, and there'ld be these obnoxious perfume wearing yuppies with a loudmouth real estate agent walking through the room pointing out features or the condo like we weren't there. I would always come home from work, take off my shirt, let my hair down, and drink beer and smoke cigarettes, and they'ld always tell me not to smoke in the house, but I did anyway because I hate rich people. They can go to hell. Maybe, I'm just jealous, i don't know. They'ld walk through the room, both husband and wife seperately talking to other people or who knows? maybe each other? on their fucking cell phones, which is another thing that offends me. I bet 95f people on my space have cell phones. wouldn't you say that that was probaly accurate? So, anyways, on two different occasions, with two different real estate agents, they caught me and Starlette having sex. It was strange too because we were in the same exact position each time: I was standing on the floor right up near the edge of the bed fucking her while she was lying on her back with her legs up in the air. It was pretty sexy stuff. It's turning me on just thinking about it, but anyway, I digress. The first time, I couldn't get too mad about it because we had left the bedroom door open, but still it was strange: it's like the real estate agent knew exactly what she was looking for: I heard the front door slam, I heard foot steps coming up the stairwell, down the hall, and right into our room. I'm not exactly sure even what she was looking for. We all made eye contact, and then she turned around, walked down the hall, and down the steps. I heard the front door slam again and I continued fucking Starlette. So, after that, I made sure to always close the bedroom door when we were doing it. But another time, it was the exact same thing: me standing on the floor next to the bed, Starlette laying on her back with her legs in the air; me fucking the shit out of her, and then again I heard the front door slam, i heard footsteps coming up the stairs, down the hall, and then the fucking bedroom swung open, and oh my fucking gosh, there was another real estate agent standing there with her mouth wide open! She looked like the other one's sister: preppy with blond hair and a lot of make up and shit. I'ld slice her fucking throat if I knew I could get away with it, but anyway, I digress, she said out loud, "I'm sorry" closed the door, and went back outside. I swear to gosh, she came looking for us. I had a lock installed on the door. It was against the rules but I did it anyway. They kept on trying to come in, but the lock kept them out. Those were interesting times. Me and Starlette, all we did was fuck and argue; really pointless, I'll admit. Well, I'm'nna go and practice the drums now.



 Sunday, March 06, 2005 

oh holy f***king god

Gee whiz I've been so god damn it fucking busy that I haven't been able to do a blog entry for awhile and I'm not quite sure what it's going to be about, but there's this dream that I had a few days ago that had a big effect on me. You see, I'm writing a book a s I may've already mentioned, and I think it's real important to be a little fucked in the head to make for interesting writing because as i see it, nobody wants to read about rainbows and teddy bears and such shit as that, so I intentionally put myself in a really deep pit of despair. i feel like a fucking teenager for gosh sakes. Complete with self-mutilation and sitting in dark rooms for long periods of time. So anyway, as to the dream that I had, it was straight out of horror movie, zombies, demons, ghosts; and that's exactly what has me concerned, . . . or rather i should say pleased with my current state of mind, since that's precisely what I was aiming for and i think I've done a nice job engraining myself with that mentality straight into my subconscious. Oh, I'm so fucked in the head, and i only hope to become more fucked. So, this dream that i had: it took place in my granma's house: you remember the one that i was talking about in the previous blog? well, it was that house. the one where most of my dreams take place; and I was with Starlette, my ex-girlfriend and we were in the bedroom where I used to sleep when I was a little kid, but it was our bedroom, and we were sniffing coke, and my mom was there in the house, and she knew that we were doing drugs, and she was banging on the door and she told us we had to leave, and Starlette got so pissed at me, she was yelling at me, "Oh, Fuck Tomatoes! Why in the fuck do you always get us kicked out of everywhere that we go?!?!?! What in the fuck is wrong with you that you always have to do this to us?!?!" And she got so pissed off that she turned into a demon. She was foaming at the mouth. Her eyes glassed over. Maybe I've watched too many horror movies I don't know. But, then all of a sudden in the dream, there were monsters all over the house. Creeping all around: up and down the halls. Suddenly, there was no life; only death; and everything went berzerk; I was the only living thing in that house, and all the other dead things wanted me to be with them. I ran out of the room; down the hall to my grandparents bedroom; the same room where both of them died, but 5 years apart. I ran into their bedroom seeking solace, but they weren't there. obviously not, and that's when I remembered that they're dead. But, they weren't around anymore. They were gone; content to be dead; with no urges to torment the living unlike these other ghouls in the house that were coming after me. I became very alarmed in this dream; I wasn't quite sure what it was that they wanted to do with me. I was assuming that maybe they wanted me to be like them, dead, unsatisfied; perpetually discontent and roaming; never sleeping; and then I looked at the bed and there was a demon laying there; and it was in fact,sleeping; and I couldn't figure out for the life of me; why in the hell it could be asleep. It was snoring. It seemed like a female demon. It was laying there on that bed. The same bed that both of my grandparents died on, and it seemed so peaceful, but so evil at the same time. And that's when I decided to call the police. i know, that seems so pussy, huh? Even in my dreams, when scared enough, I wanna call the cops on ghosts in my dreams. What in the fuck is wrong with me? And then I ran into the back yard, and I ran to that tree that I used to climb up when I was a little kid, and I climbed up it once more. I was running as much from the demons as much as from the police that I had just called. I kept climbing higher and higher and the branches kept getting thinner and thinner and they seemed like they were gonna break. And I looked down to the ground; backyard of my grandparents house and it was swarming with ghosts and with miscellaneous dead creatures that were coming to get me, and then, get this, this the comical part; the cops came, the came swarming into the backyard, but they were coming to get me. Apparently, they couldn't see the ghosts. They walked right throught the crowd; straight up to the tree. They were coming to get me! I kept on climbing higher and higher. And then suddenly, there was bees everywhere, but those bees, they weren't coming to get me, they were getting at these tree roaches. You see, when i used to climb that tree when I was younger, it used to always be infested with tree roaches. If you've never seen those, then consider yourself lucky. They're horrifying looking. They're all prehistoric and shit. A tree roach is a huge cockaroach; maybe about 2 to 3 inches long and gruesome looking. I wonder what goes through their heads. you know, we easily could've been born as tree roaches. But instead we're humans; or I'm just assuming that you are because you're reading this. So, anyways, back to this dream: these huge bees were attacking all of the tree roaches, but totally ignoring me. The cops, well, the cops didn't know how to get to me through all of the roaches and bees. It was some scary shit let me tell you. But, the point of all of this, is that when i woke up, I was deeply disturbed. deeply disturbed and satisfied satisfied that i was disturbed



 Tuesday, March 22, 2005 

Meth?, blah!

I got back from Austin about a week ago. It was totally fun. I wanted to go for SXSW, but I got my plane ticket on the wrong dates. Maybe it's for the better though because if it would've been SXSW, I probably wouldn't've been able to get in anywhere. That can't be correct English: wouldn't've? The first night, I did speed for the first time in two years. We were just sniffing it and smoking it. No needles or anything. It really sucked. I didn't enjoy it at all. Before I left, I was commenting to someone here in LA that I didn't want to do any speed in Austin, but I still got peer pressured into it. He twisted my arm so damn hard it still hurts right now a couple of weeks later. ha ha just kidding. But really though, I was worried about the temptation to do speed in Austin because when I used to live there, I used to do a lot of that stuff, and then each time when I would go back to visit, I would always end up doing it again, so I saw the situation coming from a mile away. Or maybe i should say that I saw it coming form two thousand miles away because that's probably how far away Texas is. Darn!, it feels good to be incoherent. So, anyway, the way speed works is right when you first start doing it, it's totally magical, the best feeling in the world. You can sit there and write for ten hours or straight or whatever it is that you like doing. But as you keep on doing throughout your life, it keeps on getting less and less fun. After a while, you completely cease to do anything creative, and it just becomes like a sex drug. You can't even think about anything else. Maybe that can be fun at first, but even that gets old, real old. And it makes you feel like a pervert too which is an icky feeling as far as I'm concerned. But, then, you move to the next phase which is even worse: when you do it, all you can do is geek out and stare at the wall and think that people are coming to get you. It's really terrible. There's a few variations to these cycles, but I think one thing is universal with prolonged speed use: it'll eventually make you psycho. So, my recent speed experience in Austin was good and bad. It was bad in the sense that I didn't enjoy it and it actually made me feel really ill for a couple of days, but then again it's kind of a good thing because it was a pivotal moment in my life where the realization fully kicked in that meth has absolutely no control over me anymore, so that's a good thing. Ideally, what I would prefer would be that I could do it occasionally and enjoy it, but I'm incapable of doing that so might as well deal with it and kick it to the curb. Sleeping and eating ain't so bad anyway. They're actually quite enjoyable. Plus, I really do prefer my writing while not on speed. Maybe it's fun to write on speed, but the product sucks and nobody else wants to read it. You see, People on speed think that they're so clever (including myself). They say and write the most out-there, meaningless shit and they think it's the smartest, most enlightened mystical shit to've ever've been spoken on the face of the planet. Give me a fucking break. When I was living in Tijuana, I was writing a book on speed. I was about two-thirds done with it, and all of the speed that I was doing started making me really crazy, too crazy to write anymore, so I had to get out of there. I moved to LA and was staying in this really shitty hotel room near MacArthur Park. After a while, I couldn't pay my rent and one time, I was coming home and they had changed the locks on the door with all of my stuff inside of there. They wouldn't give any of it back to me until I paid my debt to them. Nearly all of my belongings were in that room including the book that I was writing, my clothes, and all of my cd's. I never could come up with the money that I owed them. I kept on trying to get my shit back, (mainly the book) and then finally one day when I was down there trying to convince them to at least just give me the book, they claimed that they had thrown everything away. I kept on pleading with them, "Please, oh please, just give me my book. It's totally worthless to you, but to me, it means so much. I poured so much time and energy into that thing and it means nothing to you!!!! It's just pieces of paper to you!! Give it to me, please!!!" I got so frustrated I started crying. They didn't give a fuck about me and my stupid book. But, then I turned the whole thing around and tried to make it into something positive. The book was a hyper-inebriated, stream of consciousness, kind-of-a-science fiction, the South Shall Rise Again, futuristic, pile of methamphetamine-induced garbage that nobody would've probably ever've read because it was to that level of incoherence. Speed makes you think that you are the chosen one. You were chosen by gods or some kind of metaphysical super beings to bring this spiritual message. But, the thing is. Well, the thing is is that the sacred message that your bringing to the world is encoded in total incomprehensible gibberish. But, you think in your head that people will realize that the message you behold is the key to true illumination , so they will try to decipher it. Sadly, this is not the case. People like to read a good story. They're not interested in your masturbatory word play. So, I decided to start writing another book, but to make this one more readable. I wanted to just write a book that's entertaining and that tells a good story. I wanted to write something clear and understandable. Something that makes sense. Maybe the story doesn't make sense, but at least, it's followableableable. So, anyway, I was totally intending to write about my trip to Austin, and I went off on a tangent, oh well. I'll continue about my trip to Austin in my next blog entry.



 Saturday, April 02, 2005 


The SEX Blog! Ha! I knew that would get your attention, but it wasn't necessarily misleading. This blog is in fact about sex, but it doesn't necessarily have any sort of positive message behind it. I'll start it off with something that I wrote (by hand) while taking a plane from LA to Austin about a week ago: on a plane from Burbank to Dallas I'm burnt out on my own libido. Fuck, I'm on a plane going to Texas and I'm getting so damn burnt out on my own libido. There's this stewardess on here, and I'm not the least bit attracted to her and yet I am. She's wearing black panny hose and she has just her bangs tied in a pony tail behind her head. Just by the look in her eyes, I could tell I would hate her if I got to know her, and yet, deep down inside, I want to fuck her. If you are female and you are reading this, I'ld like to inform you of something. You may already know this, but it needs to be said anyway: If a man wants to fuck you, it should in no way be mistaken as a sign that he has even the slightest shred of respect for you or himself or anybody. It could even mean the opposite really. You probably already know this, I don't know, I'm not exactly sure because I'm sort of perplexed by female sexuality. I'm close to giving up completely on trying to understand it. I have this theory that a lot of women need to have respect for a man to want to fuck him. Women, it seems to me, look for accomplishments in their mates whereas most men only care about looks. It's one of the many aspects of sexism that works in the favor of men: it's more expected of us to have a drive to want to accomplish things in life rather than to be just simply good looking. I know a lot of this is totally obvious, but it's nice to get it down on paper. Some women, if good looking enough, are completely satisfied to just get together with a successful man and live vicariously through him. If this theory seems sexist to you, please don't hesitate to let me know. All of the views expressed in my blog are eternally up for review. But back to my libido, I'm fucking sick of it! I want it to fuck off and die!!!!!!! Now, you may judge me for what I'm about to say, and if you choose to do so, go ahead and do it because I don't give a fuck anymore what people think about me due to my words. I'm through worrying about what I should or should not say! There is no such thing anymore of an inappropriate statement. Well, it's not like I'm going around with a bullhorn yelling at people on the street. It was your choice to read my blog, so it doesn't matter if I'm totally honest because if I wasn't, what would be the point of me writing all of this in the first place? So, anyway back to my story, while I was waiting in the security checkout line in the Burbank airport, there was this young woman standing a couple of places in front of me in line. She was with this man that was probably her father. She was wearing a shirt to where you could see her waist and her skin was so pale and smooth, and then she was wearing these tight jeans where you could totally see the shape of her butt really well, and then just a little bit of her pannies were sticking out and they were pink and I couldn't stop staring. I wasn't necessarily thinking about anything explicitly sexual. I didn't need to; just the sight of her was arousing enough and that's when I started feeling bad about myself. There was a whole rainbow assortment of the different forms of guilt that I was experiencing. First of all, I couldn't tell how old she was. She could've easily've been eighteen or older, but it was possible that she was seventeen. I've never really been good at guessing people's age. I never used to care. But, anyway, why was I so worried about her age? I wasn't doing anything to her. I wasn't even imagining fucking her or anything. I was just looking, but still, it makes me feel like a fucking pedophile. I feel like shit about myself for it. Still right now, on the plane, I just feel like a worthless piece of shit. Also, it makes me feel like maybe I was being disrespectful to that man for staring at his daughter's ass right in front of him. Why does my libido control me so much? I mean, I try to give into it as often as possible, and still it consumes me. It rules me. And I know it's not uncommon in the slightest. I think almost all guys are like that. It's just that it doesn't bother them. At an early age most of them come to the conclusion that it's just a part of them and they live with it and even enjoy it. Maybe all guys go through the feelings that I'm having right now, . . . it's just that it usually probably happens when they're teenagers. I'm already 28 for christ's sake! My mission in life besides being happy and independent is to dedicate myself to creative pursuits and staring at some girl's ass in an airport just seems like the opposite of that. It's not like I'm ever going to fuck her and even if I did, I'm 100% sure that I'ld continue to stare at women's asses in airports all across the country way after that. It wouldn't cure me is what I'm trying to say. I can't understand what the point of all of this is. It's not like I plan on having kids or anything. I mean that is the real point of having sex right? The propagation of our species? But, I don't want to propagate humans. I hate humans. I'ld like to see them go extinct. So, I'm confused. It's not the sex act itself that I'm sick of. It's just the position that it holds in my mind that I'ld like to have control over. Well, maybe that's not worded right. What I mean to say is that I'ld like it to not have any control over me. In a way though, it really helps me to understand why men try so hard to control women: (including myself at times, especially in the past): It's because women already have so much control over us. It's just the way our reproductive systems are set up. I'm sure society plays some part in it too. Many factors of course. Too many to think of them all. But one thing's for sure, everything, that a moderately sane heterosexual man does, he does for one or more of these reasons: 1) it makes him feel comfortable 2) it feeds his ego 3) it aids in his survival 4) it helps to pass the time, and most importantly: 5) HE THINKS THAT IT WILL IMPRESS WOMEN which it sometimes does. My theory used to be that EVERYTHING that men do, they do to impress women, but I had to change this theory once while sitting in my room and watching tv by myself realizing that I definitely didn't think I was impressing women by doing that, so there had to be other motivations in life besides impressing women. Of course this theory is open to criticism, so please feel free to write a comment suggesting any other reasons you might think of. I think I have them all covered though. But, anyway it seems to me that women don't really understand the full extent that they rule our motives for doing everything that we do. Of course, though it's true, as I said before, that I don't really understand what goes through women's heads. Maybe I don't wanna know anyway. But, maybe it's all way more simpler than it seems. It's probably not too different from the way men think. We're humans after all and therefore we all suck. suck big time. The stupidest thing that ever happened to the planet earth: the homo sapien. So, in conclusion, I'ld like to say that there's advantages and disadvantages to both sexes and probably all of us are a little bit fucked in the head sexually to some degree or another, so I should stop fretting. Well, that's all that I wrote on the plane. I'm not sure if I still totally agree with everything that I wrote. I more or less do. There's another experience that I had that might shed some more light on this part of myself. The other day, my mind was especially active all day while I was working. Mostly with ideas of stuff that I wanted to write that evening in my book once I got home. I wanted to go straight home, sit at my typewriter, crack open my first beer of the day, and let all that shit flow out on paper, but it was payday, so I had to go to the bank and wait in line to deposit the check. A couple of places in line ahead of me, yet again there was this young woman. When I first saw her, she was looking straight at me, and she had the cutest smile on her face. I scowled at her because I didn't know what else to do. But after that, I couldn't stop thinking about her. For the twenty minutes that I waited in line, all I could think about was her. All of my ideas and motivation for writing in my book went down the drain. I waited in that line for a good twenty minutes and I couldn't even think straight at all again for a few hours. She had glasses and black hair and a unique style. This wasn't purely sexual. She just seemed really intriguing I guess is the way I should put it. But anyway. it was like she threw a psychic brick at my head and I turned into a semi-lobotomistic state where writing and just thinking in general were made impossible. It was really fucked let me tell you. Well, I have lots more shit about sex that I'ld like to write about, but I've been sitting on this damn thing for like two weeks, so I'm going to go ahead and post this blog. So, I hope you don't think I'm a creep after reading this, but if you do, I don't fucking care. Who knows maybe I am a creep, so fucking what?



 Tuesday, April 12, 2005 

I got hit by a truck, literally.

Yes, it's true, I got hit by a truck on my way to work this morning. Originally this blog was going to be an attempt to solicit legal consul from my friends and associates but now I'm convinced that it's quite the amusing anecdote, so I'll leave it at that. Plus, I've already made all of my decisions concerning the matter, but still feel free to let me know what you think if you'ld be so inclined. I was working on my new blog entry which was to be the most funny and embarrassing yet, but that's gotta wait because this just might be funnier. Allow me to start at the beginning. Yesterday, totally sucked for me. It was all fucking hot and bright and sunny. It really bummed me out, let me tell you. I think that sunny weather is probably the usual for southern california, but I guess all of the rainy overcast weather we've been having for the past four months or whatever has gotten me spoiled. I love it! or loved it rather I should say since it looks to be over. sigh . . . But, anyway, in case you don't know, I work in the lube department of a car dealership, and for some reason when there's sunny weather everybody wants to bring their stupid fucking cars in for maintenance and what not, so they had me working all fucking day in the warmth and it got me very exhausted. On Tuesday and Thursday evenings I always go home and work on my book and drink, so I had plans to drink some beer, eat dinner, and then write a few pages of my book, Tijuana Tap Water, you know? But after eating dinner, I completely lost my buzz and the activity of the day finally caught up to me. I couldn't even keep my eyes open. I sat in front of my typewriter and stared at the wall for about an hour until finally I gave in and went and laid down on my bed and took a nap. When I woke up about an hour later, I had lost all motivation for living and drinking. I was chugging beer, but couldn't get a buzz again. I wasn't thrilled at all about anything, not about my book, not about alcohol, not about comfort, not about nothing. Life sucked to me, so I decided to walk up to the store and get a big bottle of Thunderbird. That always cheers me up and maybe it would even motivate me enough to at least write a page or two in my book. Oh man, if you don't know what Thunderbird is, you really gotta try it! It's so damn good! It's fortified wine. It has like 17.5 lcohol in it, and it gives you such an incredible buzz! It's like no other alcoholic beverage. It's completely different. It's like, it's like, it makes you imagine that they put some kind of great drugs in it at the factory. None of my friends will drink it because, I don't know, it's too intense for them or something, and plus maybe they look at it as a ghetto drink or something, but you, you're different. I know you'll run out and try it, because you're a special person. . . . a very special person who isn't afraid to try something different. That's why I like you, but everybody else, well, they suck. I don't like them. I just like you. But wait, before you run out and buy the stuff, make sure you buy a packet of cherry Kool-aid with it. the unsweetened kind because you see, what you do is you pour a packet of that in the Thunderbird, close it back up and shake it. If it's one of those small bottles, just pour half a packet. You can't drink Thunderbird without Kool-Aid. It's a sin and you'll burn in hell. And plus, it turns your lips all red which is fun. I don't know why, it just is. It makes you feel like a little kid again eating popsicles. So, anyway back to last night, the Thunderbird was absolutely fantastic and I did in fact end up writing. Just a page, but it was really good stuff. Great stuff. I was writing about my first night living in Tijuana. Sheer hilarity let me tell you. I went to sleep thoroughly buzzed and when I woke up the next morning, I was still drunk, very drunk. I looked outside and I saw all the traffic on Glendale Boulevard and it was all bright outside and my room was already hot. It instantly made me crabby. I was thinking about how I was hearing somebody on the radio the day before refer to overcast weather as being revolting. "That person is so fucked to me!" I thought to myself. I put on some clothes and walked to the bathroom. In the mirror, I saw that my lips were still red. I rubbed the Kool-Aid off of them and shaved. I was still drunk. really drunk. But, you already know that. OK, now to the good stuff, I was riding down the sidewalk going opposite to traffic, and I see this brand new, shiny silver truck pulled all the way into the crosswalk in front of me. I saw the guy in the car. He was this middle aged white man with short hair. He looked straight at me and then turned and looked at the oncoming traffic. In case you don't know, the traffic on Glendale is totally packed during rush hour. It's that stretch of road between where the 2 freeway begins and Sunset. Very packed traffic, you must believe me. So, anyway, I thought he was a total asshole for pulling fully into the crosswalk, but I wasn't going to let it bother me, so I simply went in front of him. While I was right in front of his truck, he saw a little tiny gap in the traffic, so he accelerated very rapidly while trying to take a right. You already know what happens now, the fucker hit me and hard. Well I don't know how hard it necessarily was since I was not hurt, but me and the bike fell down to the cement. I was completely enraged! Especially since he was just looking straight at me. I can't stand the way that people drive in this fucking city! bunch of assholes! It's like they go around thinking that they are the only ones who exist. So anyway, without even thinking, I got up, leaving the bike down on the concrete and marched over to his car door. I tried to open it. I'm not exactly sure what I was planning to do to this guy, but I know one thing: I have fantasized about dragging people out of their cars and beating the shit out of them like in the LA riots. Although I love living in LA, I can understand why this city breeds hatred and violence. Mainly the way people drive. I tried repeatedly to open the door, but luckily for both of us, the door was locked and he refused to open it. He had a look of panic on his face because he knew that I had completely lost control over myself. I yelled at him demanding that he open the door but he wouldn't. I looked around at the ground, looking for a rock to break the window open, but couldn't find anything. I started kicking the side of the truck as hard as I could. As I said before, the truck looked totally new and my steel toed work shoes were making these very satisfying dents and black smudges on the glossy body. I got three good kicks at it before he screeched off, burning rubber. My heart was pounding. I was breathing hard. I realized that a bunch of people had stopped their cars and were staring at me. There was this guy in a mini-van that was behind the truck. He was motioning for me to go over to him, so I did. He handed me a little piece of paper, and said, "Here you go, dude." He was shaking his head back and forth. Why? I'm not exactly sure. Was it my actions he disapproved of? I looked down at the piece of paper, and it said, 6Z88186 GMC Sierra Gold I still have the paper. I'm looking at it now. I was about to not put up this information on the internet for worry of legal repercussions, but fuck it. In fact, fuck everything. So, I said to the guy in the minivan, "I'm going to get that fucker busted for Hit and Run! HA!" He didn't say anything. He just drove off still shaking his head back and forth for whatever reason. I got back on my bike and rode to work. So, I'm not going to comment too much on this incident except to say that I have, ahem . . . issues with my anger, but it makes for a funny story either way. I don't think I need any legal consul anymore since I've decided not to do anything about it. What I did was probably more illegal than what he did anyway. You know how they hate it when you take the law into your own hands. Uh, but what do you think? I think if he said in court that he didn't get out because he was scared of me doing something violent to him, that would probably make sense to the judge. I got hit once by a MTA bus too, but that's another story.



 Sunday, May 29, 2005 


So, I haven't written a blog entry in quite a while.

So, pretty uneventful times, ... ha, geez are you kidding me? Never is my life uneventful.

I'm a magnet to events so to speak.

I don't know if it's the music I listen to or what, but I 'm obsessed with the idea of murdering people.

Except for you of course, I would never kill you.

It helps me to understand the motives for all these youngsters that go and join the military.

They're not necessarily right wing; they just want to go and kill, and I for one, don't blame them.

I fantasize about murder on a daily basis. numerous times, I hate people. I hate human beings. I think we're the sickest thing on the face of the planet.

Sure, we've done many amazing things, but I think it's in no way in comparison to all the shitty things that we've done.

Like, for starters, it's become apparent to me that sadism simply is implanted in us through our blood. Just think about it, not many of us are down at the core not a sadist. Jesus Christ, is that convoluted or what? And speaking of Jesus, boy! was that guy ever a sadist! King of the sadists.

Except for me of course, I'm not sadisitic that I know of. One of my favorite activities, besides drinking, biking, and working on cars of course, but besides those three things, one of my favorite things in life is making other people happy. THAT MAKES ME HAPPY.

And hugs and kisses and black metal. Those things make me happy as well.

But, I'm the exception to the rule. And I'm sure you are too.

Most others, get such glee out of causing others pain.

And there's nothing that you can do about it.

Like the Maoists, they look at human nature as something moldable.

Like we're gonna train ourselves to not be such bastards, but the idea is stupid.

We are all bastards. Little babies are bastards.and they had no exposure to society, yet they come out of their mothers' pussies' already sucking.

Holy fuck, it's not even funny how muck we all suck.

But, god bless all pussies, it's the sole untaintable holy receptacle of goodness.

Except for the fact that more people come out of them.

and that's a losing cause.

And that's another  thing that I'ld like to address:

I don't like the expression when people call each other pussies to mean that they are like, cowardly. I even find myself doing it. Pussies, in actuality, are far from cowardly. They are the most excellent thing ever. Very brave, you might say.

Next time somebody calls me a pussy, I'm'nna take it like a compliment.

And that's another thing, why do I use the word, "suck" like it's a bad thing? What the fuck is wrong with sucking? Nothing at all if you ask me. It's a beautiful thing if you ask me.

So, I'm starting to feel like a creep going on and on about pussies and sucking and everything.

Geez, just even the word, pussy, it just doesn't even seem right, but I haven't found a better word for it yet. I'm racking my brain, and I can't find a better word for it.

You see, . . . us males, . . . . We have it easy.

Dicks, cocks, filthy appendages of intrusion,.. . we have all of these various terms that we have for our genitalia. They're all sonically pleasing.

Sonically pleasing? What in the fuck is it that I'm going on and on about?

So, anyway, please come to my beach cruiser race. It's part of BikeSummer LA. It's called the Tomatoes Sex Wolf Beach Cruiser Thunderbird Bonanza Race. Please come and I promise I won't try to fuck you. Don't bring a bike with gears please. It's on June 23rd. It starts at the art park in Los Feliz at 8:17 and we're going to drink Thunderbird with cherry Kool aid in it and I'm buying so leave your damn, filthy wallets at home.

And also, if you're tough enough  come to my single speed ride up to Griffith observatory. I haven't decided on the date yet for that. No fucking gears on that ride either, nor abnormal gear ratios either, but please, please, please, I beg of you, keep everything else abnormal, just not the gear ratios is all I'm saying.

I was thinking about what I wanted to put on the fliers for my race,

and the other night, I was sitting around in my room getting drunk and working on my book, and, well, and I was thinking that I wanted to put this on the fliers:


All those opposed to love need not come.

But, I don't think I'm going to put that after all since it, just quite frankly, seems a little creepy especially combined with the name of the race.

So, anyway, It's on June 23rd. It's starts at the art park in Los Feliz and we're going  to drink Thunderbird with cherry Kool aid in it until we turn blue in our faces. Some vomit might be involved too which is always exhilarating. Be prepared to call in sick to work the next day.

Please come,and let me know, so I know how much booze to buy.

Call my voice mail (323) 769-6313 or write me.

It's Sarah Anne's birthday too, so she'll be receiving major birthday love.

Happy Birthday Sarah Anne, I love you, and so does everybody else, . . .

or else I'll fuck them up bad, REAL BAD,

just kidding of course,

but not really.


Anyway, for more information on bike summer LA, go to



 Saturday, June 18, 2005 

read this and than take me off of your MySpace

Pardon me while I get all philosophical and shit, but nobody else exists besides myself. There's absolutely nobody else that truly exists and there's no way that you can prove to me that they do. I know the whole idea may seem like a bummer to you. The whole idea that I'm the only person completely alone in this world. I'm going somewhere with this, so just bear with me, but in hopes of depressing you more, let me just say that I love when friends and family and ex-girlfriends and shit die. I know I've said this in an earlier blog, but just in order to continue the celebration of death, I thought I'ld reiterate the thought. Especially when ex-girlfriends die, that's the best since they were already dead to me in the first place, and all it means is that they can't go on in the world fucking other guys. Am I antagonizing you yet? Have I said the wrong thing yet? Have you already decided to defriendsterize me? Well, good, and by the way, "fuck you" in quotes, "fuck you" figuratively speaking you gotta understand.

So, anyway, as I was saying, I'ld like to test the boundaries of pain. I'ld like to experience someone really, really close to me dying to see if I truly, way deep down don't give a fuck.

You see, all of the recent deaths that have happened were people back in Texas or down in Mexico, and all of those people are already kind of dead to me in the first place; kind of like the ex-girlfriends, so whatever, you know? What does it really matter to me anyway?

So, I'm getting way off track here. The original idea that I wanted to convey was that there's no such thing as a selfless act.

There's no such thing as charity. Mother Teresa was a fucking selfish bastard and I hope she burns in hell. If doing nice stuff for other people felt bad, you know damn well that you wouldn't even bother to do it. When you get somebody a present, you just do it because it makes you look nice, and usually makes other people treat you nice back. It's really a form of manipulation. Also when you do something nice, you're really doing it just to make yourself feel good, because truly deep down, you don't believe that that person even exists. There's nothing to prove it besides your five senses, and you know just like me that it's unwise to trust them. Reality is so flimsy, and it's constantly being manipulated by artificial sources; none of which is even human, originally.

I don't even know what it is.

So, the question that I'm posing to myself here is that if nobody else exists besides myself, than why am I posting this blog up on the Internets for other people to read?

If nobody else exists, than why don't I just finish up my book, put it in a box, and put it underneath my house in storage?

So, what in the fuck is it that I'm really trying to say here?

Oh, damn, I've done it again. I set out trying to prove a point and all I did was to disprove it.

What's really the point of all this? self exploration I suppose, and there's nothing wrong with that, god damn it because I live in the fucking U.S. and I have so much fucking leisure time, and so little to worry about that I can just sit around and get drunk and ponder stuff, and that's a beautiful thing is what I'm saying. You know, I hate everything that this country stands for, but damn it's the sweet life living here. Isn't it? c'mon, you gotta admit.

So, if you're Al Quaeda, or however the fuck it's spelled, I don't even care, I would just like to express my desire to join your cause. Let's bomb the hell out of some stuff, especially in San Diego. All those people deserve to die. Every last one of them; especially the babies.



 Wednesday, July 13, 2005 

lame blog entry

I woke up today without a hangover for the first time in years. I don't know what to think. I'm still shaking though. I have no idea how long it takes for that to go away, but I'm not giving it much of a chance to do so, seeing as how I'm getting drunk tonight at Sarah Anne's birthday party.

So, my race was stupendous. Some people who swore up and down that they were coming didn't show. That's something that used to really bother me when I was younger; you know, why don't people just say that they might come? Why do they make such a big deal out of saying that they're going to do something and then they don't do it and make themselves look like flaky assholes, when they could've just said "maybe" in the first place? OK, well apparently it still bothers me if I'm calling people assholes. [I'm writing this much later just to call myself on my own bullshit. I told someone that I was going to the Bicycle Film Festival and then never went. Although, I regret my flakiness, I don't regret not going since I heard that it was just movies about guys in New York. On top of that, Aurisha supposedly tried to turn in a movie about the Whirly Girls and they wouldn't accept it which to me is like a slap in the face of the local biking community, but who knows? I haven't seen the movie. Maybe it's poorly done or boring. I have no idea. not trying to accuse the Whirly Girls of anything of course.]

Anyway, there were some nice surprises though.

Paul from Choppercabras came. (Did I spell that right?) I look up to him. Not only did he start his own business, but on top of that, it revolves around bicycles.I can't wait to see his shop.

Ma Belle made a bike at the Bicycle Kitchen (which no longer has a kitchen) just to come to my race, and she even named the bike after me. I love you, Ma Belle; not like you even read my blog but whatever.

Lots of us got extremely shit faced on Thunderbird with cherry Kool Aid as you may've expected. I smelt like that shit all day the next day, and amazingly I didn't throw up, although others did. I'm sure. I don't quite remember. Amy passed out, and I had to drive us home. (We're roommates, so it wasn't too big of a deal)

Anyway, thanks to Rebecca, Armando, Amy, Jenny, Brian, and Clare for helping. and thanks to everyone who came, especially to those who came with actual single speed cruisers,. . . ahem. 

Everybody give yourselves pats on the back seeing as how we managed to finish off sixty bucks in Thunderbird. 

You know, this whole writing sober thing is interesting. I don't get as worked up about stuff when I'm sober. Yes, it's true that my life is hell when I'm hungover, but I think that that makes for good writing.

wow, I'm truly amazed. I don't really have anything interesting to say. Wow, so this is probably the mind frame of  most people in their day-to-day lives; . . . . interesting, hmmm, so this is how it feels, . . . interesting, . . . just kidding, it's not interesting at all. I'm going to pause and start this again when I can think of something.


OK, so it's Monday and yes, I'm hungover today. Sarah Anne's birthday party went fantastically. It was a prom theme, and then at 12 everybody jumped in the pool. I got so drunk, I did some blacked out flirting in my speedo underwears in the jacuzzi and had to be reminded of it the next day. But, apparently it almost worked, . . .  

The next day by Jenny's mom's pool, I called Michelle, and she was telling me how much it bothered her that I drank. She was like, "You get drunk everyday. I mean you're probably drunk right now, aren't you?"

I said no even though I was already on my fourth beer at 9 in the morning.

Then I hung up on her.

I haven't talked to her since. It's funny too because I told her all about my drinking right off the bat when I met her.

[update: we are no longer officially boyfriend and girlfriend; maybe it's shitty for me to be all public about it. I hope she doesn't get mad at me.

And also I just realized that I admitted to flirting with someone else while we were still officially together. Let this be a warning to all of you ladies out there: I am a fucking dirtbag.]

Then me, Fucking John, Shannon, and Amanda went and got lunch in Tarzana. fucking cool name for a town if you ask me

Me and Fucking John got 2 pitchers of margaritas and then when the bill came, we realized they were each 25 dollars each!!!!!! Jesus fucking Christ!!!!!! and we couldn't finish it all so I took the second one with us underneath my suit jacket. 

So, it seems like maybe this blog entry lacks substance, so I'm going to add some parts of other entries that I was working on. First, here's some redundant shit that I'm pretty sure I've already said in other entries, most notably the last one that I put up:

So, I was sitting on my porch last night getting really drunk like usual and I thought that I'ld write a blog entry on masochism because I love it so much.

Now, I'm not sure about all the aspects of my masochism. It's not like I like getting beaten up; I just like tragedy I guess you'ld say. and I like intense sensations

You know what it makes me think of? It brings to mind how I like malt liquor. I grew up drinking it just because it was cheap and it gave me a good buzz and now I love it and prefer it. I'ld still prefer it over almost all fancy beer even if it was the same price, but really when it comes down to it, I'll drink anything. as long as it doesn't have onions in it.

Or how about riding a bicycle? That's one of the biggest loves of my life, but I used to do it just because I didn't have a car.

So, maybe I like pain just because I've been dealing with it all my life.

Also, maybe I have self esteem issues or it might be a way of punishing myself for doing wrong.

But, anyway, sometimes I feel like I really want to test the limits of how much emotional pain I can take. Like, I want really really terrible things to happen to the people that I love the most in life just to see how bad it would hurt me. Isn't that selfish? Well, I don't know, am I responsible if something actually bad happens to them just because I wished it?

But, you know what? Now that I think about it, I totally cheat because I get drunk and you can't really truly feel emotional pain in that state. At least I can't.

And it's not only my own pain that I revel in. I also like other people's misfortune too. I've found that the California section of the LA Times is an excellent source of experiencing other people's tragedy.

It just makes me want to laugh.

You know I really hate humans. Not personally necessarily. Just the state of being human I think is really sucky and I want them to go through bad times because they deserve it. Like recently, on the news, I saw this man totally flipped out. He found the bodies of three little kids dead in the trunk of his car, and one or more of the boys was his own. He was completely hysterical. I can't imagine how fucked in the head he is now. He'll never return to normal.

oh, this was my old "About me" section on MySpace.

It was irritating me and I don't feel like it has been that accurate since my job has been making me unhappy lately. So, I just wanted to preserve it here in a blog entry:

Sincerity is my god and self exploration my prayer. In the year 2002, I hit the lowest point of my life. Pretty much the whole entire year was pure shit. It was terrible. I'm surprised I lived through it. 2001 and 2000 were almost as bad. But it's really all worth it because the year 2004 was so far, the best year of my life. It was the happiest and most productive. I've discovered that the point of life is to be happy. It sounds really obvious, and most everybody would agree with that, but deep down inside, they don't live by that philosophy.

And then here's some of my old friendster profile which I'm also erasing:

Right now is the happiest time of my life and it creeps me out. I feel like a brainwashed cult member or born again christian but there's no cult and I don't believe in god or anything. I just feel all blissed out all the time for no reason. Maybe I'm jinxing myself by saying this and everything's gonna all go to shit.

But wait, now that I think about it, every once in a while, I have days where the whole world just seems like one big nightmare. All of the terrible shit that goes on really fills me with grief. And then for some reason, the more disturbing it is to me, the more I focus on it. I think I might be an emotional masochist. but doesn't matter, it feels good.

OK, you have now finished this blog entry. Please go fuck yourselves.

Really, please do. I mean it.



 Sunday, August 07, 2005 

I almost got arrested by the LAX Police!!

So, yesterday, I had a plane ticket to go to Austin. It was Hiroshima day. August 6th. Also, Felicia, my first girlfriend's birthday. She's the bomb, get it? . . . .the bomb?

I got a hernia operation a few days ago, and it's an excuse to not have to go to work for a couple of weeks, so I wanted to take advantage of that free time by visiting Texas and Michelle and hopefully get a tattoo from Larry if he doesn't flake out on me this time. Just kidding.

I'm getting the twin towers after the planes hit 'em.

I've been told that I'll get beat up. We'll just have to wait and see. I'll have the rest of my life to find out if the tattoo will result in violence.

So, they gave me a big bottle of Vicodins after my surgery; fifty of them. I love those damn pills. It's the only kind of opiate I can enjoy anymore.

I started off the day by eating 5 of them and drinking 6 Miller High Life's. I was already packed, so the only preparation was to get really, really fucked up as is my usual tradition for plane rides.

I went to the store with all of my stuff and bought 3 24 oz. cans of Steel Reserve. That's some good shit, then I walked over to Jenny's. She was gonna give me a ride.

Anybody that will give you a ride all the way to LAX is a good friend. You gotta admit it.

I chugged 2 of the Steel Reserve's at her house while waiting to leave and petting Napalm, and then, I drank the third on the way to the airport in her car.

In the process, I ended up eating eight more Vicodin's. They were actual name brand "Vicodin" no more generic Hydrocodone for me since getting on Kaiser.

By the time I got to the airport, I was blacked out. an empty shell, or rather a big, full glass of beer. I'm not quite sure how I made it through security, but I did. I don't remember anything until getting on the plane. I have some recollection of that. I remember I couldn't figure out the seating arrangements.

I remember seeing a bunch of really dull people, and I didn't want to be near them.

I was listening to Abbey Road by the Beatles all day over and over and over.

Damn, I was so fucked up.

Over at the rear of the plane, there was nobody sitting over there, so I went and took a seat. I had a whole aisle to myself.

The plane was about ready to leave. I barely made it.

I sat down, and put the damn seat belt on and passed out within a few seconds.

This male "flight attendant" woke me up by tapping me reapetedly, and shreiking, "Sir, sir, sir."

His voice couldn't've been any more aggravating.

"Sir, I'm going to have to ask you to have a word with me off of the plane. Please collect your belongings and come with me."

I couldn't believe my ears. What in the fuck did I do?

I flat out refused and went back to sleep. I wasn't doing nothing for him to be fucking with me; god damn, fucking asshole. THEY'RE ALL ASSHOLES!!!!!! EVERY SINGLE LAST ONE OF THEM!!!!!!!

So, then, the next thing I know there's like 6 cops all crowded on the plane. They were all over.

There was one in the row behind me, and he was leaning over my seat holding me down by the shoulders.

Each one of these cops all had somehow managed to find ways of restraining me all at the same time.


A drunk passed-out guy sitting there? The nerve of these people!!!! All I wanted was to go to Texas!!!! Why couldn't these people understand that?!?!?

I had my damn safety belt on for shit's sake!!!!!!! What more do you want from me?!?!?

I'll kill you all!!!!

Of course, I didn't relay any of these thoughts to them right there.

Your ability to get annebriated is severely hampered if you're stuck in prison, and then it ceases to be appealing. It's sort of a drag, really.

They undid my seat belt and forcibly dragged me up to my feet. One female cop got my suitcase down from the overhead compartment.

I couldn't believe it. They escorted me off of the plane to the amusement of everyone.

Right out in the tunnel, they searched me and put the handcuffs on. They were adrenalized. They wanted me to fight them. They're bored airport cops.

They found my vicodins and I explained to them about the surgery.

"So, that's what happened to you. You know you're not supposed to mix those with alcohol."

They took my tie off. I think they didn't want to escort me through the airport with a tie on. It just doesn't look right. It makes them look bad because a tie equals decency.

I got escorted all the way outside by this group of cops. Everyone was staring. They can all go to FUCKING HELL as far as I'm concerned!!!

"Watch your head," the man said while pushing me into the back of LAX police car. It seemed like half of these cops wanted me just to go to jail. The other half of them just wanted me to leave.

While driving to the station, they told me that they had rescheduled my flight for tomorrow, so I could still go to Texas, but I had to come sober. We'll just see about that. It still hasn't happened yet. Maybe I better be careful though. They're probably going to watch out for me this time.

"Do you have anyone that can come and pick you up?"

"Yeah, my friend Jenny. Use my cell phone."

To my surprise, the pig actually went through my backpack, found my phone, and called Jenny.

"OK, you're lucky. She coming to pick you up. Otherwise, we would've had to send you downtown."

Oh, thank god they didn't send me downtown. Downtown LA jail is the worst jail I've ever been to in my whole entire stinking life. That wouldn't've been pretty at all. Not one little bit.

They put in my a holding cell, still with the damn handcuffs on for at least an hour.

The female cop from before came and got me. She gave me all of my stuff, and walked with me outside to the waiting area to wait for Jenny.

I was asking her all of these questions. She was my age. Asian. She was actually kind of nice. Then, I did some drunk dailing on my cell phone. I called everyone back in Austin and told them that I wasn't coming until the next day. I don't even remember all I said and who I called but I'm sure it was funny.

Finally, Jenny got there and took me away.

I felt like such a putz.

So, although this blog entry may be a little more disorganized than the others, I just had to relay this highly amusing anecdote.

Fuck tha LAX poilce!!!!!



 Thursday, August 25, 2005 

Fuck Christianity Part 1



OK, so, you're probably going to get a kick out of this blog. It cracks me up how much I question my own beliefs. I guess it's a healthy habit to do that, but I don't know, . . . . ha ha! here I go again!!

So, anyway, this first part is something I wrote a while ago, and it regained its relevancy because my stallmate at work has been listening to this evangelical screeching about Jesus in Spanish and its been both driving me up the wall and entertaining me at the same time. It's entertaining to me because god doesn't exist. He just doesn't, I'm sorry. I guess it's a nice idea and it brings people comfort to believe in that, but GOD DOESN'T EXIST AND THERE'S NO WAY YOU COULD EVER PROVE THAT HE DOES!!! So, you're making yourself look really preposterous passionately going on and on about something imaginary.

You see, maybe I would feel differently if either of my parents believed in god. I have this theory that if you were raised with parents telling you god exists, than somewhere deep inside of you, you actually believe it too. You have the potential or rather I should say the threat of becoming a christian yourself.

If I had christian parents, maybe the idea would seem more plausible to me, but now with the way that I was raised, you would have more luck convincing me that Santa Claus existed. In fact, now that I think about it, Santa Claus seems to me very symbolic of the whole entire religion. It's like a mini-Jesus. This mythological thing that's going to reward you for behaving yourself when the whole act of behaving yourself should be the reward in itself.

I'm also reading this book about torture methods throughout history which is also amusing since half the time they would use Jesus as a reason to torture people which is so bizarre, I don't even know where to begin.

So, I could rant and rave about how much I hate Christianity until we all turned blue in the face, so instead of going on forever about how much I hate it, I thought I would try to understand why it is that I hate it instead. Is that convoluted? oh geez (not short for Jesus, mind you)

But first, here's this thing that I wrote right after my last visit to Texas [now, two visits ago. It's taking me a while to put out this blog entry], my sacred homeland, ha ha, just kidding again, geez, I'm a nerd! :


I've been wanting to write a blog entry about how much I hate christianity and christians, but now it looks like it's never going to happen. You wanna know why?

Well, one of my friends on MySpace and Friendster is also my roommate and friend here in LA and for a while, I've been sensing a really funny attitude from her and whether or not it's actually for real or I'm just imagining it, it still started a chain of thought with me.

You see, she's a christian. She goes to church and shit, and I think she might've read the negative shit I've already written about christianity in my blogs. I'm not going to go back and erase it or anything, but I think the reason that it was easy to write all of that hateful shit was because I don't know any of these christians personally. Well, maybe I know a few, but I definitely hate them, but her, I like, so for her, I ignore the fact that she's christian.

That's how I'm able to spout all of that hateful shit.

So, I always have this fantasy: It would be cool if there was a button I could press, and every single Christian on the face of the planet just drops dead, and there would be another button that I could press and it would clean up all of the mess because damn those rotting christian bodies would probably start stinking to high heaven and I don't want to stand around and dig ditches in the hot sun forever, you know? 

But, wait, hold on a second, Hitler probably would've liked something like that for Jews.

So, looking deeper and deeper into myself, I realize that I have the potential to participate in genocide if I was ever given the opportunity.

I always looked at genocide and massacres with a real befuddled perspective.

You know, shit like the Rwanda Massacre and the Rape of Nan king, I looked at that shit and wondered to myself, "How could one human being do something that terrible to another?' but then I go over some of the shit I've written, and I'm suggesting we do the same thing to poets and christians.

Maybe I'm easily influenced by a lot of the music I listen to because a lot of it preaches the same message.

It also reminds me of the cliche catch phrase that you always hear racists say.

They say, "I only hate niggers and there's a difference between black people and niggers. Not all black people are niggers. Even some white people are niggers"

I don't know if you've ever heard anybody say anything like this, but it's pretty unbelievable because it makes it so obvious how far into denial they are. They are the ultimate of racism. [sic] And I'm a little bit the same way with me when I talk shit about things. I say,"I hate

San Diego. I hate poetry. I hate christians. I hate subculture stereotypes."

But then, if I know anybody who has any of these traits, all of a sudden, they have amnesty from my judgments.

So, generally, I hate christianity because to me it just represents our society as a whole and how it preaches one thing and than practices something completely opposite. Also, herd mentality and sexual perversion. You know? the bad kind of perversion like rape and child molestation. Also, really, somehow they've managed to make a lot of people who just practice normal human sex feel like perverts while priests are fucking altar boys and buying prostitutes and shit. What the fuck? That's some backwards ass shit is all I'm saying. Don't you agree? How could you not? And then, once it's exposed, nobody even pays attention. It's a good example of selective attention. People are gonna believe whatever they want. The truth does not set you free because people just ignore it. That's why I don't care much about political activism. It seems pointless since the truth is already right in front of people's faces. They're just ignoring it.

You know the whole Catholic priest molestation issue? Well, here's my theory: Only about one in ten cases of child sex abuse goes reported; possibly even less, so when trying to realistically consider the whole Catholic Church scandal, we should multiply the number of child molestation cases by at least ten, if not more. So, I don't know the exact numbers, and I don't have the patience to actually do the research, but I do know one thing: that's a whole lot of little boys that got their heads permanently fucked up for the rest of their lives just so some sick old pervert could get his rocks off.

And it's no coincidence that this is happening specifically with the Catholic Church. It's an epidemic, and I'm sure it still continues. What is the link between Catholicism and child molestation? I don't know exactly, but it's some pretty solid evidence that that religion is fucked and everyone should ignore it, but still, they don't.

And that's another thing: what in the hell is child molestation? I don't get it. What is it exactly that's going on? Do they just touch the boys' dicks or make them give them blowjobs, or fuck them in their asses or what? At what point does it cease to be molestation and become rape?

Is molestation just a euphemism or is it to distinguish that it wasn't a violent act? Do they just coerce the child into sex and that's why it's molestation rather than rape?

But if that were the case, what's the deal with statutory rape? They call it statutory rape even if it's totally consensual, and the underage person completely enjoyed it and everything, it's still "rape" because she was underage.

When I was in high school, my girlfriend was raped violently by a stranger. To date, it was the most tragic event I've ever experienced, and I could write a whole blog entry on just that, but I'm just bringing it up briefly to mention that the police caught the guy, and he was convicted and had to go to prison, but the "crime" that he was convicted of was statutory rape. It was as if they were having completely consensual sex and the only thing illegal that was going was that she was under eighteen.

I guess the point that I'm trying to say when mentioning that, is that the legal system is completely fucked up when it comes to sex crimes, and I'm sure that there is a definite link between this and the fact that we live in a christian society. Because Christianity shapes our morality which in turn shapes the way the laws are set up.

So, anyway, this whole Christianity Blog is really long, so I'm cutting it in half right here. Part Two just needs a few more paragraphs and then to be edited. It's pretty good: some amusing anecdotes from my childhood concerning christianity. And I finally make a conclusion about whether or not I would press the christianity genocide button.



 Monday, October 03, 2005 

Nightmares with Christian Skinheads at the Mall

Oh shit, I had plans to not go on Friendster and MySpace until I finished my book. I was going to just spend everyday writing my book until I finished it, probably it would take about a month, but my life is in upheaval right now because heterophobes are trying to push me out of my home. I was so comfortable too. Anyway, it's not that it's so inconvenient having to move, but I'm also really upset and mad about it. So, I don't know why you need to know all of that. Anyway, fuck christianity, part 2:

When I was a little kid I went to a child care called Holloway. It was really nice. They had tons of trampolines and big rockets with slides and things that you could get in and they would spin aroundand tree houses and a playground 10 times the size of any public playground. It was really cool. It was so deluxe, it was almost like a low tech amusement parkAnd on top of that, they took us on field trips to Chuck E. Cheese and fun stuff like that, but the bad part was that they were christians, and really evil christians on top of it, and my mother didn't know this.

They would make us pray before every meal and I hated it because I didn't believe in it, and on top of it all, they would always bless President Reagan in the prayer. I was very aware of all of the evil shit that the Reagan administration was doing in Central America because of my mom, so I hated the whole idea of that because as far as I was concerned, Reagan was the devil. An evil, evil, evil man and here we were sitting there praying for him and shit.

And then, it gets even worse, one time, they called us inside from playing to show us this movie. Now, before I go any further, I gotta tell you, when I was a little kid, the Beatles was my all time favorite band. I was crazy about them and in particular, the album, Abbey Road.

So, anyway, this movie was all about how the Beatles were satanic which didn't necessarily bother me until they got to this one part where they interview this little boy that was about the same age as me. He confessed that he was a huge Beatles fan, but that he stopped listening to them because demons would come visit him every night, and they were terrifying him and not letting him sleep. He also said that they still came to visit him every once in a while, but that it happened much less frequently since he stopped listening to the Beatles.

Oh holy fucking jesus, that scared the living shit out of me.

After that, I laid awake for hours every night, laying there waiting for the demons to come get me. And of course with my wild, little boy's imagination, I occasionally saw them, and golly, they looked mean. The horns and the malicious eyes. Oh man, I would lay there, terrified for hours and hours,and then, when I finally did get to sleep, my mind was in such a terrible state that of course, I had terrible nightmares. Around the same time, I saw that movie, Tron, so a lot of the nightmares had to do with dodging lasers and shit. My mom kept on finding me sleepwalking, jumping around the living room. I'ld be dodging lasers and what not, and she'ld tap me on the shoulder, and that would snap me out of it andI'ld cry and cry and cry, and I'ld go back to bed and then cry even more until I'ld cry myself back to sleep; just to have to wake up a couple of hours later and go to my piece of shit school where one of the first damn things we did every morning was to pledge allegiance to "America" and god.

But finally after about a year or so after enough prodding, my mom finally got it out of me what had happened at the day care. We went up to Holloway and she cursed their brains out. There was so much cussing. "I’m taking my child out of this hellhouse. You people are sadistic. How could you ever make something as pure and good as the Beatles into something evil? You know he believes everything you tell him."

All the women there had beehive hairdos, and they had this highly perverted nurse looking outfits on. They all had names like Mildred and Bertha and Loretta and shit like that. I hope they all get ripped apart by wild animals.

So, after the Holloway incident, she lovingly dragged me home and pulled out all the Beatles records. We had many, but the first one she put on the turntable was of course, Abbey Road. I listened to the first few songs with little emotion but once "Octopus’s Garden" came on, I busted out crying. And then my mom started talking to me, "Nobody’s gonna hurt you here.. Beware of the Christians. They’re an evil bunch. They’re miserable, and they just want to drag you into their misery."

Why in the hell did she raise me in the bible belt though? She had a decision in that after all.

She left me there on the couch crying while she went and fixed us dinner. We lived in a one bedroom apartment, and she was so rad that she let me sleep in the bedroom while her bed was in the living room.

But now, I was in the living room waiting to eat. I laid down on her bed crying. My face in her pillow, the tears streaming. And then the song, "I Want You (She’s so Heavy)" came on and it made me very happy. My favorite activity when I was a little kid was daydreaming about girls at school that I had crushes on. That’s just about all I did growing up, and that one song, "I Want You", well it always reminded me of this one girl that I had liked since Kindergarten. Her name was Sarah. I think I was in love with her, and that was our song. She didn’t know it, but it was our song.

And, I’ld listen to it over and over and over again and daydream about her. daydream about kissing her. Daydream about kissing every square inch of her body until she just keeled over and died from love. Because I had so much of it for her.

I wanted her SO BADLY that it made me little tiny infant penis stand up in attention. In adoration for her. I stalked her and she knew it.

And one time, this was later, well, we were in the fourth grade, and somebody called me on it. It was a fifth grader that was brought into our class while the teachers had a meeting. She was there in charge. She kept on staring at me and then staring at Sarah, and then finally, she called me on it.

She announced to the whole class that I liked her. Everybody already knew it anyway. It’s not like I told anybody, but they all knew it.

Everybody stared right at me, and asked, "Is it true? Is it true? Is it true?"

They knew it was true, but they just wanted to see if I had the nerve to admit it myself.

And then my next action, I’ll regret it until I die, I said right in front of everybody, "Yeah, I like her except for her ‘froggy’ smile."

I have no idea what I meant by that, but I’m sure it fucked with her head at least a little bit. I just didn’t know how to respond. They put me on the spot.

And while I was saying it, I was looking straight at her and she was smiling at first, but the smile quickly vanished once I said that.

But, these were not my thoughts while I was listening to "She’s So Heavy."

They were fully pleasant daydreams about Sarah. About how excellent it would be to kiss those cute, cute, cute lips and over again. Because she would like it. Even though I was a weird kid, at least I was still cute, and she wanted me to kiss her. She wanted me; I was sure of it. I knew it down to the bone.

And then, the song, "Here Comes The Sun", came on. My mom came out from the kitchen. I started crying again. "I’m not gonna let them hurt you anymore, and we’re gonna sit in this apartment listening to the Beatles until our teeths rot and our hair falls out, and there’s nobody that can stop us."

I blew my nose on one of her sheets, and she was almost disgusted except for the fact that she knew that I needed her so much.

That evening we listened to the Beatles for hours.

She cooked lasagna. I always loved her lasagna. This is before she went vegan.

Rubber Soul, The White Album, Sergeant Pepper’s Lonely Hearts Club Band, Let It Be,

And Mildred and Bea and Ethel and all those people can go to fucking hell; it’s the hell that they themselves created for a reason. Because they suck. They dug their own graves, and I’ld gladly go and piss on them if I knew where they were buried.

So, although the last sentence would’ve been a pretty effective last sentence for this blog entry, I’m not done saying everything that I wanted to.

Later on, like between the ages of 10-13, I used to always hang out at the Galleria. A shopping mall in Houston where tons of kids would hang out and smoke and take acid and smoke pot.

I was ashamed about it, but what the fuck? Pretty girls, drugs, and plentiful cigarettes, what's there to be ashamed about, I mean I know it's cheesy to hang out at he mall, but what else are you going to do?

So, anyway, we all used to dress like punk rockers, back before I realized that being punk rock is not punk rock. Or at least, not looking punk rock. So, we used to get all fucked up and stick up our Mohawks, and get shit-faced and throw up all over rich girls’ houses. The Cisco, MD 20/20, Night Train fluorescent pink puke.

Brilliant and smelly; . .. . very, very, very smelly.

Permanently ruining your chances of ever getting a kiss from that girl ever again even if maybe she liked you at first.. She doesn’t anymore, and that’s all that matters, except you’re too busy puking and being punk rock to give a damn.

She would’ve let you sleep with her in her bed. She would’ve let you suck on her tits and finger her, but you’re fucking stupid, Tomatoes, really fucking stupid, and you’re more interested in torturing your liver and brain cells than making out with beautiful black-haired new waver girls while they’re still too young to realize that you’re nothing but a fucking creepy loser, and that’s all you’ll ever be.

Really, not a whole lot has changed with me: more than half of my thoughts are consumed with daydreaming about females such as with Sarah when I was in elementary school, my hyper-excessive alcohol consumption completely ruins sexual opportunities on a regular basis such as in the old, "punk rocker" days, and I'm still a fucking creepy loser as in always.

So, you're probably wondering what the Galleria had to do with Christianity.

Well, there were these skinheads that used to hang out there too. Some were even nazis. I knew all of them. Used to hang out and smoke cigarettes with them even though I'm not rascist that I know of. Well, one weekend everybody was all going crazy because a couple of these skinheads had baetan this sixteen-year-old to death. They stomped on his head with their doc martens. The victim was a member of VC, short for VietCong, a vietnamese gang in Houston. But still, what excuse did they have for beating him to death. That seems like the most inhumane way to kill someone, and the most hateful. I can imagine shotting someone in the head maybe. Someone that I really, really hate, but to kick and punch someone over and over until their dead?, well that just seems like it would take a lot out of you.

So, anyway, around the same time, I formed this punk rock band called Neutal Living Saliva Tank of which, I was the singer. We were really good. Well, maybe we were just really amusing. An 11-year-old going nuts screaming in a high pitched voice and all. It's just funny.

So, anyway, the drummer was a good friend of mine, Marty. Anyway, the skinheads were on the news and film of the victim's crying family was all over the place for a while.

Years and years went by and I never heard from them again until around when I was 19. I was already living in Austin, and was back in Houston for the weekend visiting.

A couple of years prior to this, Marty had turned born again christian and started playing the drums for this christian heavy metal band and had alreadu toured the world a few times trying to convert people and shit. It was part of this even bigger christian evangelical mission called the Jesus Freaks because they were like punks and tattooed people and stuff like that except they were christians and wanted to convert everybody. Really cheesy, I know.

Anyway, all of our old friends stopped hanging out with Marty because he had gotten really obnoxious about the whole thing and all he could talk about was Jesus and nobody could stand him anymore except for me. I just thought it was amusing and plus, who else do I know that tours the world? I mean, he had a lot of interesting stories to tell. And plus, it's fun to get really drunk around christians because they pray for you and shit. It used to amuse me back then, now, I just hate it.

Anyway I went to go out hanf out with Marty and we walked to the store, and he bought a bunch of malt liquor for me because I didn't have an ID. I was getting really, really drunk, and he kept on telling me to turn christian and I kept laughing at him. Anyway, a bunch of his christian friends came over and I was so drunk, it made them really sad for me, and they were praying for me, and I kept on laughing at them. One looked straight at me and shook my hand and said, "Hey Puree, it's been a long time."

"Oh yeah, how's it going? I responded not knowing who in the hell he was.

Finally they left, and Marty turns to me, knowing full well that I had no idea who in the hell that meek, short-haired white guy was. "Hey, Tomatoes, did you recognize who that was?"

I told him, "No, I have no idea."

"That was Robert Stevens, one of those skinheads that beat up that VC kid at the Galleria."

"Oh, my fucking gosh, you've gotta be kidding me!"

"Yeah, he went christian while he was in prison, and they let him out for good behavior."

I was completely shocked and disgusted. "Yeah," Marty continued, "You see if he could convert to Jesus, anybody can, so you should start having more faith in the power of the lord, . . . " He went on and on like that all fucking night for hours until I finally finished the malt liquor and left more disgusted with christianity than I had ever been. He accomplished the exact opposite of hat he was trying to do.

I just couldn't believe that this skinhead had killed somebody and was just hanging like everything was completely normal. I think there are a few things that you shouldn't ever be forgiven for.

And it's not even like I'm against murder or have any kind of problems with murderers. I'm actually kind of envious of them. It's just that this guy, kind of like the pedophile preists, is preaching a message that actually has nothing to do with their normal human nature. Only people that are really, really evil need to practice something like christianity because they, deep down in their hearts, feel evil and feel the need for some kind of outside source to tell them how to be nice, and on top of that, it never really works anyways because god doesn't exist, so when they're tempted, they give in.

I don't need no god to tell me what to do.

Anyway that's about it, . . .  oh, and as far as the buttons go,, you remember the buttons from my past blog, one to make every christian on the face of the planet drop dead, and then the other to clean up all the mess, and I said by the end of this blog entry, that I would make up my mind whether or not I'ld do it?, well, . . . I would just warn my roommate right before I push them to give her and any loved ones the chance to convert.

oh, and one more thought:

On top of it all, it seems like a terrible case of self-flattery to think that we would know anything about god. Let's just for arguement's sake, say that there exists some sort of a god. Why would we thinnk that we're spiritual enough to know anything about it? The reason is, is because there have existed some liars in the history of our civilization that claim to have had some sort of communication with it. It's just bullshit.



 Saturday, November 19, 2005 

Is my godfather still in prison for murder?

true story:

As you may already know from my other blog, I used to always hang out at the mall when I was in the sixth grade. There was this guy that used to hang out there too named Otto. He was my self-proclaimed godfather. He liked to think of himself as having big ties with crime. He bought me anything and everything I wanted. According to his stories, his own mother had some kind of contract on him to get killed by the Mafia. He was 17 years old. Already way too old to be hanging out at the mall, but whatever.

He had the most crazy fashion. Everything that he wore was worth at least 200 dollars. Everything was Gucci. That was his brand that he liked: Gucci. And he had this silly looking Culture Club kind of a hat that costed him more than a hundred dollars. Oh yeah, and he would always go around with a fancy suitcase handcuffed to his wrist. I'm sure we looked hilarious together, but for months we were inseparable.

Well, during the week, I would lead my "normal" sixth grade life, going to school and all that, but once I got off on Friday, I would go and find Otto and we'ld hang out until Sunday evening when I would go home to go to sleep to get ready for school the next day. 

Yeah, I never found out what was in that suitcase either. And then there was this guy, Lee something-or-another and he would always follow Otto around. Lee was Otto's bodyguard. He would always wear a trench coat, and he had a real gun in the trench coat that he let me carry sometimes. I've always loved the feel of a gun against my dick, even back then. Otto needed Lee because of the Mafia thing. They wanted to kill him. Otto had a gun too, and he would let me carry his too. It was fun to be at the mall in public with the idea that I could kill somebody if I wanted to.

And I don't know how he had money, but he sure did. Shitloads of it. I think I assumed that he got it from all of the girls that he would see. He was a total gigolo.

Oh, and Otto squatted in this abandoned office building that was nearby the mall. He had this window that he had knocked out. We'ld go through there, and then go up the elevator to the 6th floor or something, and he had a bedroom set up in a totally random room. He had sleeping bags in there and we would hang out laying around, smoking cigarettes and talking until going to sleep.

Sometimes, we would run around the building breaking shit. It was fun because at one point, you could tell the building was fancy, but now we were fucking it all up.

It kind of makes me understand violent people, but not really.

One time, we were hanging out with these two punk rocker girls on a Sunday. They were really cute. 14 or 15 years old. I don't remember much about them except one had these tights with hammers and sickles all over it. Anyway, me and these girls decided that we were going to go and spend the night in the abandoned office building and skip school the next day. I think they liked Otto. All girls liked Otto. He was hot I suppose. I don't even remember what he looks like if you can believe it.

Anyway, one of the girls went off with Otto and slept in a separate room. The other girl slept in the same room with me. I don't remember if we kissed or not. Probably not, it seems like I would've remembered that and plus she was a little too old for me, not like I would've minded though.

Anyway, the next day, we wake up in the morning, smoke cigarettes because we thought we were cool, and after a while we hear her friend screaming and yelling. We jump up, run to the room. We try to open the door, but it's locked. She's screaming, "HELP ME!!!!!! HELP ME!!!!!!"

We were completely freaked out. We didn't know what to do. We go to the adjacent room and start trying to kick through the wall with our combat boots. It was hard but we finally started to be able to see into the other room. Otto sees us, and stops.

He calmly stands up and pulls his pants up. He goes over, unlocks the door, and walks out.

Me and the other girl run into the room, relieved to see that the girl was still fully clothed. Her communist tights were still in touch. Apparently, we had interrupted it in time, thank gosh.

From there, we went and got breakfast at IHOP and then went to the mall, where we all decided to just go home.

Otto's attempted rape had kind of sullied our fun-filled day, you might say.

I don't know why I continued to hang out with him after that, but I did. Maybe I was too young to understand how evil rape is. Now, I think it's worse than murder.

Anyway, another night, me and Otto were at the Galleria. It was a Saturday night and we had nothing at all to do. We couldn't find anybody we knew. All of the shops started closing, and finally the security guards kicked us out.

We were standing in the parking lot trying to figure out what to do, when this couple in a truck waves us over.

It was a hispanic couple, and they were dressed up to go to a fancy ball or something, the woman in a puffy shiny gown, and the man in a blue tuxedo. 

They were sitting in this truck smoking a joint and they wanted to know if we wanted some. "Sure," we said and began taking turns consuming this "marijuana cigarette" It was rolled with a U.S. flag paper which I thought was totally awesome at the time. Come to think of it, I still think it's totally awesome.

And here's the kicker: according to what they said they were personal assistants to Marvin Zindler. He was having a party on the top floor of one of the hotels that was part of the mall, and they were there to help out

Wow, they were the personal assistants to Marvin Zindler and they were out in the parking lot getting an eleven-year-old boy stoned. That's pretty cool, huh?

Oh, if you're not form Houston and you've never seen the Best Little Whorehouse in Texas, Marvin Zindler is the blue-haired moron who got the famous brothel in La Grange closed down. What a dick.

Also, he's been a famous TV personality in Houston for decades. He does this part of the "eyewitness" news where he goes and inspects restaurants for "SLIME IN THE ICE MACHINE!!!!!!" If you're from Houston, you're probably cracking up right now because you remember this guy. He has this weird look too. I don't remember exactly what it is. I think he has blue hair and pink tinted glasses or something. If you remember please leave me a comment.

So, anyway this U.S. flag got me so stoned. I swear to god it was laced with something. I couldn't see straight at all, and I remember I had this intense feeling that buzzards were swirling up above my head waiting for me to die.

At that age, I was already smoking pot on a regular basis and that had never happened to me. I remember a security guard came up because he wanted to know what we were up to, but as soon as he saw the fancy people with the badges for Marvin Zindler's party he left us alone.

Finally we left them, and we went to go to our IHOP to eat. I couldn't believe Otto wanted to eat, but apparently the joint didn't have such a toxic effect on him as it did with me.

We sat down and looked at the menus. I couldn't see a thing. All of the letters seemed to be swimming around on the paper. Otto kept on insisting that I order something, but I couldn't see and was even more doubtful that I would be able to eat anything.

He kept on bugging me to order, so finally I just stuck my finger randomly on the page, and said, "I want this one."

And that's what he ordered me. I totally passed the fuck out, and was sleeping hard, real hard, when Otto wakes me up, "Puree, Puree, wake up. The food is here."

I look over at the waitress bringing the food. an old, white lady. I was looking down at the food as she was setting it down in front of me when I proceeded to vomit my brains out all of the plate with her hand still on it. The throw up got all over me. It got all over her, and of course the food that I had ordered that I didn't want was completely saturated in it. At least now, Otto wasn't going to try to pressure me into eating it.

The lady was disgusted of course. She ran back to the kitchen with the throw up plate, and I ran to the bathroom to puke more and try to clean myself up.

When I came out, the throw up was pretty much entirely gone. Otto was totally pissed. He made me go sit outside to wait for him "in case I had to throw up some more". You couldn't blame him. He was trying to eat. He didn't want to see me vomiting anymore.

When we went back to the office building. Somebody had boarded up our window, and there was a security guard's car parked in the front. We went into the parking garage, where Otto knew this bum that slept in there. The bum wasn't there. But, his "bed" was. The "bed" was a big rolled up piece of carpet.

Otto had me get in there. "Where are you going to sleep though?" I asked him.

"Don't worry about it. I'm not sleeping tonight. I'll just make sure nothing happens to you."

I got in the carpet and it was absolutely awful. It was the worse smell I had ever smelt in my whole life. Somebody had done some very, very nasty things all over that carpet. I've smelt some worse things since then though, but at that point in my life, it was the worse thing that I had ever smelt. just awful, and I had to sleep in it which I did since I was so fucked up.

The next morning when I woke up, there was Otto. He was sitting on a bucket and smoking a cigarette, wide awake like he had said.

"Did you sleep good?" he asked.

"OK, I guess."

We went to the mall, ate, and walked around smoking cigarettes and looking at girls.

I went home a few hours later and immediately went to sleep.

I saw Otto the next weekend at the mall, but he was with this girl and they didn't want me following them around, so they gave me a ride home in the girl's car.

She was cute. I was assuming that she was giving him money and taking care of him and she didn't want to do the same for me. That was the last time I saw Otto for months and months. I had no idea where he had gone to. He had simply vanished. Everybody thought that I knew where he was and wasn't saying anything. That wasn't the case. I had no idea. I was figuring that that girl knew but I had no idea who she was nor how to get in touch with her.

And then, about four months later, he showed back up at the Galleria. He had his suitcase handcuffed to his wrist and get this, . . . he was wearing an eye patch.

Yeah, that's right. You heard me. He was wearing a fucking eye patch.

He claimed that he had moved to Chicago and had started a punk band that he sang for. While playing a show, somebody for no particular reason, jumped on stage, and stabbed him in the eye. That was according to him. I didn't believe a word of. I wanted him to show me it underneath the patch, but he wouldn't.

"Trust me. you wouldn't want to see this."

"Yeah right." I thought to myself.

We hung out for a couple of hours and then he left. He had to go meet a friend or something. I don't quite remember.

That was the last time I ever saw him.

And then, about a month later, I showed up at the Galleria on Friday evening alone, and everybody was all talking about what happened to Otto. They were all surprised that I didn't know anything about it because it was all over the news, and more than that, I was his godson for gosh sakes, . . . :


Just in case you don't know, Fiesta is a chain of grocery stores in Texas that mainly caters to people from Latin America. And the Fiesta ad-man was a local celebrity who would always be on the advertisements. "Cuatro manzanas por un dolar." he would say and so on "Tres libras de platanos por noventa-nueve centavos!!!!"

Not very exciting, but you get my drift. He was famous. At least in Houston, he was famous.

Apparently according to the media, Otto was a male prostitute. I had no idea. Otto and the Fiesta ad-man had had sex, the Fiesta ad-man refused to pay him, so Otto shot him in the head, killing him.

That night, I went home and watched the news. It was the leading story. They showed pictures of Otto with his name, not Otto, something like Steven Adams or something boring like that, not as cool as Otto. And he was 19, not 17 like he said.

He ended up getting a pretty hefty prison sentence. I was wondering if he was still in there. Do you know? Is my godfather still in prison? I wanna know because I want him back. I don't care if he's a whore. I have a few things that I want him to keep for me in his suitcase handcuffed to his wrist.



 Friday, December 16, 2005 

Daily Meditation on the Glory of the Vasectomy

This is my pre-vasectomy journal. I will be adding to this daily, so if you read this and the last journal entry is anything before January 13, make sure to revisit this later to get the complete story. Thursday, December 15, 2005**************************************************************** i TOOK THE VASECTOMY CLASS. oPPS! BETTER TAKE THE CAPS LOCK OFF. There that's better. You see before they let you get the vasectomy, they make you get educated. You have to have your grade ten.  I had an appointment set for the actual vasectomy for December 31st, but then I canceled it because I realized that I have to work the following week alone. Not able to take off work, blah blah, blah, so I'm postponing it until mid January, but still I'm extra excited about it. All those years of worries and anxiety and self hatred, and now finally it'll be all over. I don't get to enjoy it right away though since you have to wait two months and then get sperm tested. I cum inot a cup and they test it in hopes of a zero sperm count. I'm so excited. Two weeks after, I'm going to have the "Tomatoes's Bike Ride to Venice to Celebrate His Vasectomy and Encourage Other's To Do the Same Ride". At the end, we'll stay in cheap motel rooms and get really drunk. It'll be a shame though since I won't actuall be sterile by that point. So, " i just got off the phone with the Harbor City Hospital and they said they're going to do it on Jan 12th. gotta go. more to come later!!!! Friday, December 16, 2005******************************************************************** So, I've decided I'm going to try to put up a daily bulletin, "Daily Meditation on the Glory of the Vasectomy" up until I actually get it and then, when I finally do, compile them all, and put it up as a blog entry. Others, maybe would make each one a blog entry, but I don't want to make my other glamorous blog entries jealous by putting up these little puny ones. So, so far, most everyone has been congratulating me and encouraging me on my vasectomy. There are a couple of people that have this reaction like, "Why in the hell would you want to do that?" but these are all from people who don't have kids. People who have kids understand how terrible it is, and know that I just want to stay free from all of that bullshit. Me having a vasectomy is partially as a favor to the world, but mostly it's selfish. I really don't want kids. I used to be a nanny for a year and a half when I lived in San Diego, and it truly showed me how stupid the whole thing is. I loved the kid, but still, it's stupid, and pointless. wHO DOES ANYTHING THAT NOTABLE WITH THEIR LIFE ANYWAY besides consume? God damn fucking caps lock!!!! The only doubt that I can think of is, "What if I meet a  woman that I want to spend the rest of my life with and she wants to mother kids and I can't do that for her, so she leaves me?" Uh, pretty doubtful. Plus if she loved me, she wouldn't leave me just for that, would she? Plus there's always sperm banks. What's the deal with those anyway? Anyway, I have lots more to say, but I'll save them for future bulletins. I have 27 more to do after all. Saturday, December 17, 2005************************************************************************** It is Saturday, 10 o'clock at night.I'm already drunk so this might not be that coherent, but I want to do the daily vasectomy blog, you know? Um, I'm still very excited about it. I just saw Lety on her bike. Thank God she moved to central LA. I told her about my vasectomy. "OOOOh good for you; I wish my boyfriend would get one too." "Yeah that would be super" "Puedes imaginar orgasmos sin verguenaza?" "Si vivieramos en un mundo perfecto, nadie haria ninyos." I seriously doubt that that was gramatically correct, but whatever. I want to have an orgasm and not on the sheets or inside of a condom, . . . . end of story, period, all y'all people can go to fucking hell. God Bless Texas. God Bless Tomatoes and everyone he loves

Sunday, December 18, 2005

It's not really Sunday, but I wasn't around any computers yesterday, so I'm writing two blog entries today. I was just thinking, don't you think it's a little dark that one of the most positive events in my life is that I'm going to get permanently sterilized?????? Why am I so happy about that? And it's not necesarily like I hate kids. Most are very adorable, but the whole thing just seems so sad to me. That it's just the beginning of a very painful life. Everyone's lives are filled with pain. I can't imagine life without alcohol, . . . just to absorb the blunt trauma of painful experinces full force with no sort of anesthesia. I don't know how you sick bastards do it. Hearts made of steel. Today is scary. Depressing. I can't wait to start drinking.

Monday, December 19, 2005

OK, yes it is really, Monday. This is my second vasectomy blog written today to make up for yesterday. You know, one of the things that kind of deflates my enthusiasm for my vasectomy is that I'll still have to use condoms most all of the time. I mean I don't want to catch vd's or anything. The worst part of vd's isn't the symptoms themselves but giving them to other people. One time, years ago when I first moved to LA, I broke up with my girlfriend, and then about a month later, I fucked her (without a condom), and then a little while later, I fucked this frined of mine (without a condom too). An old friend from Houston. Anyway, I was at the new woman's apartment, and a frined of mine called there and told me to call Starlette (my ex-girlfriend) because she had something important to tell me. Anyway, I called her and she told me to go get checked because she has chlamydia. I felt obliged to tell the new woman about the whole deal, and she wouldn't ever have sex with me again. We both had chlamydia. So, this is a little convoluted. I'm not so sure what my point was. I suppose it's that you should use condoms. Chlamydia is really minor. It's curable. It's like catching a cold, but what if it would've been AIDS? That would've sucked.

Tuesday, December 20, 2005 (my mom)

I wonder what my mom would say if she knew I was getting a vasectomy. I'm not telling her until afterwards and maybe not even then. I don't have the slightest inkling as to whether or not she would like it. I mean, on one hand, my life has always been kind of a mess, and she knows that. I definitely don't have the money to support a baby, but who knows what the future will be like with me? I like moving around a lot, but now I think I'm going to stay in LA for the rest of my life. I can't imagine ever leaving. And I can't imagine being with the same woman for the rest of my life, and if I had a baby I would end up having to deal with that woman for the rest of my life, or at least until the baby turns 18, and what if I hated her? I hate hating people, so when that does happen and I feel like I can't overcome the hatred, I just cut off all connections with them, and forget about them. Better that than being consumed with hatred. I hate that feeling. very icky. Anyway, my mom didn't have me until she was 35, so maybe she would say that I'm still too young to decide whether or not to have kids. A side note: my dad was 22. funny, huh? But anyway, I wonder how she felt when she was 28. I wonder if when she was 28, she thought that she would ever have kids. hmmm, good question. She was very adventerous when she was young. Come to think of it, she's still pretty adventerous. She retired from her job early, and moved to some kind of eco-village commune kind of a thing in the mountains of North Carolina. That sort of amazed me. That she's 65 and is still doing stuff like that. She said that everyone's in their early 20s and it's kind of alienating. They're probably really annoying and self-righteous too. Half of them are probably just going through a phase too, so that must be irritating to my mom. But, anyway. I'm her only child, so if I get the vasectomy, she won't ever have grandchildren. So, anyway, my mom was going to only be the subject in my vasectomy blog for one day, but now I'm thinking she could easily take up two blog entries because that's a serious thing to consider.

This is part 7 of a daily journal that I'm doing leading up to a vasectomy that I'm getting on January 12th. If you'ld like to read earlier entries, they're all posted in a blog entry on my profile

Thursday, December 22, 2005 ************(mandatory vasectomy at birth)

If I was the dictator of the world, Ild make 1 out of every 2 male babies get a vasectomy. Im surprised China hasnt thought of this. It wouldnt be illegal for them to get reversals, but they have to drum up the money and determination themselves. If, later on in life, they decide they want the baby and theyre financially stable enough to drum up two thousand dollars, and they reeeaaallllyyy want the baby that bad to have surgery and to pay that much money, than they would totally be allowed to do that. But, on one hand, its kind of like saying only rich people should breed. Do I really believe that only rich people should breed? Hmmmm, Im not quite sure. Is there anything wrong with poor people having children? I really dont know what to say. What do you think? On one hand, its better for the children if their parents are rich because the parents can provide everything they need, (usually) but then, some poor people really want the affection from a child and maybe they shouldnt really be deprived of that. Im not really sure why people have children when its not accidental. I think 90f the time, it was accidental and then they just go ahead and have the baby, and then act like they wanted it. But, what about those people that actively, purposefully try to have kids? It seems a little selfish. Like they want somebody (the child) to look up to them, or they want somebody to have control over. They want somebody to boss around. They want somebody who they can feel smarter than. Or how about this: when people have kids because of the way society treats you different if they know youre a parent? People treat moms like saints. Or how about the stupid way that people treat pregnant ladies in public? They treat them like goddesses. People open doors for them and always want to help them out. They want sympathy from people,. . . from family members, from co-workers, bosses, doctors, nurses, cops, judges. Dont be hard on her. Shes a mom. There are little ones who depend on her. But, I say, Fuck them. That was no miraculous feat that they had kids. He stuck his penis in her and came and there you go. Takes no skill. Theres nothing admirable about bringing more people into this shitty world. I was talking earlier about China. Well, I heard some countries in Europe have the opposite of that. France and Italy among others. I saw a news program about Italy how everybodys old and theres not many young people. Well, that would suck too, so maybe some level of breeding is a good thing. Is it even possible to vasectomize a baby? more later.

Friday, December 30, 2005 Bike Winter, jealousy, overworked

So, it's been a long time since I've done my "daily" vasectomy blog. My co-worker left for Mexico for two weeks, so I've been left completely buried in work. I work almost non-stop for nine and a half hours everyday and it leaves me exhausted. I always do the blogs on down time at work, but I haven't had any up until now. The last thing I wanna do is hang out at work after I get off, you know? It's time to get drunk. I was supposed to've finished the rough draft of my book by tomorrow, but when I get off of work, I'm just so damn tired, I just stare at the screen. I counted the pages of my book though, and I'm up to 270, and my goal was 300, but still it looks like it might be way longer because there's lots more in my outline. Um, I know this doesn't have a whole lot to do with the vasectomy, but what the fuck? It's not really on my mind although something very interesting has been happening to me. My sexual drive took a shit and died for some reason, and I feel like I'm being bombarded with sexuality everywhere I look. Don't people have anything to live for other than sex? It's pretty sad really, and I never looked at the whole thing objectively because I myself am usually obsessed with it, but now I can see clearly, and quite frankly, the whole thing seems a little stupid. But, don't worry. I'm sure I'll be back to normal in no time. I am the Sex Wolf after all. What would I be without my libido? the Beer Wolf? Now, that's just plain stupid. The Bike Wolf? Umm, that's kind of cool I geuss, but no where near as magnificent as being the Sex Wolf. I've been feeling sad and confused lately too. I can deal with sadness and gloom and doom, and all that, but it's when I'm confused and I don't really know what's going on, that's when it gets me. Just recently, I came to a realization about jealousy. About the difference between jealousy and envy:


envy-A feeling of discontent and resentment aroused by and in conjunction with desire for the possessions or qualities of another.

So, basically, you want something that someone else has.


jealousy-Fearful or wary of being supplanted; apprehensive of losing affection or position

So, basically when you're jealous, it's that you're suspicious that you might get replaced. And, jealousy is definitely almost always coupled with a good amount of uncertainty. You don't know for sure what's going on.

Anyway, that has nothing to do with vasectomies, but it's been on my mind, so I thought I'ld mention it here.

But this does!!!!!: I will be having the Tomatoes' Pre-Vasectomy Pro-Death Celebration Ride as part of Bike Winter LA. I will be putting it up on the website after writing this. It will be soley in Hollywood, for those of you who don't want to go too far. the ride to Venice will be in late January. But the small ride will be on the 8th, meet at Griffith Park near Los Feliz and Western where the statue of the cub is. More info later. And yes, there will be shitloads of Thunderbird with Cherry Kool-Aid in it. And by the way, y'all fucked dipshits with your mutiple bulletins can go to fucking hell.

Saturday, December 31, 2005

Ah, what a deliciously sad last day of the year. It breaks my heart into a million peices but in a good way. So, after writing the last blog yesterday, I was thinking about it more and more, and the whole thing about me being jealous is so hypocritical, it's amazing. And, plus I was making a big deal about nothing just as I thought. That's what I always do: sweat the small stuff. It's because I have this bourgeoisie (I'm not going to even pretend that I didn't have to look up the spelling to that) debaucherous (maybe I should look that one up too) carefree lifestyle, all of the problems that I ever have are purely imaginational, and I intend to keep things like that by never having kids. You know, when you stop to think about it, 90f this world's problems are created by the imense population. When there was less people, there was no where near as many problems. I mean, can you imagine what the politicians would do if they wanted to wage these huge, preposterous wars, but there was nobody around to fight in them? And there was nobody to kill? What would they do then? And another thing that I hate about breeding and being around children: I don't like the whole mentality that we need to hide certain aspects of life from them. We need to keep them from getting exposed to certain things like sex and drugs and curse words. I don't like having to watch my behavior, and plus I'm always drunk, so it's a little bit harder for me to do so than others. I made up flyers for the Tomatoes' Pre-Vasectomy Pro-Death Bicycle Ride. They're beautiful. I'm very impressed with myself. If I see you tonight, I'll give you one. Happy fucking new year's!!!!!!! Keep kids out of Hollywood!!!!!! 

Monday, January 2nd, 2006***************************my dad, ex-girlfriends

Well, my dad, he's a dick. We don't get along. He hates my unibrow. I geuss he has one and shaves it or whatever and it just really bothers him that I have one. He can't stand to look at me, and ever since I dropped out of college, I haven't done him any good. He's ashamed of me, and he knows I'm a drunk and that I do drugs and I'm just an over all shady person. So, he has a girl with another lady other than my mom, and I'm pretty sure he's not planning on having any more kids, so after me, that's it for the last name. It's a stupid last name anyway: Taccir. When my dad's family moved from Russia to Argentina years and years ago, they changed it from Tacsier to Taccir, so it wouldn't seem like a jewish last name because they were escaping persecution or something. I don't even know the full story. It doesn't make that much sense to me. I don't even get judaism. I know that it's a religion worshipping the old testament or something, and I've even read a lot of that book, but the whole seems totally made up, so I don't have much of the attention span for it. It's just a bunch of gibberish. Well, so far, for my vasectomy, all of the positive encouragement has come from women and some men, but all of the negative feedback has come exclusively from men. I don't understand why they would think it was a bad idea. I can't think of any good reason to have kids. Ummm, maybe company when you get to be an old man? but even that's not guarenteed. And how old am I really gonna get anyway? What with the way I drink, and the reckless way that I live my life, I doubt I'll get very far. Do I wanna get old anyway? Sounds like a huge drag if you ask me. When I was about 22, I got really into heroin and speed, and I started getting this terribly painful medical condition called pancreatitus or something. The first time it happened to me, I didn't know what in the fuck was going wrong with me, but I hurt so bad, I had my friend, Colleen, take me to the hospital. I was living back in Houston after failing at life, dropping out of UT, going through a succesion of fucked up relationships with painful seperations, and I was immature and I didn't know how to cope with it, so I moved back to Houston, and was doing  lot of heroin. It was the heroin that was doing it to me. I didn't know that though and only admitted to the doctors that I drank. So my girlfriend at the time, (I know this is convoluted as hell, but it's just a blog, so I don't feel like writing clearly) anyway, my girlriend at the time Starlette, her mom worked in the radiology department of this same hospital, but it was the only free hospital in Houston, Ben Taub, so I had to go there, no medical insurance. I was a huge mess. I couldn't stop crying even for a second it hurt so bad. And then, they told me that they were going to take me to the radiology department, and I thought to myself, "Holy shit, I sure hope Starlette's mom isn't here today," but then they wheeled me into the room, and I hear, "Tomatoes!!!!!" all chipper and chearful, and of course, it was Starlette's mom and she personally attended to me of course. I had been living with her after I had milked Starlette dry and she had to move in with her mom and then I moved with her into her mom's house. I used to be such a fucking mooch. I used to drink all of Starlette's mom's liquor. I still feel love for her though. for both of them.  Anyway, the whole reason that I'm bringing this up is to say that she did a sonograph of my stomach and said that I had the liver of a 50-year-old hard core alcoholic, and that was 6 years ago, so I shudder to think what my liver must look like now. It must not look too pretty what so ever. Wow, this is going on forever. New Year's Eve was fantastic.I talked to Felicia, my first girlfriend from high school. "my first love" She's getting a divorce and was giving me the impression that if only we were in the same city, she would fuck me which would be weird as hell, but I would definitely take her up on the offer because I'm in love with her eternally. Sam's visiting in Houston right now, and he called to tell me that he was hanging out with her and she was asking if he thought I would take her back. I think she's insane. What is this, the "Ex-girlfriend blog"? This is ridiculous.

Tuesday January 17th. ******************************************My poor balls.

The vasectomy was a little scary. I have the shakes really bad. This is the worst that I've ever shaken, but it has nothing to do with the vasectomy. Just tons of Steel Reserve is to blame. The vasectomy was all the way in Harbor City. Kind of near Bukowski's grave but I didn't visit. This man that was checking me in was a little put off by the idea that I wanted a picture of me and the doctor. "I have never heard anyone request that before," he said. He was either full of shit or new. We did all the paper work, and then he took me into the surgery room, instructed me to put on this robe, and then left. When he returned, he looked at me, and said, "You're getting a vasectomy, right?" For a second, I thought that maybe this was another person. I thought maybe it was the first guy's identical twin because why would he ask that after we had just been talking about the vasectomy, and doing all of the paperwork and everything?, but then I realized that that's preposterous. It was the same guy. He just wanted to make extra, extra sure that I knew I was getting a vasectomy. He had me lay down and started shaving my balls, and preping me, sterilizing everything, etc. I had already shaved myself, but I geuss I didn't do a good enough job. I don't have much experience doing that. Well, to tell the truth, I don't have anyexperience doing that.

"So, how many kids do you have?"

"None," I told him and his eyes got very, very wide.

"You know it's not too late to back down. Are you really sure? You don't want to ever have kids?" He couldn't believe it, and now I even started thinking maybe that it wasn't such a good idea. I started having big doubts, but why would I've backed out just then? So what if he thought it was a bad idea. I didn't care. Finally, he finished with the preparation and left, informing me that the doctor would be in shortly. I asked him to hand me my book from the floor which he did, but he told me not to let it touch any of the green sheets because those were all sterile, so I was left there laying on the bed and I was just assuming that I wasn't supposed to move. So, I started reading the book wedged up against my chin: "In Cold Blood" which I highly don't suggest unless you like long-winded, boring-as-fuck, fancy-ass-lad bullshit about stupid-ass, morally self-righteous rich people who end up getting kiiled, but still, it takes too long to get to that point, and they don't even get tortured or anything, . . . just blown away with shotguns, . . . yawn. And the book was really hard to read because I had a lot on my mind. There was a lot to think about. All of the reasons for not getting the vasectomy were racing through my head. There were so many of them: I'ld never get to settle down with children. That's a stupid idea: Why would children make me more tranquil? If anything they would make me crazy. I imagined myself meeting a woman that I really like in the future and having her totally put off by me for having that surgery. I thought about lots of stuff because they gave me plenty of time: something like forty-five minutes went by before the doctor came around. It really sucked. It made me think that they routinely do that just so you can make absolutely sure that you want the vasectomy. Kind of like "freezing the kicker" in football.

So, he finally got down to work. He was very chatty. "Where are you from?" he asked, safely assuming that I wasn't from LA.

"Houston." I told him, and his face completely lit up.

"I went to Bellaire High School!" he exclaimed.

"Whoa, I went to Sharpstown High School!" You see, Bellaire and Sharpstown are very close to each other, so this was a great surprise to both of us I think. The coincidence, you know?

I started talking about this huge rivalry that our baseball teams had with each other. We stold there mascot which was a statue of a cardinal, so they came over to our school on a Sunday night with red (their school color) spray cans and sprayed offensive stuff all over the outside walls of our school, so that bright and early on a Monday morning, we got to see stuff like, "Fuck Y'all, Shittown!!!" all over the place and pictures of cardinals and so on.

At the time, I thought it was funny as hell though, but our baseball team didn't seem to think so because within days, they went over there and did something like a 500,000 dollars in damage to their new baseball field. All of this stuff even got on the news. I think it ended there though. I mean, I'm sure there were fistfights and stuff, but no more serious property damage. So anyway, me and the doctor were talking about this and other things about Houston. He didn't know about all of that feuding though because he graduated in 81, me in 95, but still it was something to talk about. And he went to UT too, and so did I although I dropped out and he went on to become a doctor, but still, . . .  

So, the worst part about the surgery itself is that you are fully conscious. They don't even give you a sedative or nothing. It sucked. And you can see all of the scary implements that he's using and the bloody gloves. The injenctions are painful as shit. They give you a shot right in your balls that stings so bad that I couldn't even breathe for like 20 seconds. They were worried for me, but I told them that I was OK. It sucked too because they give you a shot on each side. Damn, they hurt.

They do one side a time. After he was done with the first side, I was halfway thinking of chickening out, and stopping him right there. I was wondering if I could still have children with just the sperm from one ball. Hmmmm, that makes me curious. Why do we have two balls anyway? Why don't we just have one big one? What's the deal with that? Anyway, finally it was over. I've been getting really drunk everyday. And yes, it does hurt. Yes, I have been walking funny. Yes, I have had sex and came but it was inside a condom, and I didn't bother checking to see if it looked any different. Maybe I'll jack off when I get home from work and take a looksee at my semen. The sex was normal. It was actually very enthusiastic. Maybe I should take it easy and let myself heal. But, just wanted to let you know: my penis does still work just in case you're concerned about that. Different doctors tell you different things. Mine just said that I could do whatever I feel capable of doing at whatever moment, so that's what I did, but then again I was drunk. Hmmm, I don't know. Maybe I should just stick to jacking-off for a while.

Other than that, I don't have a whole lot more to say about the whole thing. According to the doctor, if I ever wanted to reverse it, it would cost 5,000 and then it's not even guarenteed that it would work. Who knows? Maybe my sperm didn't work in the first place. I should've had them do a sperm count test before the vasectomy. Oh well, now I'll never know. Maybe I was shooting blanks in the first place. Geez, "shooting blanks"? I can be such a dufus, huh?

So, that's almost it for the vasectomy blog. Maybe I'll write a couple more entries once I'm recoverd. It's actually kind of sad that it's over. It was fun. 

I have plenty more to write about right now, but this is the VASECTOMY blog. Not the damn Tomatoes Drama blog. I mean jesus, what in the hell did you expect?  


Saturday, January 21st, 2005, ah-ha! You thought the VASECTOMY blog was over!

So, I am now fully recovered from my vasectomy. I am back at work with no restrictions. My balls don't hurt at all anymore. In fact, people ask me, "Hey, you feeling better?" and it takes me a while to figure out what they're talking about. It only took me a week and two days to recover. Not bad. Last night, I went and got my bike. I had to take the bus to get it, and on the bus, I was so grateful that I wasn't going to have to ride on that bullshit anymore. All the last week, I've been literally broke, and it kills me to have to find money and then have to use that money for the bus. So much so, that I started just walking to and from work. I live by Santa Montica and Western and work by Sunset and Hollywood, so no big deal, but still.

But, the worse thing about the bus I think is the other people. They just all seem so depressed. Not the ones who are reading though. That seems like an excellent opportunity to get in a lot of reading. God knows, you can't ride a bike and read, but the thing is, is that nobody is reading on the bus. Something occured to me. It sounds a little right wing, but maybe I'm wrong, but isn't there a direct correlation usually with how much someone reads and how educated they are? Because supposedly, the more educated someone is, the more money they make. And then supposedly, the more money they make, the less likely it would be for them to ride the bus because they would own a car and drive, so all the people that like to read are driving cars and they definitely can't read while doing that. I know there are many exceptions to this, and I do every once in a while, see people reading on the bus, but anyway, you know what I'm saying? Wow, I'm editting that, and it seems really convoluted. i think I was going backwards with the theory. little or no education=poor=bus; also, little or no education=no reading, therefore bus=no reading. Did that make more sense? Didn't think so. 

But, so anyway, those people on the bus, they seem pathetic to me, but they probably think the same thing themselves when they see me riding my bike down the street, "Ah, poor thing," they probably think, . . . "He doesn't have enough money to get on the bus." I make them eat those words when I blow them away though, and once they notice my sexy physique, they suck their breath in and their eyes mist over with sex mist and they  murmur to themselves, "Oh my," as their loins begin to moisten.

No, but really, I do understand. I used to use a bike as transportation when I lived in Texas and then when I moved to California, it never even really occured to me to ride a bike until the bus strikes happened. If you don't know about those, they happened here in Southern California. We didn't have buses or metro for about three months I think. It was about 2 and a half years ago, I think. Not totally sure. At the time, I lived by Western and Washington too. kinda far, it seems on a bus, but on a bike it flies by. So when the strikes started happening, at first, I was totally pissed, but then when I realized that I could get around just as fast on a bike, it was free, it was excercise, I could stop and drink a beer whenever I wanted, I could drink beer on my bike if I chose, I could listen to my walkman as loud as I wanted, I didn't have to suffer uncomfortable eye contact or people bumping into me or people trying to pickpocket me or having to stand in an uncomfortably crowded bus for an hour and insane people shouting. I didn't have to pay attention to schedules or routes or bus stops. I could make my own route damn it! I never had to wait. Distances seemd like so much shorter. I never had to talk to anybody. Riding a bicycle, I realized, it made my spirit soar. It made me feel independent. It takes you one step further outside of the mainstream. Bicycle-riding, for me, I realized is a vital ingredient in my balanced nutrition for a happy and fulfilled life. It's true, many of these things you can do with a car too, and unlike some other bikers, I am not necessarily anti-car. I enjoy driving cars. You usually need one for a road trip, or if you're crippled, or work really far away, or if you have kids which is no excuse. You shouldn't've had kids in the first place. That's actually one of the reasons for me getting a vasectomy. I didn't ever want to be forced into that kind of a lifestyle where I have to go around being a lame consumer, driving my kids around, buying them McDonalds and toys that they'll never play with, driving them around all over the place and for what? I'ld really like to know why people have kids. And you can't get a straight answer out of them. They just repeat lame shit that the heard on television or that their parents told them or that they read it in some stupid, fucking greeting card. They don't really know why they had kids. Maybe, so they would have someone to take care of them when they get older. Or to make their life feel complete. something to do, a way to feel comfortable. In short, they use bredding like I use alcohol. Speaking of alcohol, it scared the shit out of me: the other day, I thought I was having pancreatitus. It scared the shit out of me. In case, you don't know, that's an inflammation of the pancreas. I used to get it from mixing heroin and alcohol, but since I stopped doing heroin, it totally went away, but a couple of nights ago, I thought it came back. It's extremely painful. It feels like heartburn times one thousand. Digestive enzymes eat away at your whole abdominable cavity [sic]

And the worse thing is, you can't drink. Well, you can't do much of anything besides lay there and cry, but lucky for me, it went away. I think it was just a bad case of heartburn.

Oh anyway, about cars and bikes. My co-workers for years have kept on asking me when I'm going to get around to buying a car. They just can't get it through their thick grease monkey heads that I ride a bike by choice. "Well, you could get a car, and ride that when you need it, and then have the bike for fun." is a suggestion I've heard a few times.

And this is how I feel on that subject: The more energy you use, the more you have, and the less energy you use, the less you have. It's too easy to get in the rut of driving a car everyday. You're lazy one morning, so you drive to work. That happens a few times, and then it gets more and more frequent and you get lazier and lazier until one day, you wake up one morning and you realize that the only time you use your bicycle is to go to Midnight Ridazz once a month. How do you think that makes your bicycle

feel? She's sitting outside all day. Nobody's paying attention to her. She's all alone. And then pretty soon, a thief comes to steal her, and they don't even have to do anything because she voluntarily throws her chains to the side and runs off with them. Because you drove her into the arms (or between the legs rather) of another man (or woman) or whatever. How dare you even blame the bicycle, damn it!?! Take responsiblity for your own actions, and be a man!!! or a woman!!!! or whatever in the fuck it is you are anyway??!?!!!

But, anyway, enough about bicycles for now. There's other vasectomy related topics that I wanted to discuss, but I gotta get out of here. I'm hanging out with Fucking John tonight. We haven't gone out in months.

So, the doctors told me to come in to get my semen tested for sperm."In 5 to 8 weeks or 20 ejaculations. whichever comes first" Ha! That sure made me laugh! If I didn't have an orgasm everyday, my penis would fall off!

"I'll see y'all in 3 weeks!" I exclaimed. I've been counting. I'm up to 8. or is it 9?, . . .

Anyway, I've been purposefully trying to flush myself out because I've been fantasizing about the day the nurse (a sexy one with black hair and one of those weird hats) tells me, "Good news, Mr. Taccir. You have absolutely no sperms in your jizz." I'm not sure how they would say it in the hospital, but that's how it goes in my fantasy, and at least, the nurse pronounces my name right in that version.

Anyway, I don't usually give a shout-out in my blog, but this is special, I just wanted to say to my sweet, lovely bicycle, I love you Euthanasia!  I know you can't read, and you rarely go online, but still I just wanted to tell you that you're so precious to me, and I'm so glad that we're finally reunited again, and I promise, I'll never ever ever ever get a vasectomy again! No matter what.


Monday, January 30, 2006***************************17 orgasms


I have had 17 orgasms since my vasectomy. As you may already know, I'm supposed to wait until I have 20 ejaculations, and then I cum into a little cup (or in my case, a huge cup) and then I take it into the doctor's and they test it for sperm. Wow, I'm very excited about having spermless cum. How exciting! I'm going to be a sterile splooge factory! Boy, I'll say. They told me to cum into a condom and then I squeeze the cum out and into the cup, but I'm not messing with all that. I'm just going to jack off into there. Yes, it's true. I jack off.

Today, my balls are hurting. Well, rather my scrotum. Not the insides, but the incisions where the doctors went in. They keep on rubbing against my underwear and it hurts. I should be all healed up by now. Hmmm, I hope I don't have to go into the doctor, but come to think of it I was wanting to go anyway to get std checks.

Anyway, the other day, I took a shit in my apartment, and I got tired of wiping, so I sat on the sink to wash my ass, and the whole thing fell off. It was kind of scary. Anyway, it's been hanging there for a few days worrying me.

I hope the manager doesn't try to blame it on me. I'm gonna say that I was just leaning on it shaving and it fell off.

Don't tell my landlady, OK?

Anyway, I have to go now. I have important shit to take care of, and I don't have time to go on and on about my highly comedic life to all of y'all saps.

Don't conceptualize, vasectomize!!!!

I don't even know what that's supposed to mean.


Friday, February 3, 2006******************obsessed with secretions

I had my 21st orgasm since my vasectomy this morning, and no, I didn't cum in her pussy. I don't get to do that yet. First I need to cum in the cup and take it in for them to test. I was going to do that today for lunch, but instead I have plans to hang out with Pradar and drink a couple of Steel Reserves that I have in my refridgerator. I'm going to show those Steel Reserves who's boss. You know why they have the number 211 on the can? It's because that's a code the cops use when they're on their walkie talkies. It means "Be on the look-out. Tomatoes is drunk on Steel Reserve again." That's gonna be fun carrying a cup full of cum into Kaiser. Maybe I can pretend to drink it to gross everyone out. And then I would say, "Just kidding! I haven't came into this cup yet." Wow, that is really stupid. I have jokes. I mean to say, I don't have jokes.So, I've really been enjoying counting my orgasms. I think I'm going to carry on this tradition throughout my life. It'll be funny and fun. I'll be like 35, and I'll roll off of my sexual partner, and recite, "Two thousand, four hundred and fifty seven, 2-4-5-7" And she'll roll her eyes and be so annoyed and think that I'm so immature.Wow, imagine when I have my six hundred, sixty-sixth orgasm. I'll say, "Listen honey, this is my 666 orgasm, so I want it to be extra-special. Give me a blowjob right up until I'm just about to cum, and then stick it in your pussy just because we can." and then she'll roll her eyes and be so annoyed and think that I'm so immature and she'll get up and leave and I'll end up jacking off and cumming into a cup. So there. And I'll drink it for real that time because it was special. 

Monday, February 6, 2006*************************huffing free-on

I'm extremely hungover and horny today. One of those hangovers that makes you feel all delirious. (and horny) A few hours ago, I decided that I wanted to huff some free-on. So, I went to that outlet under the hood between the condenser and the evaporator. I had a pen and a plastic bag, and I was rigging it up to fill up the bag, and as I was doing this, my boss walks up into my stall to see what was taking me so long on that car, and I spontaneously, had to come up with a reason for being underneath the hood with a plastic bag. I paniced. My heart started racing. My hands were shaking. So, I grabbed the plastic bag, yanked it out, and threw it down on the ground, as if it was already in there, and I was simply removing that debris as a favor to the customer. I proceeded to top off all of the fluids and check the battery, etc. but he stayed standing there, staring at me. He wanted to know what was taking me so long on that car, and I informed him that it was only going to be a couple more minutes. He still remained. I'm pretty sure that the idea of me huffing free-on didn't cross his mind, but still I was scared for some reason. I don't think I'm going to do that anymore. God, I'm horny. I can't wait to get home. bien cachondo, . . .

Thursday, February 9, 2006**************************sexy panties

I have high hopes that this might just be the most inappropriate, perverted bulletin/ vasectomy blog entry yet. The main thing I wanted to discuss is my slight case of paraphilia. That word means sexual attraction to inanimate objects. I think my version of this ailment, all men have it to some degree. And I'ld really like your input on it because I don't understand it. The whole question arose when I was staring at a pair of my roommate's panties laying on the floor and I got aroused. She has an extensive collection of very erotic panties. You know these: pink with white lace, frilly, see-through in certain parts, thongs. They get so creative with women's panties, you know? And she has probably every variation of these panties. It's awesome. And you know, it arouses me to see her wearing them, of course, but it began to make me wonder why it was turning me on to just see them laying on the floor. And the same thing for high heels. It excites me just to look at them through a storefront window. Dark hair too. I don't know if that's paraphilia though because it is technically part of a woman's body, isn't it? OK, I'm getting off track. Why do women's clothes turn me on so bad? And I love sex when she's wearing a dress. Something's really sexy about that. Just pulling it up to her waist, pushing the panties to the side, and getting to it. Fully clothed sexy time. So, I brought this up to her, and she suggested that I write a blog entry about it. She's probably going to get mad at me for being overly detailed about stuff that has to do with her, but she had it coming to her. I mean, it's not like she hasn't read my blogs before.

So, anyway, and looking at pictures of women in lingerie or bathing suits, . . . car show hoochie mamas and the like. It turns me on just as much as if they were completely naked. Actually, it probably turns me on even more.

It's turning me on right now just thinking about it

Actually, I cheated because I just went and looked at one of my co-worker's car magazines to get inspired to write this piece, so I have it fresh on the brain. I don't know if that's cheating or not.

So, I know this is nothing new. Lots of men are into high heels and panties. But, I realized that I am too, and I'm wondering why. You know those guys that steal panties? I'm I like them?

Oh yeah, and hoop earrings: HUGE TURN ON

I don't know why. They just are. Long black hair with a red ribbon around the head. Or really, any color ribbon or ribbons worn in any way. Oh yeah, that's what I'm talking about. A T-shirt pushed up to the armpits during sex. jewelry.

So anyway, just let me know what you think about this. Some of those last examples are things that wouldn't necessarily turn me on alone without a woman wearing it but it was fun fantasizing anyway. So, I'ld like to know what you think: Why is it that panties and shoes turn me on even if a woman is not wearing them? Leave a response as a comment to this blog. Even if it's just to say that you think I'm an idiot or you think I look gay in my MySpace pictures. Go to my profile, and leave a comment to this under the Daily Meditation on the Glory of the Vasectomy blog.

So, as far as the vasectomy goes, I've had 26 orgasms, so I'm ready to take my cum in to get it tested. I'll probably go tomorrow. Get an STD check too. I'm forming a band with Dave Andrews called Sexy Transmitted Diseases. Wouldn't it be ironic if I discovered that I really had one? I'ld probably feel different about calling the band that, huh?

It's going to be awesome to not have to pull out anymore. After all these years of doing that all the time. I'm going to have to retrain myself because I pull out automatically. It's just habit. It won't be too hard though I'm sure. I cum into condoms after all.

I already have decided how I want my first vasectomized sex to go. Doggy style. Because pulling out and cumming sucks when you're doing doggie style. You're left all alone. There's no human contact. No kissing. No touching. No contact. You're just there on your knees with your dick in your hand, cumming onto the blanket like a pathetic moron, and she's there wondering why you stopped, and then she realizes that you're cumming so she rolls onto her back, and looks at you and waits for you to finish, and you feel dumb.

After being sure that my cum is sterile, this is what I want to do: grab her by the shoulders pulling her towards me while I ram her more violently as I cum into her pussy.

So there, how was that? Was that graphic enough for you? I don't know, . . . in these days and times, it's nearly impossible to offend anyone (except for racism; that nearly always offends), so I thought I'ld just let it all out.


Tuesday, February 14, 2006*********Time for inappropriate comments


Yesterday, I had one of those intense hangovers that make me really horny for some reason. I was at 29 orgasms, and ready to have my semen tested, so I went home and had sex at my lunch break. I was so horny that I came in like a minute. I was surprised that I was able to make it into the cup because the orgasm was really intense, but I did. All of it landed in the cup as far as I could tell. I was then going to drop it off at Kaiser on my way back to work, but there wasn't enough time, so I went after work. I then realized that on this sheet, it said that you were not supposed to wait any longer than three hours before taking your cum in, but the woman who worked at the lab said that it was OK. It was only four hours after all. I'm supposed to call my doctor on Thursday to find out the results. The woman seemed to be acting funny about the whole thing which I thought was unusual since she worked there. It reminded me of this one time, I bought a porno magazine at Circus of Books in Silverlake, and the young woman ringing me up seemed so disgusted. I didn't understand it. I mean, after all, she was working in a porno shop. Why do I admit to buying porno on MySpace? Does it really matter? I'm blowing every chance that I might've had at someday ever getting to fuck you, but oh well. It's not the end of the world, right? Or is it? , . . .

Anyway, I was supposed to be censoring myself in these blog entries because they're "inappropriate and disrespectful," but last night, she changed her mind, and said that it was OK. I'll still use some discretion I suppose.

I was listening to music so loud last night that my ears were still ringing all morning long. It alarmed me a little, but now I'm fine.

The book has been going terribly. I'm having trouble concentrating. And I'm so close to the end. I wish I could just wrap it up. I'm getting these voices in my head telling me it's not going to be very good. I need to do ignore them. I'm going to edit the shit out of it later anyway, so I can write slop if I wanna, right?

I'ld like to announce that I'm having my birthday party the weekend of Feb 24-Feb 26.

My birthday is the 26th and I'm having my party all weekend long.

Feb 24, Friday, meeting at 8 pm at Shato 39 Lanes 3255 W.4th St. LA, CA.

It's the bowling alley in Koreatown. Near 4th and Vermont. Yep, that's right, . . . exact repeat of last year. I like tradition more that variety sometimes. This time, I'm going to try to wait until a little later to start the extreme inebriation so that I can enjoy the bowling a little more. My phone number is (213) 926-5992 if you have any questions or want to get in touch with me the night of the bowling.

Then the next day, Feb 25, we are meeting at Sarah and Jenny's place around 12 pm and we're leaving at 1 pm to go to an overnight camping trip to the Salton Sea.

Than, the next day, one the way back we will be stopping at a casino. I'm not sure which yet, but you can see them from the freeway.

So, give me a call or write me if you're interested in either event or both even if you feel like. But, especially, if you want to go to the Salton Sea, let me know obviously, so that we can make car arrangements. If you have a car, great, . . . maybe even more people can come that wouldn't've been able to. If you don't, that's fine too. Just let me know.


Tuesday, February 21, 2006**********************I still have sperm


Last week, I did a semen analysis, and then I called for the results, and they told me that I was legally sterile, and I got so excited I nearly hit the roof, but then I asked them if it mattered that I waited four hours, and they said definitely, so yesterday, I came into the cup on my lunch break, and took it right in ten minutes later. I called today, and they said I still have some sperm, so to still use protection. "Protection"? yeah right, pulling out, but anyway, they said three to four weeks and then to get another semen analysis. FUCK!!!!!!!!!!!!! God Damn it! But, you know what? I was really curious to know whether I had sperm anyways in the first place since I've never gotten anyone pregnant, and now I know that my balls were in fact, working.

Anyway, on other vasectomy related topics, I'm writing a short article for a bicycle-LA related zine about my bike ride. I'm going to get on that pretty soon. It was Luz's idea. I'ld like to write for a zine.

Also, I'ld just like to let whoever put a curse on me know, it's working. My bike lock took a shit, I got two flat tires in a row, I bought a walkman over Ebay and they sent me one that doesn't work, my cell phone got cut-off and then I realized that my voice mail is no longer on either and I can't afford to pay either, I lost my wallet, somebody found it and took out a thousand dollars with my card. And that's all within the last week. My life is falling apart.

At least the bank says that I'm not going to have to pay for it as long as I didn't take the money out myself. Let's see, what else? Um, that's it for now, but I'm still waiting. Somebody steals my bike? I get kicked out of my home? We'll just have to wait to find out.

Also, a lot of people were confused about when my birthday party is going to be. It's next weekend. February 24 meeting at 8 pm at Shato Lanes on the corner of Vermont and 4th. Bring money if you plan on bowling. If you have an idea of something we could do after the bowling, let me know. The next day we're going to Salton Sea overnight. Leaving from Sarah and Jenny's at 1 pm February 25th. On the way back the next day, we're stopping at a casino. We should be back in LA Sunday early nighttime. If you've never been to the Salton Sea, you should go. It's very deserted, beautiful, creepy, dilapidated, eerie, depressing. It's one of my favorite places in the world, and we're going to get drunk and have a fire.

Write me to let me know if you plan on coming to either (no phone)


Wednesday, February 22, 2006*****article I wrote for bikepLAgue zine


I wrote this article for bikepLAgue zine. It's going to be in number 2. The issue is about Bike Winter:

On January 12, I had a vasectomy. On January 8, four days before it I had the Tomatoes' Pro-Death, Pre-Vasectomy Celebration Bicycle Ride as a part of Bike Winter. I thought it very appropriate to have a ride in commemoration to my vasectomy because my love for bicycle riding and my decision to never breed have a lot in common. They're both fueled by my desire to keep my life simple. Writing this, it's taking a lot of effort for me to not talk shit about breeders and I feel that I was successful up until this sentence because saying that it takes a lot of effort to not talk shit about them is in effect, talking shit about them albeit very vaguely. Sorry.

Anyway, my ride started at Griffith Park. I brought 60 dollars worth of Thunderbird because I wanted to see people puke and plus that's what I served during my ride for Bike Summer, and I wanted to start a tradition. There were about 15 people on the ride. It was no Midnight Ridazz, but I was still pleased with the turn-out. It didn't take long for some of us to get really drunk including your's truly. We had a group photo by the statue of the cub and then took off east down Los Feliz. I, of course, was the biggest hindrance to the ride. I had a big cooler in my basket, and I had my old, broken-zipper backpack stuffed in there on the side of the cooler. First, just a few of my belongings fell out, but then the whole damn backpack fell out going down Vermont, dumping my belongings everywhere. And I was already so Pureed by that point that I was too much of a buffoon to gather my stuff efficiently, and someone had to help. So, anyway we finally get to the first stop, Barnsdall Art Park to watch the sunset. If you've never been there, you really should go. It's very beautiful. It's at the top of the big hill near Vermont and Hollywood. We all sat there and got extremely drunk. The sunset was breathtaking. It was a moment to remember between friends, bikes, the city, and alcohol. Me, Luz, and Lety all snuck into the Frank Lloyd Wright section and took pictures.

After that, we were heading to the La Brea Tar Pits, but Luz fell off her bike twice, and I got scared, so we wrapped up the ride by eating at a vegan restaurant in Thai Town. I had a quesadilla. It was the best quesadilla I've ever had. Either that, or I was drunk.

So anyway, in conclusion I'ld like to say that even though my ride was probably the shortest organized bike ride in the history of the human racists, it was still really darn fun and I'll cherish that memory for many years to come. 


Wednesday, March 22, 2006*************************finally sterile


Yes, folks, that's right. No more sperm. I came in a cup, took it in ten minutes later, they did some tests on it, and then gave me the call (a few days later), "Mr. Taccir, there are no more sperms. You are now legally sterile." Woopie. It's actually been so long, that I'm not even that excited anymore. And, I already started cuming inside anyway. That, though is mind blowing. I don't even know what to do with myself. Having your penis completely enveloped while orgasming is intense to say the least. It's like everything is rubbing up against everything all at the same time. It's almost too much. I'm sure I'll get used to it. And it's not the same at all as when you cum inside but inside of a condom. Not at all. Way more intense.

So, I'm a little bit unexcited to write this last entry in my vasectomy blog. It's a little anti-climatic. For starters, the other day, I wrote what may've quite possibly been my best vasectomy blog entry ever, and then while I was editting it, the whole thing got erased. It really made me upset. I'm still upset about it. Years ago, when I was living in Tijuana and I was writing a book, I was about 2/3 done with it when I moved to LA. I was living in this little shitty hotel room a block from McArthur Park (I could write a whole short story about it, but am not going to now). I couldn't pay my rent so they changed the locks and eventually ended up throwing my book away. This hurt a lot. Granted, it was a speed induced pile of psychotic nonsense, but still it was my creation, so it deeply affected me.

It makes me understand why people go so crazy when their kids die.

The other day, I was watching Nanny 911, and I was drunk, and just the way that the parents and children were interacting was making me cry. I don't know if it made me think about the fact that I will never experience that on my own now, or if it reminded me of my own troubled childhood. Either way, I will never father my own children. The glamour and excitement of that has finally died down. The idea tht I can cum inside of woman no longer seems that amazing to me. Yeah, sure it's pretty cool , but the main reason that I got a vasectomy is because I never want to fuck up my life with all of that complicated nonsense.

I just want to focus on the important things in life: creating, and not the bullshit meaningless, wasteful, inconsiderate, vain, selfish creation of human life, but the creation of things truly meaningful: books.

Each book, even a shitty one, is worth at least 50 human lives.

So, like usual, I have lots more that I want to write about, but I just want to wrap up this vasectomy blog by saying, "I, PUREE TOMATOES, AM NOW LEGALLY STERILE!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!" 

5:14 PM



 Tuesday, April 04, 2006 

April: rain, heroin, dangerbikes,

April 4, 2006*********************I LOVE RAIN BLOG!!!!!!!!!


Aw gosh, how I love the rain so much. It's absolutely blissful. Remember last year's winter here in LA when it rained everyday for months on end? Now that was stupendous. I felt like god was smiling down on me. Not like I believe in any of that hogwash, but you know what I'm saying. So, I enjoyed the rain but, I did get really, really, really wet, and bummed lots of rides and took the bus a lot. And I hate all those things, so I invested 30 bucks this year on some heavy duty rain gear. I got this big, ugly yellow overall pants things (15 dollars) And then a big ugly yellow long raincoat. I'm indestructible on my bike. And the outfit is very warm too. I don't even need to wear a jacket or sweater underneath. It's very fun to ride your bike in the rain when you can stay dry and warm. Today, it's been raining all day. Gosh it's nice. I was noticing that there was a bunch of fog rolling around Griffith Observatory, so I took a used car ('04 Mustang. One of the stupidest cars ever made) on a, ahem, road test up there high in Griffith Park. It was so beautiful. You couldn't see much further than 8 feet or so, and then, what you did see was blanketed by this rolling mist. It made me feel so good. I felt like I was on the set of a horror movie. And then, there was this coyote that was just standing by the road, and I stopped the car and we stared at each other for five minutes or so until I started howling just to see what he would do, but he got scared so I decided to leave him alone. I mean, his life is probably rough enough living in Griffith Park. That was a nice little outing, and I was on the clock too, ha-ha!

Anyway, I was watching this travel show a couple or years ago, and they had this little bit of trivia before a commercial break:

Which of these parks is biggest?

a) Golden Gate Park

b) Central Park

c) Griffith Park

What do you think the answer was? I was thinking it was Golden Gate Park because that's a pretty damn big park, but it ended up being Griffith Park. Everybody I tell this to doesn't believe me. I'm sure you (or I for that matter) could figure this out with a little bit of Internet research. Maybe later. I'm too busy.

So, back to my love of the rain. As much as I love rain, I hate sunny weather. When somebody refers to sunny weather as being "nice" or it's a "pretty day". It's "nice outside" or any of those things, it just pisses me off so bad. I can't understand what's so nice about it. Oh yeah, I love squinting, getting sun burnt, and sweating. I mean, don't get me wrong, I love getting skin cancer just as much as the next guy, but gee whiz, this is ridiculous. For some reason, when people act like they enjoy sunny weather, it's like a slap in the face. I know this is unreasonable. They don't have any part in causing sunny weather, but for some reason their whole presence on this planet threatens me. Can you believe I lived in San Diego for three years? They can shove their 360 days a year of sunshine up their asses.

And whenever I mention my love of rain, people always suggest that I move to the pacific northwest, but the thing about that is that I don't like cold weather, and plus I couldn't ever bear to leave LA. It's just perfect here. Of course, there's some things that I don't like about it, mainly the cars, but no place is perfect.

Anyway, I have much more stuff that I've been meaning to write about, but I'm going to let this blog/ bulletin be just about the rain and its adversary, sunshine except for this:


Check out this funny link. It's all of these Steel Reserve lovers writing in with praise for the beer to end all beers:


Oh, yeah and it's Sam's birthday. Happy Birthday, Sam.


4-5-6 **************************HEROIN OVERDOSES


The subject for today's blog is heroin overdose. Whether or not the person truly intended to die from that shot, it was suicide all the same because doing hard drugs is suicidal behavior. If you really cared about your life you wouldn't be doing it. And I'm not trying to say that you should really care about your life. If you'ld like to kill yourself, be my guest.

You might be wondering why I chose to write on this topic today. It's because I was just informed by my dear old friend Bry Garcia that a friend of our's, Chris Bozeman overdosed in New Orleans a couple of weeks ago. I'm assuming he was there for Mardi Gras. How wonderfully morbid that he should die at the first Mardi Gras after Hurricane Katrina. I wanted to go to that one too. Too bad. Maybe I could've seen ol' Bozeman one last time before the great leap into the unknown and presumably vacant land of death. The Great Nothingness.

After so many years of heavy drinking, I don't fully remember from exactly where I know Bozeman. I think we may've gone to Lanier Middle School together for a brief stretch (before I got kicked out), but I'm not sure. That was nineteen years ago, after all. You can't expect me to remember back that far.

I know for sure, we used to hang out with the same group of party-hoppers in Austin during the mid-nineties. His ex-girlfriend, Brydie lived in this apartment for a while that I ended up living in for two years. One time, I went with him, Jay Van Hoy, and a few other guys to Enchanted Rock. Bozeman had a vial of liquid LSD, and Jay Van Hoy and I tripped so hard that we got lost out on the rock all night. There was too many colors, we couldn't see anything. So, we laid down on this cold-as-fuck rock all night 'til the sun came up, and then found our way to camp. I remember getting in the car before we left for the trip and everybody thought it was hilarious that all I was bringing was a twelve pack of beer. Well, I didn't know we were staying overnight.

So, rest in peace Bozeman. Too bad I didn't get to see you one last time. Who knows? Maybe he didn't intend to kill himself. Maybe he was really drunk and somebody offered him a shot so he took it, and it killed him because he was mixing it with alcohol. That's very dangerous mixing alcohol with heroin. I should know I overdosed from doing that twice.

One time, I was at the same apartment that I mentioned earlier that Bozeman's girlfriend used to live at. I was about 20. This was in Austin. I was hanging out all day drinking, and sometime in the evening, this gutter punk young woman came over because she needed a place to shoot up. The deal at my place was anybody could come over to get high there, but they had to share their drugs with me. Anyway, she made me this huuuuugggee shot and she was like, "Tomatoes, I don't think you can handle it. Maybe you should only do a portion of this." but I wouldn't have it. And especially since it was free, I wanted to take advantage of it.

"No way." I said, taking the syringe from her hand. I cleaned off the tip, tied myself off, and easily found a vein. It did end up being way too much. I couldn't see straight or nothing. I needed to get my composure, so I went out to my porch and sat in this patio chair to smoke a cigarette. I remember looking around having a lot of trouble keeping my eyes open, and then the next thing I knew, I woke up naked laying down in my shower and there was cold water spraying all over my nude (and very sexy) body. I didn't know what was happening at first. All I knew was that that was the highest and best heroin buzz that I had ever had in my entire life. For some reason the chair that normally sat on my porch was in the bathroom, but I didn't care. I sprang out of the shower, turned it off, and put my clothes on.

When I walked out of the bathroom, I announced to everybody that that was the best feeling that I had ever experienced in my whole life. They were all looking at me like they just saw a ghost. They looked very spooked. "Oh my gosh, Tomatoes! We thought you were dying! You wouldn't wake up we had to carry you and the chair all the way to the bathroom." Apparently, instead of taking me out of the chair, they had marched me through my apartment with me sitting on the chair as if I was some sort of king. A king overdosing on heroin. "We've been sitting here for the last ten minutes wondering whether or not to call the cops."

"Well, I'm fine." I sat down and smoked a cigarette. I felt so fucking, damn good. I didn't even care that I had almost died.

That incident repeated itself one more time except it was in somebody else's home and they didn't bother carrying me with the chair. After that incident, I still didn't care. One time, I went out from doing too much methadone too. I write about that in my book, so you'll have to wait for that story.

Anyway, I don't do heroin anymore. It gives me this condition called pancreatitus. It's extremely painful. You can't do anything but lie there and cry for days at a time. It's an inflammation of the pancreas. It releases digestive enzymes into your whole abdominal cavity. Very painful like I said. I got hospitalized for that four times in four different cities (Houston, Austin, San Diego, Los Angeles) until I finally realized it was the heroin so I stopped. Easy solution. As long as I can keep drinking. That's the important thing. And you can't drink when you're in the throes of pancreatitus, so it was an easy choice.

Anyway, who else died from heroin? hmmm, let me think. Oh yeah, this guy named Bogey died from it. He had some othr middle eastern name, but I forget that right now. When I was sixteen, I was sitting in my room tripping on mushrooms when Marty (I've mentioned him in other blogs. He's the one who went christian) calls. They wanted to pretend to be in a band to open up for this band called the Fuck Emos. They came and picked me up and we went to this club in downtown. I played the saxophone, Marty the drums, and Bogey the guitar and singing. We were called Pinche. We got kicked off the stage after 5 minutes. I geuss we didn't sound so hot. Afterwards, Marty told me that my girlfriend at the time had fucked at least four other guys while off at college. I was devastated. The singer of the Fuck Emo's gave me a copy of their first demo (the only thing they had out at the time) and comforted me. Fuck Emo's ended up being one of my favorite bands and Bogey died about two years later from a heroin overdose.

My ex-girlfriend, Michelle's boyfriend died from it too. It was very traumatic for her. I saw a picture of him. I didn't like his haircut, . . . just kidding Michelle if you're reading this.

Anyway, there's lots of stories of people fucking their lives up from heroin, but I'm reserving this blog just for overdoses. It's long enough as it is, sheez. For now, I can't remember anymore.

My old friend from the sixth grade (and coincidentally, Marty's ex-girlfriend), Natalie and my ex-girlfriend, Shanti were both murdered in two different incidents. In both instances, at first, I just assumed that they had died from heroin overdoses because they were both heavily into it, but then I found out that it was murder. Natalie had even gone sober before she was murdered. And here's another interesting thing that I just thought of: Shanti was who introduced heroin to me, and I was the person who first introduced it to Natalie. hmmm, whadayaknow?

So, in conclusion, I'ld just like to say that I am not at all anti-heroin. Do whatever you wanna do, I don't really care. This world and life does suck, so cope with it however you feel fit. You could even kill some people or yourself if that would make you happy. This is a free country after all. Oh, and check out this link in case you need more advice. It's illustrated directions on killing yourself:


4/6/6 ****************************** The Dreaded Bicycle Curse


This morning, I woke up horribly hungover. I drank some Steel Reserve, had sex twice, and felt a little better. I was riding my bike east down Santa Monica near Santa Monica on my way to work when, wait wait wait, you're never gonna believe what happened. I bet you're on the edge of your seat waiting in expectation of what an interesting, unprecedented bicycle incident that I'm fixing to unveil. Or maybe you're not even bothering to read this build-up. Maybe you've already scrolled down to read further, skipping over this unnecessary presentation. Well here goes, are you ready? : . . . . .  A CAR HIT ME AGAIN!!!!!!!!!

Yeah, that's right. You're shocked, huh? You've never heard of such a thing, have you? So that makes it 6 times getting hit by vehicles in LA.

It was an old, white Ranger, and yet again he wanted to go by without being cautious of me and without slowing down. It bent his mirror in and scared the hell out of me. He kept driving too, the asshole. At first, I was in disbelief. My bike wasn't hurt. My body was OK. It hurt my elbow a little which is still hurting from the last time that something like this happened, but it's nothing to go to the hospital about or anything. 

I was still minimalizing the situation, milling it over when I realized that I was going to catch him at the next traffic light, . . . the one at Western and Santa Monica right in front of the Metro station.

He was the first one at the light. I pulled in front of his truck and put on my most enraged face, and started screaming in an extremely agro voice, "GET YOUR FUCKING ASS OUT OF THE CAR RIGHT NOW!!!!!!!!!!!! GET THE FUCK OUT!!!!!!!!!!" I'm not going to repeat everything that I was yelling because I don't remember it all, and plus, there's no need, but the important thing to understand here is that I was completely scaring the shit out of him.

It was a latino man and woman. Very attractive woman, The man was wearing one of those hats where the brim goes all the way around. Like a fishing hat or something, and some goofy-ass looking expensive sunglasses.

They were making motions like they were going to pull over or something. I walked with my bike over to his window, and started screaming and yelling at him. I was pointing in his face. I turned red in the face I'm sure. I was so angry I was shaking. I came close to hitting him. very close. I'm so glad I didn't.


"But man, you were all over the road."

"I DON'T GIVE A FUCK!!!!!!! LA MUNICIPAL CODE I CAN TAKE THE WHOLE FUCKING LANE UP IF I WANT TO!!!!!!!!!!! YOU NEED TO BE CAREFUL!!!!!!!!! YOU THINK YOU'RE SO IMPORTANT THAT YOU DON'T EVEN NEED TO VALUE MY SAFETY!!!!!!!!!!!!!!, WELL FUCK YOU!!!!!!!" I was intentionally avoiding personal insults. I had no problem with him other then the hitting me with his car thing.

At some point, someone yelled, "Asshole!" at me from a car that was driving by. I was holding up traffic and I didn't give a fuck.

He was claiming that he didn't even know that he hit me, and I screamed at him some more and finally let him drive off. I was about to knock his stupid looking hat off. I'm glad I didn't. I'ld feel even more ashamed of myself than I do already.

I feel really bad about the whole thing now. It probably fucked up his whole day. I feel bad for the woman too. God, I'm a dick.

Anyway, the subject of today's blog is how dangerous bike-riding is. We think it's not, but it really is. Of the six times that I've been hit by cars in LA, I was only drunk one of those times, but still it's important to be very cautious when riding a bike drunk even though you can easily get into an accident sober too.

When I was 19 in Austin, I got really drunk, hit a parked car, broke my jaw in two places, and it inevitably lead to me dropping out of school. I had to have my jaws wired shut for two weeks. I'm not going to go into that too much because it's in my book.

Two weeks ago, my girlfriend broke her leg drunk. She was out with a girlfriend to see a show at the Knitting Factory. I went to Top Model, came home around 11, and went to sleep.

Around 1, there was a knock on the door. It was her friend. "Sarah fell off her bike, and then was just laying there, and she wouldn't get up, so I just left." the thing that you have to understand about my girlfriend is that when she gets drunk she kind of goes insane and loses touch with reality. She turns a little zombie-like. She'll go wandering around by herself in the middle of the night, or she'll start punching herself in the face, she'll disappear, accept rides from strangers. All kinds of stuff, and she won't listen to reason.  I was assuming that her friend just didn't feel like dealing with her stubborn craziness and left her there. I didn't blame her. Anyway, so we both went to sleep and around 2:30, I got a call on the phone. It was a man saying that she was down in the street in front of our place and she couldn't move. So, I went down there, and sure enough, she was down there sitting on the sidewalk with her legs in front of her. I tried to get her up to our room (we live on the fourth floor) but it wouldn't work. She fell down some stairs. So finally I decided to take her seriously and we went to the hospital. We ended up taking an ambulance ride because no taxis would take us. Sure enough: broken leg. The last two weeks have been really hard. She hasn't been able to work, so money's tight. I went to LAC USC with her and ended up spending 10 hours there. The whole thing's been a big drag. She doesn't even remember what happened exactly, but she says it might've been the brakes (that I myself supposedly fixed at the Bicycle Kitchen a couple of weeks before the incident in question)

Anyway, I didn't want this to go on too long. What else? A couple of years ago, I was having sex with this woman and I was really into her and we were planning on riding bikes around the Salton Sea, but she blew me of. I'm not sure why. I guess she just didn't like me. I don't know.

Anyway, I was suspicious that she dabbled in witchcraft because I started seeing another woman and we were going up to the Salton Sea with our bicycles on the back of her car, and somebody rear ended us and totaled my bike thus preventing me from fulfilling a fantasy of riding bikes around the Salton Sea with a romantic interest. It seemed as if she was jealous even though it was her who blew me off not the other way. I think it backfired on her though because she ended up breaking a leg from a bike accident. Ha! Serves her right. Not like I believe in witchcraft or anything, just saying. But, the bike curse lives on. About a year after that, a car hit me really bad in downtown totaling yet another bike and injuring me so that I couldn't work for a whole two weeks.

My recent favorite bike broke. The pole right above the bottom bracket completely snapped and I haven't been able to find anyone to weld it. I bought another bike at the Bicycle Kitchen. A really heavy bike that was used for industrial purposes by Warner Bros. Somebody stole that the other day off the street. They kept on hitting the lock with a brick until it broke. It looked time consuming. That must've taken place at night besides it's very busy in front of my building. They were probably drunk to waste so much time and effort on such a crappy bike. I've been using Sarah's bike since she's been stuck up in our apartment.

My friend Cassidy was in a coma for six weeks after a drunk, bike accident and another friend Betty got into a terrible stoned bike collision, had to be hospitalized for weeks. Her brain was swelling. Geez that sounds bad. I think they may've had to drill a hole in her skull to let the swelling go down, but I may just be making that up because it sounds cool.

So, in conclusion I'ld like to say that bike riding can be very dangerous, so we should all be careful. I'm not saying to wear a helmet or anything, but if you're really drunk, you probably shouldn't ride. At least not in this city. And if you're driving a car, please be very careful for bicyclists on the road. Thank you very much and have a pleasant day.

Oh yeah, and tonight is the debut practice of my new band, Sexy Transmitted Diseases. We don't have any songs written, so it's just going to be me screaming and yelling and Dave Andrews playing the drums. It oughta be spectacular. Barnsdall Art Park, watch out!

Oh yeah, and check out this super neat website that makes anagrams out of your name. There was a million for mine including "mates too" and "taste moo". Let me know of some neat ones that it comes up for you.



 Friday, May 12, 2006 

May '06: new job, so tired and hot: can't think straight

just kidding although it is true that I haven't adjusted to the warm weather yet, and it is in fact making me a little grumpy. not that much though. I'm coming down off of a line of coke that my girlfriend gave me before she went to wqork. It wasn't a big enough line to make me high, just big enough to make me feel really nervous at first and then, tired and now I want ot drink some beer, but I'm in this fucking internet cafe ran by an armenian with body odor which I condone or condemn ior I don't know what because I could never figure out which is which.

Anyway, I changed jobs and can no longer use the internet everyday. I'm not sure whether or not I care. Either way, it's hot and I'm having trouble thinking straight. I got a friend request from the Pian Teens, definitely my all time favorite Houston band.

I used to have such a crush on the singer as did half of the young people in Houston during the eighties and early nineties.

I knew her through my step dad. my mom's boyfriend. He says that he made up the name the Pain Teens. I believe him because he used to play in two different bands with the guitarist.

Well, anyway, who cares about Houston? It's the fourth biggest city in the U.S. and yet' it's copmpletely invisible besdies Enron now I guess. I never even knew what that was growing up there.

So, anyway, I'm going. I think and I think and I think about interesting stuff to write in blog entries, but now that it comes down to it, I'm too tired and hungry and feinding for alcohol to write anything very interesting, so well, fuck you anyway.



 Saturday, May 20, 2006 

total bullshity

A whole lot has been going on with me. Namely, new job with zero InterNet time, so I am no longer on MySpace except for maybe an hour a week.

This means:

1) no more blogs (oh, boo hoo. I'm sure you're so upset. Although, now that i stop to think about it, whenever I do post anything new, I always get comments from some very unlikely people)

2) and I don't give a shit about you fucking stupid dildoheads that post three bulletins in a row assuming that I need to know what your favorite color, restaurant in Echo Park, and last person you had a crush on.

In case you don't know, I used to have a policy of erasing people off of MySpace who exhibit these moronic tendencies, but now that I've taken a step back, I realize that I was the moron all along. Why would I even bother?

Last night, my girlfrined was supposed to come home form work at 11 o'clock. She never came. I went to sleep, and woke up at 5 in the morning. Shocked that she still wasn't there. I had a nightmare afterwards. I was crying about her in the nightmare. Have you ever cried in a nightmare? thjought not, it's very rare.

She wouldn't answer her phone.

I went to work in the morning and I still felt like I was in a nightmare. It was that physical feeling where you're so upset that you're whole body has this sinking feeling. I think it's the feeling described as "heart-break"

And I kept thinking that I deserved it because I'm sure I've been guilty of doing the same thing.

anyway, I could go on forever about the whole thing, in tons of detail, but I'm not because nothing really matters anyway.

You need to always remember that:

Whenever something seems overwhelming, picture yourself a month in the future and how insignificant the whole issue will seem. That really works for me.

Also, once when you truly enjoy emotional pain, this world is an absolute paradise. So, I'ld suggest meditating onj that.

And always remember, not caring about most thngs is the true path to happiness.



 Wednesday, June 21, 2006 

life apparently still has some brutal lessons to teach me

In case you haven't been following the saga here are parts one and two (This is sloppy as hell, but I don't feel like edittititing, so fuck off; just kidding of course)

life apparently still has some brutal lessons to teach me

part two

In case you didn't get a chance to read part one, here it is:

It was absolutley fantastic: my first long distance bike trip. I rode from my house by Santa Monica and Western to Leo Carillo state park 46 miles from my house, a few hours north from Venice. I'm drunk so this might not make much sense. It was beautiful though. I gopt there, drank a bunch of beer, chain smoked a pack of cigarettes on a high rock cliff overlooking the ocean under a full moon all by myself listening to King Crimson, Epitaph over and over and over. Later I went back to my camp site locked up my bike to a picnic table. and slept in the dirt. i hadn't felt so great in months.

The next morning I awoke, shook a little bit of the dust off, drank a beer, and started back towards LA.

Much to my dismay, I had involuntarily joined the Ride to Promote Aids on the final stretch of road from San Francisco to LA, . . . I was awash in a Spandex nightmare.

This is the end of part one of my brutal lesson. I have a three day weekend this weekend, so stay tuned for part two, but just to give you an idea, I am 100% AIDS (because it kills people) and 100% pro-gay (because they don't make more people), and yes, I was that asshole that was involuntarily inculded in the AIDS ride that all the styrofoam hat people hated

So, here's the conclusion, and this shit gets very comical: (actually, never mind i didn't get a chance to finish, but read on)

I was going up and down all these big hills whith these people. They were creaming me going downhill since I only have coaster brakes, and that shit scares me because if you need to stop in a hurry going really fast you eat shit. You may be asking why I use them then, and the reply to that is because I have a stubborn loyalty to simplicity and I can't stand having all these wires and knick nacks all over my bike. It just bugs me is all.

Anyway, I beat them going uphill though because I only have one gear and what else can I do but pump real hard to get up? It didn't necesarrily make me feel better though seeing as how all these people had been riding since San Francisco.

Anyway, there were all these people on the side of the road cheering them on with pom poms and shit, and it started bugging me.

I started cheering too: "GO AIDS!!!!"


I think people were cussing at me, but I couldn't hear anything, blowing my ears out with headphones.

I stopped at a Sav-ON to buy a beer, but they were only selling six packs, and I didn't want to be weighed down, so I bought a fifth of this stuff called "Seagram's Extra Smooth Vodka". I don't know if you've ever heard of this stuff, but let me give you some advice: it's bad news.

It tastes like water. I was mixing it with orange juice and drinking it just as I would beer, or water for that matter. 

I stopped at various beaches to drink all along the way, it was so beautiful besides the steady stream of neon spandex encasing throat-gag-inducing human bodies who also coincidentally have throats too. Fully able to be gagged as well.

I recently got a different view on the AIDS thing. Before I was like, "What's the big deal? They got a deadly disease being sluts and having fun." But the bad part of it isn't the U.S. sluts. They don't even die from it anymore. When I thought about this factor, I was gravely dissapointed. If anybody should die, it's people in this country.

But, noooooooo. It's women in Africa that get raped who get it. And they don't die right away either. They get pregnant and then have a kid who suffers through it too. And they weren't being sluts either. Not like there's anything wrong with being a slut, but still, you were asking for it where these women in South Africa or whatever weren't.

Anyway, maybe I don't know what I'm talking about.

I'm just trying to shit out a blog entry before my time runs out here at the internet cafe.

This whole story has a very funny plot twist at the end that just manifested itself a couple of nights ago.

You still don't even know what the brutal lesson is.

You'll just have to wait.

Part three of life's brutal lesson:

I went to Venice beach and finished off the fifth of vodka. It had only been a couple of hours since I purchased it, but I'm not used to drinking shit like that. It tastes like water. I don't even realize that I'm consuming alcohol after a while. It's a dangerous situation I must say. I was just there drinking on the beach with my beautiful bicycle thinking about how much I loved her. My shoes were filled with sand, but nothing mattered except for me and my bicycle, Euthanasia. About all of the happy times we had had together. About every morning and evening coming to and from work. My favorite part of the day. About my obsession with mounting her. About how unsavory it is to feel that way about an inaminate object, but fuck it. " It's OK to be in love with my bicycle.It's OK to be in love with my bicycle.It's OK to be in love with my bicycle.It's OK to be in love with my bicycle.It's OK to be in love with my bicycle.It's OK to be in love with my bicycle.It's OK to be in love with my bicycle.It's OK to be in love with my bicycle.It's OK to be in love with my bicycle.It's OK to be in love with my bicycle." I kept repeating this as some kind of inane bullshit 70's new age self help healing mantra for people like me with real bad paraphilia for their bikes.

I was really wasted I must say. I had to piss. I dragged my bike across the sand towards the bathrooms. It was in the middle of the day on a Saturday I think it was. Lots of people all around. I thought my bike would be OK outside for just thirty seconds or so. However long it takes one to piss.

but no, I came outside and it was gone nowhere to be found. And I left Sarah Anne's sleeping bag in the basket. Some lucky bum took off with my black and beautiful bike and even got a sleeping bag too.

I was heart broken to say the least. I couldn't believe it. And I had just put on a new rear rim with coaster brakes (50$), a new chain at the bike kitchen (only like five dollars but still,  . . . ), new hand grips (5$), and I had just completed my first long distance trip on a bike cruiser, well on any bike for that matter, and a bike that I truly, truly loved.

I was calling people. I don't remember this part, but I was reminded later of my moronic behaviour later.

There was some cops there, and I was asking them how come they didn't catch the theif.

"Don't you have a bike lock?"

"Well, yeah," I responded.

"Well why didn't you lock it up? It's not our job to watch people's unsupervised bicycles while the're using the bathroom."

The pig made a good point. I had nothing more to say. I dropped my jaw and made my way towards the bus stop. I had to take a million buses to get home. I barely remember it. All I remember was the shitty feeling, and all the while the internal dialogue, "Tomatoes, get a hold of yourself. You'll get through it. It can't be any worse than a break up, and you've been through plenty of those. It can't be the end of the world."

I got home, went to sleep, got up and prepared myself to deal with the seperation anxiety through copious amounts of Steel Reserve.

"We had great times together. Nothing lasts forever. It's better to have loved and lost, yadda yadda yadda." All that bullshit.

I took my girlfrioend's bike. The one that she doesn't use because she's had a cast on for months. I took it to the bike kitchen, tore all the rickity ass bullshit off of it. literally tore most of it off. I trued my old coaster brake rim, put it on there. It rides like a dream, so smooth. nice nice nice bike.

It's just like I always say, After a break up, go out and fuck someone else as quickly as possible. That's the best way to deal with it. To make yourslef realize that other people can make you feel that good. that other bikes can make you feel that good.

OK, well here''s the highly amusing plot twist:

I did in fact lock up my bike. Laurie found it locked to a post right near those bathrooms about a week later. No wheels. no basket. That brand new chain completely rusted from sitting out on the beach for a week.

I had already moved on. It did a funny little number on me.

I did a tune-up on Laurie's truck in exchange for a ride to go retreive the skelton of my ex-bike, Euthanasia.

It was very pathetic I must say. Now I have it chained up on the street on Santa Monica awaiting parts to get her up and running again. just THE FRAME, grips, and a rusty chain.

So, that's a very brutal lesson indeed. well, it's a few different brutal lessons all wrapped up in one. How do you like that?

i just gotta keep in mind, at least I'm not getting raped by men with AIDS. Everything will be OK.



 Monday, July 17, 2006 

housewarming party 

so the housewarming party was a success

Thanks everybody who showed up. I took some rohypnol towards the end of the night and blacked out, but from what I remember these are the people that showed up: Sam (my best friend from high school we grew up on the same street back in H-town, and now we once live again on the same street: Normandie. Bukowski talked about Normandie in one of his books I can't remember which one though), Fucking John, Sarah Anne, Jenny, (I love these people so much it's not even funny whatever that means. What if it was funny? What difference would that make?), my new friends, Clyde, Christine, Chris (that I've already probably met a few million times but I was wasted each time, but now I remember y'all now.) Christiina (who I'm also very fond of), Sandor (Srah Anne's boyfriend who I also love very much), Morgan, Camrynn (who I also love. I told him once about my domestic violence/ gun toting problem, and I could tell it freaked him out a little, but he's still my friend. You know sometimes in life, you have to learn some brutal lessons. Nobody got seriously hurt, and I learned a valuable lesson, and spent two months in San Diego jail), Brian and Claire (they got me this poker set one Christmas, and then I gave it to Morgan, and she brought it to give back to me right in front of Brian and Claire, and I felt like a huge asshole, but whatever. Our problems are not too bad. At least we're not in Lebanon. You know 911 was in retaliation for Israel fucking with Lebanon (since they're US backed) They did it back in the eighties and the Muslims were pissed, so let's expect another wave of terrorist attacks on US soil, and I welcome it. In fact I would even participate in it if given the chance. Especially in LA. I mean, don't get me wrong, I love LA to death, but all these car-driving ass motherfuckers need to die and stat, so they can spend the rest of eternity burning in hell as quickly as possible. Yeah, I know eternity is a long time, and theoreticaly there shouldn't be any hurry, but I got ants in my pants to see these people suffer, because they suck suck suck suck suck suck suck suck suck suck suck suck suck suck suck suck suck suck suck suck suck suck suck suck suck suck suck suck suck suck suck suck suck suck suck suck suck suck suck suck suck suck suck suck suck suck suck suck suck suck suck suck suck suck suck suck suck suck suck suck suck suck suck suck suck suck suck suck suck suck suck suck suck suck suck suck suck suck suck suck suck suck suck suck suck suck suck suck suck



 Monday, July 24, 2006 

maybe Hitler had a point

If you are jewish, fuck you. Don't get me wrong, if you're christian, muslim, hindu, etc., fuck you as well, but especially, if you are jewish, fuck you. You are a fucking idiot, and you have probably never even read your own damn bible, because if you would've you wouldn't even be jewish because it's the biggest bunch of bullshit on the face of the planet;

If you are a woman and you cheat on your husband (well, first of all, you're a damn pendeja because you should'nt've gotten married in the first place and on top of that, why are you jewish, anyway? fuckong mormom, I mean moron.)), you get your head shaved and then get doomed to live the rest of your life out in the wilderness.

Leave the damn palestinians alone, assholes.

911 was in retaliation for Israel attacking Lebanon in the eighties, so now they want to do it some more just to be assholes.

So, I'm not just going to criticize the whole state of affairs without offering a solution, of course not:

my proposal:

nueclear bomb:


nuclear bomb:

(the whole entire north-eastern U.S.), and then delete me from your MySpace list. 



 Sunday, July 30, 2006 

offensive blog post

I don't understand why y'all people have these interesting names on MySpace, and pretend to be interesting on MySpace, but in real life you're the blandest motherfucker on Earth, and I'm not talking about shy people. Y'all have an excuse. I'm shy too, but I'm usually drunk as hell, so that's another thing. But, well you can have a clever play on your name like Wayne-in-blood, but if your name is "John" (I'm not talking about anybody in particular, just an example) and you go by "Bipolar Antarctica" (another random name; I couldn't think of anything more clever at the time (3:30 am and drunk as hell)), well, you're going to be the victim of my next MySpace massacre. Why don't don't you just be a more interesting person in real life? Why don't you go by that name? This is LA for shit's sake, and anything goes, and I don't know, I've been here for years, maybe the whole country has been transormed, but nobody gives a fuck if you want to go by "Bipolar Antarctica". In fact they like it, but if your whole point in life is to make money and fuck people and that makes you feel special (by the way, I'm watching live at the Apollo, and these people are funny as hell although whenever I'm in jail, it doesn't even matter how hysterical black people are because I know they just really hate me, but through the TV screen, I can appreciate the hilarity. I really like black people even though I can tell that they usually hate me, but you have to be sympathetic. They're treated like second class citizens, (which I can empathize as a bike commuter and a nonconformist, but I know that's no comparison) and over the years that can take a toll. My mom, from a very early age taught me that. I think it's a little bullshit the idea that racism from blacks to others isn't really rascism. It's still rascism; they jst have an excuse. Well, at least, a better excuse. Rascism is fully understandable, but it should just be directed at the whole human race because they all suck. When will people finally realize that all people suck and to just persucute all people regardless of the color of their skin? Their religious beliefs, on the other hand, I feel we should totally exterminate them. If I was dictator of the world, I would put Stalin, Hitler, Mao, Pot, The long succesion of U.S. presidents, Porfirio Diaz, Pinochet, and all the others I forgot to mention to shame. I would leave 99.9999999999999% of the world's population down in the grave. Leave nothing but atheist-anarchist alive. I'm reading this book about the Mexican Revolution right now. This was a major waste of time. Oh, by the way, as a world dictator, No Mexican would be harmed. I don't even give a shit about their religious/political beliefs. They're just so rad and the women are so amazingly good-looking. OK, I'm getting tired and the beer is this close (picture me holding my fore finger and thumb being very, very close to each other and me peering through the gap with squinty eyes) to being done. So, this is it. It's done. Leave comments on the blog version of this on my page. By the way, I intend to do a blog summarizing the Mexican revolution for us gringos and pochos because they don't tell us about this shit in school because Mexico doesn't mean shit to us. Ask any whiteboy (or girl) from southern California or Texas if they know any Spanish and chances are they don't because Mexico and Mexicans don't mean shit to us apparently.



 Monday, July 31, 2006 


tomorrow, August 1st will be my fourth year mark living in LA, and boy I'll tell you it's been great. Well it's not exactly paradise or anything, but I sure love it. Well, then again, maybe I don't even necesarrily love it all the time, but it's home to me all right. I've never felt this at home in any other city in my whole life. It's an unusual place to live because this is how my theory goes: The United States pretty much forms the culture of the whoel entire world, right? I mean for the most part, everyone's copying gringos, and what formulates U.S. culture? The movies and films that get made in L.A.

Anyway, I was going to make this much longer and thoughtful, but I sudenly feel very fatigued

And there's another thing: I bet a million stand up comics have cracked jokes about this before, but what in the hell is casual sex? Who would want anything besides casual sex? Do you really want sex to be formal?




Anyway, of course, I suppose it would be a turn-on having sex with a woman wearing a wedding gown, prom dress, or quincenyera dress, but besides that I don't think any of us want anything having to do with formalities involved in our lude sex acts.

And also, some corrections to previous blog entries. The Mexican Revolution did accomplish a lot of great things, it just took the very long route to do it. And Zapata and Villa had very little to do with any of the end results, in fact they were both murdered by their previous allies. The only reason that we know about them was because they were both handsome, charming, charismatic men. They were easily Hollywoodified. Didn't Marlon Brando play Zapata in an old movie? And Pancho villa actually had a Hollywood crew follow him around in a couple of his battles. The Battle of Celaya, was it? The one where, Obregon got his hand shot off. Whatever, I don't expect anyone else to be Mexican history buffs like me.

And further more, the whole deal with Israel and Lebanon. I now have confused feelings about it since supposedly it was Hezballah attacked first. Anyway, I'm too tired to type more, and I gotta call Mommy. I hope she never reads my blogs.



 Saturday, August 05, 2006 

exterminate the jews

and the christians, and the muslims, and the hindus. Can't really see any reason to exterminate the buddhists, but why don't we go ahead and exterminate them too while we're at it because religions are bullshit, and none of it really exists and people kill each other over and the whole world is stratisfied by it.

But, whatever, this bulletin is strictly devoted to how bullshit the jewish religion is.

And before I continue this, I must make a small suggestion: rather than quibble amongst yourselves about how wrong I am, why don't you have a small break in y9our busy lifestyles of pushing papers, talking on cell phones, driving cars, and collecting thousand dollar a week lifestyles and do some fucking research and present me with it.

Yes, I know Hezbollah attacked Israel first, but let me throw out a few hypothetical situations:

1) let's say we have a war, and the whole outcome of it is that we let a huge group of fundamentalist (asshole) muslims completely takeover the whole state of Utah. no questions asked, and on top of it. We let them build, nay, not even let them, but provide them with the money to build nuclear bombs, and huge arsenals, and allow them to randomly come in and out of all neighbouring territories and build army bases in foreign countires, and then on top of it, they treat the people who originally lived there like shit and kill them, and oppress them.

Oh, but that's OK because Morons treat their women like shit?

News flash you fucking idiots!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

Jewish people treat their women like shit too.

So, anyway, back to my hypothetical situation, let's say this group of fundamentalist muslims decide to start bullying Wyoming around.

What are they supposed to do? "Oh, it's OK, the muslims were oppressed so much in World War Three. We should be more tolerant of their asshole ways, and put up with them killing our women and children." nah, I don't think, so. Defend yourselves against these assholes!!!!!!!!!!!!!1

As far as i know, the Israel army was occupying various small towns in southern Lebanon (and still) in Syria.

I think that's reason enough to attack back.

I'm not going to go into large detail here, but please research the Mexican-"American" War. The U.S. government used the excuse of this nuetral land between the Rio Grande and the Pecos River (I believe) where there was some Mexican soldeirs because it was totally vague over what country it was. (from the Texan Revolution) They used this excuse to wage war on Mexico and steal California, New Mexico, colorado, Arizona

But, anybody who gets offended by my anti-semitism, I think you're just completely programmed by society and schools and the media. Your brainwashed. This religion is complete rubbish, and before you even respond to that, please go and read at least the first forty pages of the Old Testament. Anybody who has actually read this and still follows this religion is just completely bonkers.

And what the fuck, how could a bungh of white people lay claim to that area? They're obviously not originally from there.

now let's go on to hypothesis two:

Let's say a bunch of people from one side of the world went to the other side of the world, and found that there was a whole bunch of people already living there, some peaceful, some not, but either way, they got raped, killed, brutalized, dominated, and now, they're almost all dead. Welcome to the United States of America. The same country who is almost fully responsible for allowing Israel to exist

So, in conclusion I'ld just like to say fuck Israel, it's not a real country. It's called Palestine, motherfuckers, get the fuck out!!!! The main reason that they decided to settle there is because it was already civillized: roads were built, buildings erected, electricity set up.

They knew they were starting shit, and until they are removed, we will continue to have violence in the Middle East, and subsequently terrorist retaliation towards the U.S. and allies in other parts of the world.



 Friday, August 11, 2006 

a mysterious message from an old friend

Is it my imagination or does MySpace not let you log on late at night, so as to not do any drunk typing? So, I'm writing this on Yahoo to save it because I don't trust my computer and then tomorrow I'll move it over. And plus, Yahoo has spell check

Anyway, I have this cell phone, and I'm a little afraid of it. I don't like answering it. I don't like checking my messages. I don't like returning calls.

I don't know, I would say it might be because I like copious amounts of alone time, and I feel a little bombarded by human interaction these days. I just don't understand what the point of it all is anymore.

So, anyway, I finally checked my messages after a week or so, and the very first message was this guy, and at first I couldn't understand what he said, I think he may've been a little drunk and/ or on drugs or something, but I kept on listening to it over and over trying to figure out who it was. I finally could understand what he was saying, "Oh dear, Tomatoes, you must've lost your phone again." The voice sounded so understanding. Like someone who knew me inside out. But his voice sounded so alluring. I was building all these theories about who this person was. The voice made me think of someone completely decadent and a scumbag, but yet, somehow privileged. He sounded even a little bit like you could tell he was originally from somewhere in Europe, but had grown up in the U.S. I could imagine that he was someone who had ran around the world a lot. looted and pillaged.  indulged in sex and drugs and all that. He sounded like he was sitting somewhere in air conditioning or in a comfortable climate. to where he didn't need it. His voice was the sort of voice where he was putting zero effort forth into sounding masculine, but didn't necessarily sound gay. But, here's the kicker: HE SOUNDED ALMOST EXACTLY LIKE ME!!!!!!!!!

So, I was thinking, "Hey, this is probably an old friend of mine from Texas." You know how when people grow up in the same neighborhood, and are good friends for many years, they kind of sound alike? It was that kind of thing.

The number that he was calling from was in LA too, and I always love seeing old friends when in town. Finally, I called the number. I don't usually like doing that, . . . you know calling a number and asking, "Did anybody call for Tomatoes?", but in this case, I was so intrigued, so I had to call, and guess what? My land line started ringing!!!!!!!!

I had called myself!!!!

And then, it all came back to me. About a week previous to when I was checking my messages, me and my girlfriend went out to the movies which was rad. "Monster House" I highly recommend it if you like kid Halloween movies. We saw it at the Grove and were drinking Steel Reserve in the theater even though we were surrounded by little kids, and I thought I had lost my cell phone in the theater, so I tried calling it while drunk, but couldn't hear it ringing because it was buried in blankets in the bedroom.

It was me!!!!!!!!!!!!!

How fantastic to be able to hear your own voice unbiased like that. We all wonder how we sound and appear to other people, and I finally got a perspective into that. Or at least, how I would react to myself. How I would sound to myself without knowing it was myself. Well, that's about it for that. I strongly suggest listening to your own voice without knowing it, but that can be tricky unless you're a total space case like me.

and the European thing was interesting because people used to tell me that all the time before I moved to LA, and I didn't know what in the hell they were talking about. The reason nobody comments on anything like that in LA is because nobody gives a shit and that's one of the many reasons I love this place. 

a note on what's going on Lebanon right now: I took a shit a little while ago and I was reading this book I bought at a garage sale: 2001 Book of Facts (this book was written pre-911) and I was reading a brief summary of the country of f Lebanon, and all the shit that's going on right now has been going on since at least the seventies. Like an exact repeat; the whole difference is that Muslims have found a new method of fighting back with airplanes and all, and I for one, don't blame them. If I was under attack by the most powerful country in the world, I would use any means necessary to fight back, how futile it might be. I applaud the Islam world because at least they're not hypocrites. But christians and jewish people: "shame, shame, shame on you, sin verguenza ass motherfuckers. It says in your piece of shit stupid-ass religion to not kill people and y'all are just as bad as the muslims, if not worse." So, if you are a believer in the christian or jewish religion, I strongly recommend hari-kari or whatever the fuck it's called. 



 Friday, September 01, 2006 

I am a hypocritcal ding dong head

I was just wondering. You know I've been constantly thinking of my childhood dream of moving to San Francisco, and then I took this cheesy quiz:

American Cities That Best Fit You:

70% San Francisco

65% Chicago

65% Los Angeles

65% San Diego

60% Washington, DC

Which'>">Which American Cities Best Fit You?



 Saturday, September 09, 2006 


my third day of sobriety 9/9/6

and it's not pretty. First of all, I didn't realize to the extent of what a pussy I am. Apparently, I'm deathly afraid of ghosts and people breaking into my apartment. Secondly, it's boring and dreary as fuck. It's makes life and the world seem like a really drab bowl of noodles with no tomato sauce. Thirdly, my libido got erased from my psyche like a wrong math equation from an old chalkboard. Fourthly, I can't sleep. Well, duh. Fifthly, apparently the shakes don't go away immediately. Sixthly, I know I can't go out because I'll start drinking.

Now, for the positive things.

My writing is a lot better. I'm'nna see if I can't finish the rough draft of my book this week. It's a lot more coherent obviously and way funnier.

Yesterday, I suddenly realized why people talk on cell phones. I used to not understand it because if you talk to these people in real life, they have absolutely nothing interesting to say, but they're constantly talking on their phones. about what and to whom? I used to wonder, but now I know it's nothing, . . . absolutely nothing. It's like a milder form of kissing. When you kiss someone, you're not saying anything at all except: "I like you." Chatting with someone on the phone is just a way of showing affection. I guess. I don't know. I suppose there's many reasons, but i'm talking about people who are constantly blatherly inane bullshit on their phones. It's like they're so deathly afraid of solitude that they can't stand to be alone even for one second. Actually, maybe I haven't gotten to the bottom of this deep mystery. Perhaps I never will.

Another thing I've learned is that alcohol is not only a weakness of mine but also a strength. Having comfort, companionship, amusement, a sense of security (albeit false), and the ability to sleep within an arm's reach is really a blessing. God bless legal drugs.

And music's a hell of a lot better with alcohol. almost everything is.

Another thing that I hope to get a better understanding of is this extreme social anxiety that I have. Over the past few years, I've developed this fucked up syndrome where for no particular reason, if some random person says something to me, I feel really really hot, I start sweating, trembling, my mind goes into a complete panic, and I have to run out of the room.

Now this is the complete opposite of the young Tomatoes. I used to be the most confident person that I knew. Now, I'm just the opposite. Maybe the world has beaten me down, I don't know. Maybe it's just the alcohol. I'm going to see if it subsides at all. Maybe a week of no drinking is not enough to truly know.

I will keep y'all posted as to any further personal illuminations that might develop.

Do not be alarmed, it's not permanent 9/10/6

I'm getting the impression that people are thinking that I'm trying to go sober permanently. That is not the case. It is only a week long experiment. It is now my fourth day of sobriety, and I'm starting to get used to it. It kind of reminds me of when I was young, those long, boring summers in Houston trying to find something to do. This morning I rode my bike to the LA Trade Tech track to go jogging. (That's right I'm a dork) I love that place for jogging though. I have to go through one of the shittiest, most depressing parts of town and then when I finally get to the track, I feel like I'm in the middle of the ruins of armageddon. Everything's dusty. There's all this dust blowing all over the place. Besides that, there's nothing around but big industrial buildings and very little people. It's so apocalyptically delicious. I can't go to normal exercise places though. I love exercise, but hate the other people that do it.

But today, oh my lord, there was some crazy man out there with no shirt; just a towel around his neck and some pants and sneakers. He was doing some weird little lazy boxing, walking shuffle thing that I'm assuming he considered to be exercise. I was trying my best to ignore him. I pass him and he's like, "Hey man!, those prison tattoos?" and mind you, I'm going pretty fast, well, OK, I was going at a moderate rate, and I had headphones on, and for some reason, this guy thought that I went there to go find people to socialize with, or maybe he was trying to make fun of me, I don't know, but I go right past him and he keeps on yelling that question, "I WAS ASKING!, ARE THOSE PRISON TATTOOS?!?!"

The only reason I could hear him is one of my speakers is blown out. I didn't respond. I didn't even barely look at him. I started thinking, "Oh shit, maybe I should start bringing a knife with me when I come running, or even worse maybe I should start going to the USC track to go jogging."

I was pretty close to leaving before doing my three miles. He kept on yelling stuff at me and doing his boxing thing. I don't know how to fight. I've never been in a fist fight in my life. I have no idea what I would do. I've only been attacked once by a stranger. It was in the ghetto in Guadalajara. I was 19 and shit-faced at four in the morning. I acted like a total pussy, but anyway that's a whole 'nother blog.

Anyway, he finally left. I finished and rode my bike back home.

But, it really reminded me of being young. of just fucking around being kind of bored even with nothing to do necessarily, and I liked it.

Last night sucked though. Saturday night. Thinking about everybody out and about enjoying alcohol. Or even staying home and enjoying alcohol. Thinking how easy it would be to go to the store and buy a 24 ounce Steel Reserve and how nice it would feel.

But today, I feel fine. It's weird though. I felt hungover when I woke up.

I'm not craving alcohol although I'ld really like to have some. Wait, that's the same thing. 


It hasn't felt this good in so long, I almost started forgetting what it felt like. It's like it's twilight all day long. How lovely. I went and hung out at Echo Park for hours today. It was heavenly. It was like god was giving me a big kiss on the lips.

Anyway, besides that I have officially completed seven days of sobriety. I am currently working on my eighth. I am looking forward to stuffing my face with beer instead of food. Just kidding. I have been enjoying it. I think a lot more clearly. I feel less nervous talking to people during the day. It would be cheaper if it wasn't for the fact that this sobriety thing makes me ravenously hungry especially for sweets. I've been able to sleep too.

Tomorrow night will be my first beer. I will have nine days under my belt. I was considering going for a whole month, but I just don't feel like it. I thought it would be better to just see how long I can go not drinking during the week.

Yesterday, I was in a Leslie and the Ly's video. It was definitely one of the highlights of 2006 so far. Very fun, and I was totally sober. I felt really nervous, but thankfully wasn't blushing as far as I know. The video was based on the movie Willow, and I was a warrior protecting the baby. I had this huge macho sword. It was almost as big as my penis. I was very stoic. I impressed Leslie by licking the sword. They gave me a cape to wear, and let me keep it. Then we went to get pizza, and I kept the cape on and I was playing those lame video games that you win tickets with, and I won Leslie a fire department badge. She was very impressed with that. She put it on her shirt.

When I first met her, she didn't look anything like the pictures that I had seen, but she said her name was Leslie, then the boys and girls split up into different rooms to get dressed, and after a while she came back out and it was totally her. Huge hair, huge blue eye make-up, huge sunglasses, this crazy looking gold body suit. She looked stupendous. I got a big autographed picture.

She's an amazing dancer. Even better than me somehow. It blew me away. And this new song is really catchy too. She's playing at Safari Sam's on Monday if you want to go see her. This is her first time in Los Angeles.

At the video shoot, I made some friends too. Nerds that will play Risk with me hopefully. We were dorking out drinking coffee, eating donuts, reading Dungeon magazine, and talking about role-playing games it was fun.

I'm sure there's much more I could say about the experience, but I feel really lazy.

Anyway, about my sobriety, I truly feel that I'm going through a personal transformation (even if that transformation might end up being only temporary and experimental), and being in that video will probably be part of my permanent memory of this experience.

********I have a lot of dreams, and they all take place in Houston and Austin. I started drinking daily just a little bit before moving to California when I was 22, and I think maybe I don't have any dreams that take place here because maybe I haven't been all that conscious. Maybe this whole period of my life hasn't left too deep an impression on my inner psyche, you know?

Also, when I'm alone in my apartment, I'm really scared of ghosts coming out of closets and of strangers breaking into my house. These are fears that I had when I was a young child. It makes me wonder if the constant innebriation has stunted my mind's ability to grow out of these irrational fears.

********In a previous installation of this SOBRIETY BLOG, I was talking about how I don't understand people talking on their cell phones all the time. Well, I came upon one more reason people might use these "cell phones". It's for hooking up with members of the opposite sex.  I remember doing this when I was a teenager, (just normal phones though) and I geuss it works, but not so sure it's always worth it. Not so sure if it's ever worth it. It's like this thing from TV and movies that teaches us guys that we have to sell ourselves to women. You know, come to think of it, 99.9999% of us, men and women alike, have absolutely no idea what they are actually seeking from these sexual relationships. They've probably never even thought about it. They just go through the motions because that's what we're supposed to do.

********This life is very exhausting, but I don't mean to bore you or depress you. I think I might be writing this for myself more than anything else.

Have you ever read a journal that you wrote years ago? It's the funnest thing on the planet.

*********So, I mentioned in a previous blog that I was wondering if alcohol contributed to my blushing, social anxiety problem, and I've decided that it most defintely does. It not only contributes to it, but is also the main reason for it. This whole week, I have felt very comfortable talking to almost anybody. I defintely want to have sober days in the future. It's not so bad. It's not much different actually.

*********I watched Slacker the other night for the first time in years, and it didn't seem as corny as I thought it was going to seem. But, I knew for sure it was going to make me feel nostalgic as hell and sure as hell it did. I miss Austin so bad. I think about it constantly, but then I caught myself. I remembered that every once in a while, I think that I miss Austin, and then I go and visit and I hate it and I'm bored and hot as hell. It's not Austin that I miss. It's the memories. Experiences that I'll never be able to live again. I'll never get to be 19 and shooting speed for the first time. I'll never get to be 18 and have my own apartment for the first time and fuck girls and get drunk and blare records all night and do drugs and not have to worry about work, and go and visit Houston all the time, and go to Mexico all the time, and blah blah blah. Whatever, memories. Soon, I'll be dead and I won't even get to experience my own memories anymore for exactly what they are: memories. That's one of the main reasons I like writing. I don't want to waste my life by not recording it. If it was boring it probably wouldn't bother me as much, but it hasn't been boring. I want to be eternal and writing is the best way to do it.

*********I'm sure you probably know at least one bicycle enthusiast that's anti-SUV. They say that they pollute a lot. In case you don't know, I'm in school to get a smog liscense, and one thing that dawned on me today (while doing smog tests in class) is that SUV's have to pass the exact same smog tests that little low emissions Japanese cars take, so what is this pollution?Sometimes, they're even cleaner than small cars, so what's the deal with this? If you know, please let me know.

**********I'm'nna go ahead and post this without editting. My computer is acting crazy.

Just a couple of Steel Reserves for courage 9/15/6

Yes, that's right. I'm drinking my first Steel Reserve in 9 days, and it actually feels kind of weird. It doesn't feel unpleasant, just weird. even unnatural.

I got my running distance up to 5 miles today and it was easy. I feel like I can accomplish anything. I want to do the LA Marathon.

When I first moved to LA, I lived in my car for the first five months, and I'ld get up every morning and run three miles at LACC, and I had all these grandoise dreams of being the first person to run the LA Marathon that lives in their car.

Wow, I'm only halfway through this Steel Reserve and I can already feel it making me lazy.

It was a bummer though. Channel 11 used to have COPS on from 3 to 4 in the afternoon. That's my favorite show. I was hoping to have my first beer while watching it, but it's no longer there. It's the Tyra Show!!! What the fuck is that!!?!???!!

And now, I'm smoking a cigarette!!! Gee whiz, what's happening to me? 211 is corrupting my life goals!

On my way home from the track, I was thinking about yet another reason I hate christians. You know how when someone is on a diet and they've only been eating carrots and celery for days, so they feel entitled to eat a whole pint of ice cream therefore completely erasing all of their previous attempts? Well that's how I would describe the irrational approach that a lot of christians have towards their bizarre moral codes of behaviour.

You know what I mean:

"Hey, I've been feeding the homeless every christmas and thanksgiving for years now, so I'm entitled to anally rape my six-year-old step-daughter. After all, Jesus died for our sins, so LET'S GO NUTS!!!!!!! and then I'm going to be a catholic preist!! and then go to Mardi Gras and try to convert the heathens while staring at the nasty bleach blond girls going wild showing their nasty tits leaking imaginary mammary fluids."

"You yearn, you burn with desire! Your pants are on fire!"

    -Leslie Hall

Yeah, that's right. I'm listening to Leslie and the Ly's. A musical genius if there ever was one. Twenty years from now, people are going to look back at Leslie like they look at Elvis now. Only I hope she shares her pills with me before she dies.

I watched Last House on the Left last night. If you like being disturbed, I would highly suggest it. It was easily one of the hardest movies to sit through that I've ever seen in my entire life.

Well, I guess that's about it for the sobriety blog.

In conclusion, Ild like to say that this whole thing has been very rewarding. It's truly a remarkable way of life, occasionally being sober.

I was able to conquer a heroine habit, various meth habits, and now alcohol.

I FEEL ON TOP OF THE WORLD~!!!!!!!!!!!!!



 Friday, October 06, 2006 

women suck

I thought that would get your attention, but I didn't just write that for shock value. I wrote it because I truly believe they do suck, but it's not for the same reasons that you might be thinking.

They are a bunch of stupid fucking assholes because men are a bunch of stupid fucking assholes, and the only reason that they are that way is because first of all, that is their natural inclination (the men), and instead of blowing them off and making them feel like losers, women suck their dicks, thereby completely validifying everything they've ever said and done. All the stupid fucking trucker hats, Mazda Miatas, crew cuts. Making war. hip hop, fancy cars, cell phones, Jesus

NEWS FLASH "ladies", everything that men do, we do it to impress y'all, and as long as you continue to suck our dicks, our world will continue to suck and to be plagued by a bunch of stupid fucking assholes.

Well, there you go. I think I said what I wanted to say. It's not too complex of an idea. I thought it was going to take me a lot longer to say it, but there you go: I got everything off my chest in just two paragraphs. Not too much to understand: WOMEN SUCK BECAUSE MEN SUCK, AND MEN DO EVERYTHING THEY DO TO IMPRESS WOMEN AND WOMEN SUCK THEIR DICKS.

There's not much more to say about the whole thing. I know there's gays too. I didn't touch on that subject, but I will do so right now to make sure I touch on all my bases:

THEY SUCK TOO. and not just in the good way.



 Saturday, October 07, 2006 

El Salvador

Have you ever eaten one of these? For starters, let me just warn you. They're not that good. That being said, allow me to continue about the weird, bizarre world of El Salvador.

First of all, it's tiny. really, really tiny. I was there once, and I walked up the street to take a bus and low and behold, I was suddenly in Guatemala. Don't pronounce the G you fucking gringo, but I won't even bother to discuss El Salvador itself, but rather the unusual behaviour that these people exhibit in this country.

They refuse to acknowledge the fact that the U.S. is a country completely comprised of immigrants.

They are the only foreign people. We are all gringos. If you are white, you are a gringo. It doesn't matter if you're from Argentina, Australia, Atlanta, ... whatever, you're just a gringo.

It really doesn't matter, you're a gringo.

It's interesting, and then they name everyone "Junior", "Jonathon", "Michael", "Douglas".

If you know anything about El Salvador, you know exactly what I'm talking about.

And I feel really ashamed about what Reagan did to that country. He totally smashed it down.

They had some awesome ideas going around what with the FMLN and all that. I take off my hat to those people in a huge way, but then the U.S. government unleashed the death squads on them.

And you probably don't even know what I'm talking about because it's so shameful that it's never discussed in the classroom.

It all had to do with the Red Scare, well let me tell you, the Latin American form of communism has nothing to do with a dictatorship. It's actually totally relevant seeing as how 99.999999% of the population lives in total poverty, and they get shitted on every day.



 Saturday, November 04, 2006 

you think I'm crazy? getta load of this:

A few years ago, this woman (who I had only met once when I was like 19 and going to UT, and I was shit-faced drunk and don't even remember what she looked like. She came over to my apartment and I wouldn't stop blasting records, so she left)

contacted me, obsessed with the fact that me and her were supposed to get married. She's my old friend, Cassidy's ex-girlfriend. Some monk told her that she was supposed to get married with a man with "no name". Somehow, she interpretted that to be me. She lived in Austin, but was in Houston visiting hanging out with Cassidy, and she went and visited my mom. Yup, that's right, she went and visited my mom. She's a lunatic. She looked at some pictures that my mom showed her, and was determined that I was the man with "no name". My mom was scared. She e-mailed me and explained her whole insane story and it was amusing. We started corresponding. She constantly wanted me to call her, but I hate that form of communication. I always feel like I'm either being interrupted or interrupting the other person.

Anyway, it was weird. She crazy. She had herpes and wanted me to have sex with her with no condom. Supposedly, she had some technique to where I wouldn't catch it and plus, we were going to be together forever, etc. She was going to come visit me in LA, but she had to find someone to watch her "dogs" which I later found out were actually more like her "children". I wanted to go to Austin, but I didn't have any money at the time. Maybe it's for the better.

Also, she was obsessed with buddhism or something, and she was determined that she was going to illuminate me. I tried to explain to her that I already grew up all my life around that stuff, and there's nothing new that she could tell me. I told her that I was a loser, bad in relationships, an alcoholic, wasn't ever going to ever have children, an atheist, but she wouldn't listen. I think she has very little touch with reality.

Anyway, here's an e-mail she just sent me out of the blue. Oh yeah, she found some other man that was supposedly the real man with "no name" and they married and had two more kids on top of the dogs, I mean kids she already had. Anything else, doesn't even need explanation because I don't really understand it either.

So, here it goes, enjoy, bon appetite!

Dear Puree,

I had a similar situation occur. I got really drunk and, well, a police lady drove me home. She kept my blue thermos. I almost lost my husband. I already lost my kids a while back, but got another one later. He's cute. I was actually trying to leave my husband, but was in a black-out (a partial one) & the police lady drove me home. My mother-in-law let me in.

The monk told me today that I was drinking because I did not love myself enough. I have been having all kinds of spiritual experiences again now for about two months. I remember that I was looking for you, with blue eyes, my soul mate & I found Duc (my husband) & was living with him by the time you came to Austin.

I am happy again, but I met Jesus a little before contacting you. He sent me to the monk. I have been looking for him again, but realized that I had already met Him. He was my neighbor.

Now I am VERY sad because he is gone. I really enjoyed him speaking to me. I was not ready for Him. I quit drinking entirely after mid-last summer. I cannot drink anymore because I went back to my chosen religion. I used to be an inactive Mormon (converted in '98 & went to the temple in '00), but am active again. It is a trip.

I really did meet Jesus. I recognized Him because He knew who I was, which I cannot tell you, but I already did a year ago. When He spoke to me it was the best experience that I have ever had. Now I am hoping that I will be able to talk to Him again.

The monk said that I could if I meditated. I feel bad because I wanted to have sex with Him & always have Him as mine. Then He left. I went to Him in a black out a few times.

I noticed that He has the ability to shape-shift & go into peoples' bodies.

If He is in yours, tell Him to come and live with us.

I promise that I will not try to have sex with Him. I am married & love my husband.

I am in Houston. is your book coming? Did you know that the ancient Atlanteans were able to travel in their sleep/drunk states? Have you ever traveled in your mind to other realities?

After I went to the temple (the Mormon one) in Oregon, I left & did a lot of heroin & speed. I always had money from my family & school. I was lonely one night. my daughter was at my mom's. I saw Jesus on the wall. That is how I was able to recognize Him.

I miss Him sooooooo much. I cry a lot & then feel bad because He gave me a husband & everything that I told Him that I wanted. He asked me if I knew "The Way".

I said, "Yes, the language of Christ". Natue is the language of Christ.

I have to go, but please pray for me, Puree.

I remember shy, yet raw and young. You were obviously super intelligent. I noticed you walking circles around us. You definitely had a second sight. Your hair was beautiful- I recall mats in it, or - no- curls. You moved your head in a fascinating manner.

When I saw you later, at UT, your room was a few feet deep in trash and clothes. You were getting high. I was sober at the time. My daughter was with me. You told me that your dad had a lot of money. I just remembered your joker hat. Later, I learned that the joker hat was the sign of the Trickster. Hermes. I spent years to try to learn about myth & Jung's Synchronicity, or the I Ching.

Now that I have caught up to you, you are lost in alcohol & I know what Jesus, acutally just Stuart, must have felt like with me being drunk- as if He had wished that His memories of our past together, the one that is like a dream because it was many lifetimes ago, had been forgotten. I know that I forgot my past lives, but He did not. I feel bad for giving Him a drunk when I would have liked to have anointed Him with my tears & kissed Him.

He left me with a husband & a testimony. The testimony is one of Buddhism & Gnostism or Gnostic. The only man I have to join my beliefs is Thich Nhat Hahn, Cau Chin- a psychic monk here in Houston, and Jesus, so, I am alone. With Mormons.

God damn it,


So, there you have it. I'm not quite sure what she's going on about half the time, but whatever, you know? She's more interesting than 90% of the people I know.

Maybe, it's lame that I'm using her as fodder for my blog but whatever. She's not on MySpace anyway.

In the future maybe I can dig up some of those old e-mails she used to send me and add it to this blog.

Update: Here's something she sent me a couple of days ago. I haven't even responded to the last e-mail. I'm not even going to comment on it. There's no need.

What is your address?

I need to send you some money.

I have $88, or something like that.

Sorry about the weird emails.

You did not have an address before.

Figure one out- some way for me to get to you & quick.

I need for you to respond today.


She e-mailed me five times last night. Feast your eyes on this spectacle of interestingness:


1st e-mail:

Hey Puree,

I need for you to come to Houston. I need for you to visit Cau Chin- a Buddhist monk.

Please send me a photo of you so that I may show it to him. I want the one with you next to the old stone with your pinky and index finger up.

I liked your joker hat. I got one like it whe I graduated at the Cirque du Soleil in Portland.

You may come and stay with us. We have a few rooms. I think that we should go see your mother & scare the shit out of her- or love her to death.

We need to play music. My husband has a band.

What is your mom's address? Or how can I get there? Cassidy showed me before, but I forgot.

I need to go and see her to let her know that I found who I was looking for- Duc, my husband & to try to get her to get you over here.

What is your dad's name? I would like to meet him, or at least see a picture.

Much love,




Do you know Alex Mandy, Misket Lee, John Black, Alex Marsh, Toby Marsh, Joan Richardson or John-Paul Marsh or that woman who used to fuck Cassidy who worked for state farm?

Send me your writings

I need to read them

What do you know about witchcraft & the taking of young childrens' spirits via blood like vampires

Namely, imagine a way to get your soul back if some bitch named Judy Marsh burned you as a child in order to prolong her life because she could not get a kidney?

I need your help

Help me help myself


3rd e-mail:


What school did you go to? It was a school for gifted artists. I need to go there.

I need to see your mom

Please have her email me. My phone number is 281-609-9010

I must talk with you soon

Let me talk to you please


4th e-mail:


I need for you to come here and write & play music

Rent free


5th e-mail:

Dear Puree,

I am a woman who was once a girl. I saw you one evening outside your school. I knew that you were the one. You took me, in play, while you giggled like my son (who I had years later), and we looked at the art at your school with Cassidy King.

You then turned into a creative spiral, unafraid of dying & unable to die, but unaware of it.

I am in need of a writing partner. I need to take you to the monk, Cau Chin.

We are waiting for you. No sex. Just pure friendship, music playing and love. I am married, but need you to help me write a book in the I Ching, Carl Jung, Creativity, Chinese Medicine, the spirit that links Buddhism and Christianity, and Chaos- SHEER CHAOS!!!!!! Synchronicity


So, that's it. Pretty great, huh? By the way, I have absolutely no idea what the fuck she's talking about. Stay posted. I will put up some of her early e-mails soon.

So, I'm walking down 6th street and and I see I got a call from my girlfriend, I answer the phone and it's this insane woman named AMY that you may already know of. (If you don't, read my blog, there's this ongoing saga with her weird e-mails)  She drove all the way from Houston to LA because I'm her "soulmate" or some other unlikely shit. So, she was inside of my apartment  and scaring my girlfriend. But, Tookie, the poopie puppy princess was courageous and chased her off after giving her 150 dollars! Anyway, I'm back here in LA now. I cryed some Texas sized tear drops when the plane touched down thinking about all my friends that I will miss. I'm OK now though although I feel ill and I did too much coke and my apartment smells like shit. I thinks it's time for another bout of sobriety. I feel majorly fucked after my personal 16-day-long Mardi Gras in Austin.

So, without further ado (what in the fuck is that?) here is the ongoing saga of Amy. I must warn you though, you are about to read one of the meanest things that any human being has ever said to another. The first one is my e-mail to her with a few "suggestions". I was wasted.  Bon Appetit. And wait til you get a load out of her response:

here's various suggestions:

1. right by my house, there's the Hollywood freeway. There's absolutely nothing stopping you from jumping off of it. And you would die for sure, and I would rejoice because I fucking hate christians so fucking bad. I want you all to die. If it was legal, I would kill you myself.

2. You could go to Skid Row (east downtown) and buy yourself a hot shot. It would probably cost a hundred dollars, and you would most surely die, and it would be a fun way to die though. pleasurable and all that. and I would come and look at your blue bloated corpse lying in the gutter and laugh and point.

3. There's various tall buildings in downtown that you could go up on top and jump off and it would be quite sensational. Everybody would love seeing the dead mutilated hippie. Maybe you would even get on the news.

4. You could take the blue line to Compton, and you could just go around antagonizing everyone until someone shoots you in the fucking head. You'ld be dead in ten minutes flat. And all of the cholos would have a party stomping on your corpse's head. Maybe you could even smoke some PCP before you die. That's seems like a highly unpleasant way to die.

5. Get a fake gun and run at some cops, and they'll shoot you a million times. Nobody gets shot once by the LAPD. You get shot four hundred times. quite a pleasant time.

So, what do you think of that? Isn't it terrible? Not nice. So here's her response to that:

Dear Puree-

I do not know what is going on, but I am trying to exist w/o feeling

bad about myself. My husband can't be with me now & he is drinking. I

have been at home praying and at the temple. I was in austin and at

your place  

in L.A.

You are welcome to come over and visit while you are in town. I would

like to talk to you in person. My address is 2422 Union Mill Road, Houston, Tx 77067. My phone number is 713-609-9010.

I hope that you have a nice vacation. I am sorry about the weird rain.

What was it like? I was in NM looking at the moon. It was beautiful,

like inside the temple or when I look at the big statue of Kuan Yin at

the Buddhist temple.

Much love,


She's really out there. it doesn't make any sense. And she has these irrational assumptions that I'm going to go to Houston (which I may never do again in my whole entire life even though it's my hometown) and that I'm going to talk to her on the phone (which I can't stand. My brain doesn't compute that form of communication) Here's an e-mail leading up to this all. I have no idea what in the fuck she's talking about.

No shit

I am such a loser

I tried to get my husband to be Mormon & my mom and sister talked him into thinking that I am crazy

Oh my God- I am fucking retarted

He dumped me, tookthe baby and says that I cannot see the baby until the court date

I hate every fucking germ on the face of the Earth

I almost killed myself, then I remembered Sam and how the dogs told him to kill people

It made me feel better to remember that after reading my Book of Mormon

Fuck- I met superman the other day- Tomcat and fell in love

He was smoking crack, which I did not do, and collecting money

He works for the government as a drug dude that collects money

He fell in love with me & said that any man would go insane with me because I am so beautiful

I do not want his house, I do not want anything but Jesus

I was headed to the monastery to be a nun, and then it started to get dark

So I am at Ruta Maya in Austin

I am off of school until Jan.10

I guess I am free to go to 6th Street

I do not drink

I need a mechanic to keep my engine going

It has died

I was writing Cassidy that I am supposed to be with him

Fucking insane Cookoo

I like terrorists

They are good people

I hope they blow me up

Did you know that if a woman fucks a dog that he blows up inside her & cannot pull out

I am not sending you shit, fucker

I wanted you, but you have to be on drugs and drunk

Even Cassidy said you were the one

I pawned my wedding ring & got $200 bucks

Do you think that that is enough to get to you? How do I get there from Austin?

I want you so bad I can't even breathe

Were you Tomcat?

This man was amazing

He was Eminem- John Wudu...who are you?

I am going to the monastary in the morning & I do not believe in condoms, so I just don't do it

Puree Tomatoes, give me you

I am at Ruta Maya on the computer

The monastary is in Blanco

Their phone is off, so they may be closed

If I go to you, I cannot get back & I have school

I will be renting a place

Even Cassidy said that you were the one

Puree- my children are cared for by my husband, soon to be ex due to his insecurity

He says that I make him insecure

Why? I am faithful & give head every night almost

I even like leather and masks

I let him fuck me in the as a billion times

I guess he is the crazy one

I am available mentally

I am open with him & loving.I even cuddle. I used to cook. I clean and love the baby. Why do men want to take my children away from me? He said that I loved me dogs more than him after HE told me to give them a bath

I left them there with all my shit

I know the words to every song and can sing

I even sang for him

I told him about the universal mind and unlocking keys to it- Jim Morrison is my soulmate,but when I try to teach him he calls me crazy

I go to the temple- Buddhist & Mormon, Catholic and Orthodox churches

I think it is fun

I am still looking for my soulmate

What can I do on 6th Street? May I run into you?

Oh God, Puree, I wish that I could be with you when you drink, but I will end up drinking and I need to spend time with my children, even though I cannot see them

I need to be sober so that I can do well in school

I am going to be an acupuncturist even though Cassidy thinks that it is retarted

If I do not get acupuncture, my head feels heavy and pounds

Sex is the only thing that cures it

My brain is like a portal John Malkovich type

a bunch of souls jump in & I take them to the temple

They are released there and with scalp acupuncture

I take many with me wherever I go

My friends are in my head

I think that I got dumped because I am supposed to be with you

I just cannot do that and get back- I probably do not even have enough money to get to you

Do you want to try it again, Puree?

My husband just popped in the way before

It was weird

Like- I am getting with you and then, Duc at Numbers

I went on a whim after smashing my Kuan Yin statue into bits all drunk on the way to Corpus to camp on the beach in the full moon with my dogs when BOOM I decide that I want to hear old Skinny Puppy

Now he wants a divorce

How bizarre

My sister & mom will do anything to keep me in their bubble

But, I am with David the Bubble Boy, man

I am also with Elvis,The Jedi Knights and Einstein

I am an Alien Sex Fiend now

I am with Nick Fiend

But I do not want to have sex with anyone

Cass gives me such a great loving feeling, but he is like a brother to me

I feel bad for talking to him

I keep doing that

Telling him that I want him and then turning to you

My God

Would you just stop it already? I know that you are the little shit that is the kid in Superman

Are you even aware of you shape shifting? Fuck

I can communicate now with the universal mind and the subconscious in people

like if I am sitting in my car at the bus stop & I think (while looking at someone sitting at the bus stop) "which way is the destination?" They tell me by looking that way

Cassidy never should have come into mind when Cau Chin told me that I would find my soulmate. Cassidy told me that it would be you.

I asked him who would be the most beautiful being with God's divine grace- who would be my Hermes, my trickster, my mask

I thought that Cassidy would say him, but he said you

I am in a lot of trouble liking you, you know

I need to let it go

Maybe I should get drunk and have sex


I wonder

My temple name is Lois

Did Lois Laneget drunk?

I cannot get my kids if I do everything right

What kind of shit is that?

I love my children, but they are withheld from me

Is it because I was going to be a nun before I had them? Was the whole 'weekend nun' thing a bad idea?

If only I could spontaneously combust

I am multi orgasmic, you shit head

Hey Puree- would you even like an older woman?

I am probably lying to myself thinking that you might like me

No man can feel secure with me

Why am I so full of God? Why do I know things like a psychic? If you think a name or a number I can guess it

I believe in zero sex,too

But I like sex & I got pregnant three times

I cannot kill so I had the babies

I am sorry

I was going to get my tubes tied, then I realized that I increased my fith to full throttle & all I need is to pray in order to not have the cells multiply into a fetus

I also do not plan on having sex again

It was way too good to try again with anyone

I really fell in love with Duc

How strange to get dumped

I have never been dumped

I fucked great and was great at home

The Mormon thing pissed him off

He wanted to gamble & I could not do that

I did not feel safe doing it at the time

I just need to be alone and study

I look forward to being alone and meditating all the time

I will be going to 6th Street tonight & watching people

Where can I take my car and park it to sleep?

Let me know if you know a place

Maybe I will run into an old friend

>According to my girlfriend, she's an ugly little troll hippie lady. She should go to New Mexico and go suck on eggs and kill herself. Gosh, I'm pretty mean, huh?

And more: Here's the subject of an e-mail. It's so good on its own, that I won't even include the actual content:

I lost 40 punds since your mom saw me. I need my children, or a good s oulmate. Readthis

OK, well, hmmm, I don't give a shit how much she weighs. I've only met her once and she looked good, but I geuss she's fat now. Whatever.

And furthermore:

I am on my way up there now. I hope you are there. See you soon.

OK, there's more, but I will spare you. I hope that this was entertaining enough.



 Sunday, November 05, 2006 

I am a fucking rascist.

I have recently stopped speaking Spanish. It was only a matter of time after moving to LA.

In case you don't know, I'm white and latino. I'm from Argentina, born there, raised in Texas since the age of three months old. I always refused to speak Spanish for some bizarre and shameful reason. My mom always wanted me to speak Spanish though, and at the age of 15, she arranged for me to stay with this Cuban family in Chilpancingo, a tiny city in the state of Guerrero, for two months. I instantly totally fell in love with Mexico and its people. I continued going back and forth, often for months at a time. I lived in Tijuana for 6 months.

Anyway, I kind of settled down with full time jobs and all that, and I don't really get opportunities to go anymore. I've probably spent over two years of my life in Mexico. So, I can speak Spanish. I can say that with confidence. I'm not fluent, but I can speak spanish a hell of a lot better than a lot of people in this town can speak English, and yet they insist on speaking English to me, and I used to ignore it, and just keep on speaking Spanish because I like to, and I like to stay in practice, otherwise I get rusty, but recently, I've completely given up because I am so fucking sick of the attitudes that hispanic people have in this city. And correct me if I'm wrong, but it seems as though the attitude comes mostly from people from El Salvador.

Allow me to explain my theory of the difference between people from Mexico and people from El Salvador, at least how it pertains to their general behavior in the U.S. And let me remind you, nothing I write is written in stone. If I'm saying anything that sounds ignorant or bigoted or whatever, let me know.

Mexicans don't consider themselves to be foreigners in the U.S. This is for many reasons, one being that the land we are on used to be part of Mexico. Also, maybe because there's so many of them. They've been part of the CA and TX landscape for centuries.

People from El Salvador, on the other hand, definitely feel like foreigners. They just won't let it go. I'm not sure of the history of immigration from El Salvador, but I'm geussing that maybe they didn't start moving here in such large numbers until the fascist fucked up death squads in the seventies and eighties started. Anyway, yeah I know, I should have my facts straight, but I'm wired on coffee, and I'm supposed to be working on my book right now, so I just wanted to spit this out.

So, not only do people from El Salvador feel like foreigners, on top of that, they think they're the only ones. They refuse to acknowledge the fact that this whole entire country is made of almost entirely of foreigners. In their weird, warped little minds, they somehow have drawn the conclusion that people with pink skin (caucasians) are native to this land. And furthermore, they think that Spanish is a language that comes from brown people. Last time, I checked, the Spanish created the Spanish language, and last time I checked, Spain is in Europe, and I'm no expert on Europe or anything, but aren't people from Europe white?

And hasn't every single last person I have ever met from Spain been white? I know there's some mixes with the mores and all that, so they have kind of olive colored skin, kind of like the Italians or the greeks, but greeks and italians are white, no matter which way you slice it.

Yeah, and I know there are a lot of people from Latin America, even really brown countries (like Mexico), that are white, but they wouldn't use that word, white. They would say guero or something like that, but thing is is that those are the rich people, and they wouldn't be hanging out in Koreatown at the cheap grocery store buying lentils, potatoes, and cauliflower.

I wait in line at the store, and every single person in line gets a nice friendly warm, "Buenos Dias! Como esta hoy?" and then it gets to me, and I get an ice cold, "Good morning, sir." with this accent that screams that she's not even trying to speak English properly, or to even change her fucking accent. They speak English in the exact same way that they speak Spanish because to try to speak English would be conforming to gringo culture, and I am their daily interaction with gringo culture, so they must patronize me and call me sir.

It's funny to think about it. I have a lot of friends (such as my girlfriend) that have brown skin and don't know a lick of Spanish. They get spoken to in Spanish all the time and they don't what the fuck is going on.

I think the main thing I hate is people being presumptious. And whatever, call me on my shit if you ever catch me being presumptious. Go right ahead. That's what friends are for. Being presumptious is the product of a robotic mind, and boy let me tell you, the neighborhood I live in (BEV and NORM) has so many robots I feel like I'm in a fucking science fiction movie.

The other day, I was tellng my mother about this whole thing (who is white and grew up in Chile), and she said, "But, Tomatoes, you don't look Spanish." My jaw dropped because my mom is one of the most left wing people I've known in my entire life, and to hear her say such a thing, made me really sad. I think she's going senile.

So let me get this straight:

1) don't ever, ever, ever, ever, ever, ever use the word "Spanish" to refer to someone from Latinamerica. Spanish means from Spain, and being from Spain and being from Latinamerica are two completely different things. If you want to use expressions like that, you might as well, move to Kentucky and learn how to play a whiskey jug. You can say "Spanish-speaking" that's fine.

2) This one's really important, so pay attention. don't ever, ever, ever, ever, ever, ever use the word "American" when referring to the United States. In the future, this word will be just as taboo as saying, "nigger". It reflects such an awful attitude of self importance, and just a total lack of respect for the rest of America. Everything from Canada (not that they deserve any respect, but let's at least pretend, all right?) to Argentina counts as America. Don't be an asshole.

3) Don't use the word Indian to refer to people indigenous to this land. I know this one can be tricky. What else are you supposed to call those casinos? And what are you supposed to call the people?, "People indigenous to his Land"? That sounds kind of stupid too, huh? Scratch this rule. I just wanted to point out how sad it makes me that whenever somebody uses the word, "Indian", they have to specify which Indians they're talking about, the real actual Indians, or the fake ones.

4) don't ever, ever, ever, ever, ever, ever make fun of hillbillies from Kentucky. I know everybody else does, but still. Leave those people alone. It's too easy of a target.

And furthermore, another thing that I think tips people off to the fact that I'm really not latino, is that I'm weird. It seems as though people are pretty homogenous in Latinamerica.

You know, you may've noticed right up above, that I said I'm not latino, and it's true I'm finally admitting it for the first time in my life. Yes, it's true. If being "latino" means that you center your whole entire identity on eating pupusies and being from El Salvador, and proudly speaking some language that was taught to your people by Spanish rapists, than I am not latino. English is not a race. Spanish is not a race. They are simply languages that got spread by imperialists hundreds of years ago.

I am so, so, so much more than a person from Argentina who grew up in Texas. I AM NOT WHITE! I AM NOT LATINO! I AM FUCKING TOMATOES AND FUCK ALL YOU PEOPLE!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!



 Saturday, November 11, 2006 

1st Installment of Ask Tomatoes. (my advice column)

Dear Tomatoes,

I just really need a guy's opinion and point of view. So here it goes, I have had the same fuck buddy for the past year and some months, and I of course have developed some feelings for the guy, but at the same time I have hooked up with other guys too cause I am technically single, so I always wonder how the person on the other side of the fence feels. So my question is when guys continue [to] only fuck you (strictly fucking, no dates, no hanging out) what is the reason behind it? Is that it's just good sex, is it they can't find someone else, and could guys continue to have sex with someone they don't like or care for in any sense for an extended period of time?


lord sword's curious fuck buddy


Dear Slut,

First of all, let me just inform you that you are a big slut. Not that there's anything wrong with that though, as long as you're enjoying it. Actually, whether or not you're enjoying it, it's still cool. Masochism and self-destruction are the foundations of our society. Uncle Sam wants you to treat yourself like shit.

I'ld just like to start this with a breif anecdote of my first encounter with sluttiness besides the endless parade of men my mom used to fuck (just kidding). I was a little boy and I was watching that show, Cheers on my little black and white TV. It was the eighties. If it weren't for the fact that my mom never let me eat sugar, I probably would've been sucking on an Otter Pop. Sam, the bartender, had this tradition that every year, he would get together with this woman on Valentine's Day out in the middle of nowhere in a log cabin or some ridiculous shit, and they would have this romantic evening and fuck each other and drink champagne and wear silk robes and all the other lame shit that old, boring, consenting adults do with each other. And, it was totally implied that the woman was married.

And even in my young, little tiny brain, the whole thing seemed totally unlikely. Unless you're using a glory hole, there's no such thing as no strings attached sex. Maybe there's a few other examples too such as prostitution, porno, swinger parties. I don't know maybe there's lots of examples, but in your case, there is some kind of intimacy going on.

Because of the nature of an advice column, this isn't really a dialogue. I can't ask you further questions. I just have to make some assumptions. Like, I'm assuming you're a woman. If you're a gay man, than I'm clueless as to what to say because as far as I know all of them are sluts. I know that sounds ignorant because it is.

Anyway, allow me to continue. If it wasn't for the emotional connection that you get from having sex with another person, you'ld be better off just sticking a cucumber up your pussy, so stop trying to pretend that you're just getting your rocks off.

90% of sex that takes place in this world happens because people are lonely.

And then, there is the rather sad occurence of women who don't know how to masturbate. The whole idea of it bums me out so bad that I almost don't even want to talk about it. If you are a woman and you're dependent on men to fuck you to get off, that's such a huge predicament, just thinking about it makes me want to go ride my bike off the Hollywood freeway.

But, back to you, "fuck buddy", if that's really your name. I think all of us are guilty of being in denial that almost everything that we do affects other people in a huge way. Violence is an obvious example. Beating somebody up goes way beyond the physical damage. Directly experiencing violence fucks with your head for the rest of your life, and violent people really trivialize that.

I know that's an extreme example, but what I'm trying to say is you could be really hurting this guys' feelings, but you know what I say? "FUCK HIM." literally. As long as it's extremely clear that you're not into him for a relationship, and as long as you're not giving him any diseases from these other men that you're fucking, if he wants to get his feelings hurt than he's a fucking pussy and he obviously hasn't learned the most important lesson in life: "LIFE IS PAIN, SO YOU MIGHT AS WELL EMBRACE IT."

Please send more questions (anonymously please) to the mediator of my advice column, Wayne-in-Blood,



 Tuesday, November 14, 2006 

wow, maybe I can write more good

I wrote this about 6 years ago while living in San Diego. It's based on my own life. I can't find the ending though. I found it in my old e-mail archives. I wanted to also put this amazing photo collage that I made too, but photobucket won't work for me. What else works good for posting photos in a blog?

Anyway, here it is. It's called The Cure:

"The Cure"

By .tS Puree Tomatoes in the February of 01 in SD, CA

Part One

He sat alone in a dive bar very far from home in Southern California drinking beers. He was trying to read a book, but it was impossible; the book was no fun and expected the reader to be interested in tragedy, which the world was already so full of already. As he stared across the bar into space, he realized that he was unintentionally glaring at an attractive, young female sitting there, alone, just like him. While sipping from her mixed drink she looked right back at him with no fidgeting whatsoever. Her unwavering eye contact seemed to be sending him psychic messages, and he instantly began to feel as if multiple tornados were fighting each other in his head. He could feel his eyeballs pounding with the beat of his heart. Distressed, he reached into his pocket and took out 5 or six valiums and 2 xanbars. He swallowed them all down with one pull of his beer. He sat down the beer and accidentally glanced at the girl again. While his knees trembled, he guzzled the rest of his beer down, wiped the excess off of his lips with the back of his hand, and ordered another beer from the bartender. He tried reading his book more, but couldn't. All the turmoil in his head was making him feel like doing something drastic, . . . something so terrible that his grandmother and mother would for sure be devastated from shame and torture him psychically with feeling of disappointment. The girl continued casually looking in his direction. He stared straight down at the floor like a shy schoolboy, not being embarrassed, but sweltering. After 45 minutes or so of guzzling beer and waiting for the pills to take affect, he realized he was too far under for the pills and beer to be of any help. At this point, he was only concerned with the safety of this young lady. He knew that the moment called for more intensive measures. So, he reached into his mochila and pulled out the Kit containing everything he needed to perform The Cure.

· * * * *

Part 2

We need to take a brief look at this man's history. The feelings that he was experiencing during the first part first began appearing at an early age in his home state of Mississippi. He was only twelve when he started having trouble with eyes looking at him. It was especially the girls' eyes that pounded his mind. Sure, like all the other boys, he kissed with girls and so forth, but always in the back of his head spun anger and hatred like a whirlpool of putrid bile. It wasn't for the girls that this hatred was summoned, but for the futileness of procreating and a fear of being trapped into a typical, everyday living. You have to admit, it's detestable. At first, he felt like maybe he was a bad person, a person contaminated with evil. His sincere emotions collided violently with the feminist dogma that his mother had raised him with. But, then again, when he thought to himself, not all of the established norms of society are necessarily true, and even if he were to admit to himself that what he had was some sort of mental ailment, he thought of psychology to be too bourgeoisie for him and refused to partake in any of their squanderings of money. Working class people deal with their feelings themselves was the opinion that he had gathered living life. So, he dealt with this emotional function just as he did with any other of his personal attributes. He accepted it.

But as he got older, he got hornier, and the symptoms were very often overwhelming. Obviously, the horniness and delirium were inter-connected. Whenever he needed to go out in public, he would always wear a cap that hung down far enough over his eyes that he could avoid eye contact with all others.

The very next fall, after graduating high school, he moved to Louisiana in order to attend a program that they had at the State University there for junior morticians. This was when his situation came to a level that was unbearable. He avoided all forms of eye contact, had sex and masturbated as much as possible, but still, he was never able to bring himself down. There was a constant, high volume, mechanical screaming in his ears. It was impossible to study. The girls wore as little clothes as possible. He had a conspiracy theory that suggested that girls did this intentionally to distract the males so as to cause them to do poorly in their college classes, thus achieving a lower ring in the social ladder. He viewed college as the main institution that stratifies the ones who will hold the powerful positions in society from the ones who will have to do actual work to get by. There's lots of competition because of this, and the whole idea that the females would have the nerve to play such a dirty trick infuriated him. He hated and hated and hated. He went around with this all consuming anger, and lucky for him he was able to get by without anyone persecuting him for his mental clamor under the guise of getting him help. To try to help himself, he tried doing random acts of violence, always on white males (of course he preferred frat boys), but nothing soothed him. He consumed massive amounts of narcotics, and these still were not effective. Whenever he found a kind that helped a little, within a couple of months his rapid tolerance would develop and conquer the drug's ability to help him. He called his mother and told her that he was severely stressed out. She suggested meditation and a few various herbs. She sent him a few books on meditation which he quickly flipped through and then promptly threw to the side to never be read again. Deep breathing always hurt, and keeping still made him feel uncomfortable. "The New Age has come and gone", he would go around claiming. Also, in the package that his mother sent him, there were some bottles of natural herbal pills. . He took them for a while, but since he could feel absolutely nothing from them, he decided their effects only worked psychosomatically and set those aside too. He tried calling his grandmother, but the only she could say was, "Get through school . . . Get through school . . . Get through school . . . Get through school . . ." He thought about calling his dad for a second, but all dads are assholes, and the best suggestion he was likely to get from him would be to cut his hair. Finally, when he felt himself on the brink of cracking, he saved himself and dropped out of school. With the remaining funds that he had set aside for living gastos such as rent, electricity, and beer, he sent himself as far4 into oblivion as humanly possible without dying. The funds were plenty, so he had no problem s doing this besides waiting for asshole drug dealers who go into the business just to make themselves feel powerful by making people wait awkwardly for hours on end at gas stations, fast food places, and convenient stores. Good thing dealers don't actually read, . . . otherwise they'ld have me waiting for weeks after coming across this comment.



 Tuesday, November 28, 2006 

introducing the Ask Tomatoes advice column

Do you feel like your whole life is upside down? Do you sometimes feel like the entire universe could just come to a complete halt at any second and it just wouldn't matter?

Well, you have come to the right place. Allow Tomatoes to make everything OK once again. After the correct implementation of the Ask Tomatoes Advice column, you will be as spiritually light-hearted as a four-year-old on the playground. You'll feel as physically invincible as the highest mountain made of the strongest stone. Your mind will feel as sharp as any knife you could find on any kitchen in any world you could possibly imagine. Possibly even this one that we're in this very second!!!!!!

Here's what just a few people have to say about the Ask Tomatoes advice column:


"Before discovering the Ask Tomatoes advice column, I was a cock-sucking asshole. Now, I actually get paid for it! And the best part is it's all from the comfort of my own home!

-James H. Glendora, CA


"My life was going nowhere. I had never even left my hometown of Montebello. Why, just the other day, I went to this 7-11 in Pico Rivera. It was a wild adventure. I mixed Cheetos and Doritos in the same bag! I really wouldn't have been able to do it without you, Tomatoes."

-Huelosa G. Montebello, CA


"I used to have a happy, healthy marriage and two wonderful little twin boys all my own. Then, I started consulting the Ask Tomatoes advice column. They're all dead now. Thanks Tomatoes!"

-Martha S. Pelican Bay, CA


So, whether you have questions regarding Finances, Love, Work, Problems with Drugs or Alcohol, or anything else, simply confide in Tomatoes, and all your worries will melt away or triple your money back.

SERIOUS QUESTIONS ONLY!!!!! Send pleas for help to

Or rifle through the archives at



 Wednesday, January 10, 2007 

Ask Tomatoes Tranny Advice

Dear Tomatoes,

I dated a guy for awhile, after about a month or two of hooking up, I found out that he'd made out with dudes before. He said that he'd never technically had sex with a man, but he was attracted to men as well as women. At that point in time, we were having good sex, I knew he was loyal to me, so we kept dating. I didn't care at all that he was attracted to both women and men, and why should I? He was totally into me. And I pretty much forgot about the whole being into dudes thing. Life went on, and after being a steady couple for a while, we broke up for normal relationship-shit reasons. So, to get to my question. We've been broken up for like 3 months, and I could really give a shit who's he's dating- but I find out through the grapevine that he's fucking a transvestite. You know, the dude looks like a lady?! Which I guess, is cool, I'm all for people getting themselves off in whatever way suits them. But because this is someone who I was intimate with, what am I supposed to think now about the relationship we had? Was it somehow unsatisfying, because after all I'm just a regular girl, with a regular pussy? And are all dudes a little gay, or just this one?


a legit lady

Dear Cum Dumpster,

     Why are you pestering me with your problems? You don't think I have it bad? Every girl and woman that I've ever had sex with was a closet lesbian with a craving for dick. How do you think that makes me feel?

     But, I suppose that's besides the point. Transvestites give the best blowjobs. I strongly suggest you try it. When I was 15-years-old, a transvestite gave me a blowjob. Hmmm, looking back at it, now that I stop to think about it, it was kind of a gross experience, but never mind that. But, I did come, and rather quickly too, and then someone knocked on the front door, and "she" jumped up and my quivering penis was left spewing semen in all directions. I was left standing in the bathroom with my pants around my ankles. It was embarrassing. So embarrassing that I'm repeating it here for everyone to read.

     Some people say that all people are bisexual to some degree. These people are fags. Ignore them.

     OK, here's the deal with men that are into transvestites:

     They're weird. I don't really get it. Maybe I'm not the right person to be asking for advice. I used to live on Santa Monica Blvd., supposedly one of the tranny capitals of the world. Transvestite prostitutes move to LA from all over the world to work on Santa Monica Blvd. Supposedly, they're the cream of the crop. Some of them are pretty sexy, and a mouth is a mouth, and an asshole is an asshole, so I wouldn't say that your pussy is not good. It's possible that it's the best pussy on the face of the planet, but still maybe it's just not any better than a man's mouth and/ or butthole especially if he's dressed up like a sexy lady.

     Next question, please.



 Wednesday, January 31, 2007 

If you like kiddie porn, than you'll love this, . . .



 Monday, February 19, 2007 

I intentionally eat really spicy food every night

before I go to bed because I love nightmares, and I heard from someone that if you eat really spicy food before you go to bed it gives you really bad nightmares, and apparently, they were right. I get those nightmares where I don't realize I'm dreaming, and then something really terrorific happens. It's usually something awful like somebody's head falls straight off, or ghosts. I'm deathly afraid of ghosts. And I keep on waking up just to eventually realize that I'm still stuck in that nightmare. It's phantasmistic. I highly suggest it if you're like me and you like putting yourself through hell. 



 Tuesday, March 27, 2007 

San Francisco makes me horny

That and weed and being shit faced twenty-four hours a day. I love this place. Women look at me like a peice of meat. That's totally all right with me. I was sitting in a bar last night, and this woman was trying to make out with me. Ha! Yeah, that makes me pretty horny.

Wow, I'm so happy. San Francisco makes me love life again.

Oh, and the first two days I was here. It was raining and foggy and overcast. I felt loved by the universe.

It's the ultimate in nostalgia for me. I remember being a little kid and coming to San Francisco and it would make me so horny. it was so exciting.

I'm not prepared to spend very much more time in Los Angeles, land of the assholes.

In LA, women look at me, and they go, "oooh, who's that?" (with a disgusted tone of voice), in SF they go, "oooh, who's that?" because they want to fuck me.



 Wednesday, April 04, 2007 

postponed bicycle road trip

Alert Alert Alert! Bicycle road trip postponed because of three day vacation to the Harbor/UCLA resort due to alcoholic pancreatitus. Life involunatrily transformed. Stay tuned for highly entertaining blog chock full of misery, despair, and various other forms of comical tragedy starring me, Tomatoes!  

I bought a new bike yesterday at Atomic Cycles for 35 dollars. It's an old fucked up rusty touring bike that Paul converted into a single speed cruiser for me. Thanks Paul! It runs like butter.

Anyway, this sunday or monday I'm leaving for San Diego and Tijuana. What fun! I think I might go up to Leo Carrillo first in Malibu just to elongate my trip.

I need to take a break from being constantly antagonized by the whole entire human race. I want to purge myself of all of these intensely negative feelings I've been having. In the evenings to be alone in the darkness and to wallow in pain and alcohol. In the daytime, to pummel those feelings into submission with intense bike riding. Release all of my hatred and anger from every pore of my body.

And plus, most importantly the fact that I find it highly pleasurable.

I've been trying to find a place to live, and it's frustrating. I don't have a job. I have a penis. I'm straight. I think I'm going to get Westside Rentals.

page me 3238480073. or text message me at



 Thursday, May 03, 2007 

The Horsepital

A Sunday in April 2007, I woke up with a huge hangover. Nothing unusual. Me and Ilona went to Venice Beach and the Museum of Jurassic Technology. I drank beer and smoked pot all day. It was so fun. It was cool and cloudy. God loved me that day. Not so much the following.

The next day, I woke up with this pain in my chest. It felt like pancreatitis. I know that feeling very well. The first time, I got pancreatitis, I was 21. It was a couple of months before I moved to California. It's an inflammation of your pancreas. Besides making insulin, your pancreas produces digestive enzymes (acids) that travel to your intestines to break down food. The reason it's so painful is those digestive enzymes go crazy, and basically, your pancreas begins to eat itself. Trust me, the shit's painful. It would make the biggest masochist cry like a little baby.

Imagine a cylinder about 3 inches in diameter right below your ribcage, and it extends all the way down to your back. That's the area of excruciating pain.  It feels like someone stuck a knife in there and is wiggling it around. But, that's not all. Your whole torso hurts. Really bad too. And it feels like if you contort yourself into just the right position, the pain will subside just a little tiny bit just for a little while and then after a couple of minutes, you have to find another position. And also, if you eat anything or even take a sip of water, it makes the pain go even crazier. Like Nancy Reagan in a crack house. Hmmm, I'm beginning to wonder if that analogy really works. The reason for this is your pancreas knows that you just ingested something, so it starts producing those enzymes even more, so it's taking even bigger bites of itself.

You see, on a scale from 1 to 10, the pain is an easy perfect 10. And then, every once in a while, you get a tidal wave of extra pain. A 15 or 20. It's torture.

Anyway, in my early twenties, I constantly dealt with this shit, and then I finally realized, it was because of heroin, so I stopped doing that drug, and I thought it was a thing of the past.

It hasn't bothered me in at least 6 years until this incident. It's the first time that it had ever happened just from drinking.

I tried to tough it out. I was laying on Sandor's floor. I wasn't eating or drinking anything. I know better than that.

Tuesday night was sheer misery. Sandor thought he would cheer me up by stepping on me and playing really loud Hungarian heavy metal until three in the morning all the way, making really loud drum kit sounds complete with snare, hi hat and bass drum. He was alternating that with whistling, and mimicking guitar solos at the top of his lungs. Try this, "Dooda-dood, buuuda, wa, wa, wa,  BU-La, BU-La, gidda-gidda-gidda, giggi-giggi-giggi!!!!  And then, oh goody!, here comes the drums! "UM, cha! UM, cha! UM, cha! UM, cha! UM, cha! UM, cha! UM, cha! UM, cha!" Yeah, rock it, Sandor! The only thing missing was a group of stoned people playing Guitar Hero for hours straight. Yeah, pretending to play the guitar along with covers of pop music.

I began to think that maybe I was feeling a little better, or maybe I was just hoping that I was better, and I drank a cup of tea and had some hard candies. Big mistake. I finally got to sleep, and then the pain kicked in intense after a couple of hours.

It wasn't until about 3 in the afternoon the next day, after hours of cringing, crawling around on my hands and knees, and at times, even literally crying, that I wimped out, and called Sandor to ask him to take me to the hospital. He took a break from work and gave me a ride to UCLA/ Harbor Hospital in Torrance. Thanks so much, Sandor in case you're reading this.

The reason I wanted to go to that hospital is because I knew it would be free and USC/LAC is more of a nightmare than even jail.

I signed in, and thus begun one of the most miserable 11 hours of my life. Definitely in the top ten of all the most miserable moments of my life. That should be a show on VH1. Top Ten Most Miserable Moments of Tomatoes's Life. If that happens to come on, please Tivo it for me.

Everybody was drinking sodas and juice and eating chips. I was so thirsty, so very thirsty, very very thirsty. This black guy sitting next to me had this big mug full of some kind of liquid and a bunch of ice, and every time he drank from that big mug, you could hear all the ice clanging away. It sounded so good. I unabashedly stared at him. I stared at him hard. I stared at him like I was in love with him. He pretended not to notice, but I know he knew. It just looked so good. I wanted some.

a can of V8, orange juice, strawberry soda, Diet Mountain Dew, big glass of ice water, plain yogurt with blueberries, Orange Crush, salad with pecans, spinich, mandarin oranges, basil, tomatoes, mozzarella, sugar-free Jell-O

There was a water fountain that I almost started to drink out of, but I knew putting myself through anymore agony would not necessarily push me up in line.

They wouldn't let me lay down either. I had to sit in a chair, doubled over, grinding my teeth trying to look casual, embarrassed. Not letting myself cry, staring at the floor. somebody had stepped in dogshit and had tracked it in. I could see it, smell it. It wasn't helping matters one bit. I was scared. Was I ever going to be able to drink again? Is life worth living without alcohol? It was so hot, and everybody had babies and christian propaganda. I tried to distract myself from the pain by imagining them all dead, but it wasn't quite doing the trick.

And there was a TV set mounted way up high that you couldn't hear, and you couldn't change the channel, and it hurt my neck to even glance at it. Just like jail. Jeopardy was on, but you couldn't hear the answer. I felt like I was suffocating. I went outside and laid on the cool concrete for a couple of hours. It was so chilly. The wind was swirling around. It soothed me just a little bit. There was a crazy lady running around the parking lot wrapped in a blanket. She looked like too much meth. It made me smile. I like it when people flip out on meth. It makes me feel not so alone in this world.

straight out of the fridge: {oranges, apples, bananas (pronounced with a British accent), cantaloupe, strawberry, grapes (purple ones), watermelon)

I went back inside. Nurses would call me every few hours. I couldn't barely walk. It hurt like hell to breathe. They would all ask me the same exact questions. One was telling me to go to AA meetings. I told her I was an atheist. She didn't even know what that was. With a few exceptions (such as Jenny) I think the amount of hours you spend talking on a cell phone is directly proportional to how intelligent you are. I was guessing this woman spent at least three hours on her cell phone a day if not more. Not that intelligence is all that much admirable. Anybody that had anything meaningful to say wouldn't waste those words blabbering into a cell phone.

The first decade of the 21st century is the polar opposite of the seventies. At least for me. It's the Anti-Sexual Revolution. Women walking around talking around on their cell phones 24 hours a day equals me walking around with over-cooked spaghetti dick 24 hours a day. Besides trendiness, it's the ultimate turn-off. Maybe that's how they want it.

"Wow, look at her. She looks really good," I think to myself, and then she takes out a cell phone and sticks it on her face.

I want to go and find whoever invented the cell phone, and punch them in their fucking . . . , oh, I meant to say: thank them and shake their hand.

Just kidding of course. This originally said something way, way, way, way, way, way, way, way, way more negative, angry, and violent, but I changed it because I've been trying to reinvent myself as a less hateful Tomatoes. Purely for my own sake. Hatred takes too heavy of a toll on me. I'm tired of it. I want to stick my face in the wind with rain pouring down over my head and take a big, deep breath and exhale and feel great. Not suffocating in hate and sunshine and "Good Morning" like usual.

But, I just have this to say about cell phones: It's the worst thing to happen to human intimacy since AIDS.

or maybe I'm just bitter because I used to have a cell phone and nobody ever called me.

a dress with jeans under it. Paris Hilton wrap-around sunglasses. Being "punk". Hats. Starbucks. new Volkswagen bugs. Overtly heterosexual women.


Tomatoes's Guacamole

equal parts diced tomatoes and aguacates, one minced habanero, three minced serranos, ten minced jalapenyos, cilantro, salt, pepper, and lime juice to taste. Serve with tortilla chips.

At about three in the morning, they called me and this white lady to the nurse's station. this woman had been cracking me up for the last 8 hours or so. She was convinced that she had anemia, and had been discussing the issue with the whole entire population of the UCLA/ Harbor waiting room. Not me though. I don't tolerate that. Crazy people always gravitate to me. They want to rub their fucking cooties all over me. It's mental leprosy. "Get the fucking hell away from me immediately!" That's my motto.

So, they told us we were going in the back. I couldn't believe my ears. I was prepared to sit in that damned waiting room until the following day. The pain had become a close, personal friend. At this point, I had just learned to live with it.

This lady guided me to an uncomfortable bed. Without being asked, I took off all my clothes, put the gown on, and curled up in the fetal position on the bed.

"Oh yeah, I used to date a guy that got pancreatitis." the nurse told me. "What happened to him?" "He had to quit drinking." "Why'ld y'all break up?" "It just wasn't working out." "Hmmm."

She looked like Punky Brewster, but not the grown actress that played Punky Brewster. She looked really good like Punky Brewster used to. She stuck a needle in my arm, and I bled a big puddle of blood all over the floor which she had to clean up. It was satisfying. I didn't have to masturbate that day. Not like I would've been able to anyway.

The "Tomatoes" Sandwich (Shanti invented this with me. She was murdered a couple of years ago)

1. Make a slice of french toast

2. fry some bacon

3. make a grilled cheese

On a plate, put the grilled cheese down, put some mayo on top, bacon, slices of tomatoes and lettuce, then put the french toast on top. Slice in half and serve with a pickle.

Then, the doctor came to examine me. She was interrogating the shit out of me. I told her everything. About how I've been drinking since I was ten. That didn't seem relevant to me, but "whatever" I thought.

She asked about drugs, and I told her everything. To my surprise, she seemed shocked. I thought people that worked in emergency rooms weren't shockable. I wasn't trying to shock her. I was just incapable of bullshitting. Too much pain yadda yadda yadda

"Well, because of your history of intravenous drug use, can we have your approval to conduct an HIV test?"

"Well, of course, but I don't understand your reasoning. I've never shared needles with anybody that I wasn't already having unprotected sex with anyway."

Then, she proceeded to write notes in my charts or whatever, all the while tsking, shaking her head, and repeating the words, "Oh, . . .  My, . . .  Gosh, . . . Oh, . . . My, . . .  Gosh, . . . "

Then, she came over, putting on a pair of latex gloves. She pulled out the tub of Vaseline. "Oh shit, it's retribution-time in Tomatoes-land." I thought to myself.

She let me know exactly what she was about do to me. I submissively rolled over. After she was done having her way with me, I told her that I didn't mind it one bit.

"The last time that was done to me, it was a man doctor. It was horrible, but having you do it was not bad at all."

"Yeah, they shouldn't have men doing that to other men." What a weird comment.

A Nice Raw Vegetable Sandwich

thick cut wheat bread, alfalfa sprouts, olive oil, raw jalapenyos cut length wise, lemon juice, lots of salt and pepper, avocados, tomatoes, cucumber, green pepper, zucchini with a bowl of whole mushrooms on the side

This lady went nuts on me. She ordered a nurse to take my temperature rectally. She had me go do a cat scan. Chest X-rays. No wonder people had to wait in the waiting room for 11 hours before being seen. She brought out the sonography equipment to see if I had any gall stones and to see if I was pregnant. "What happens if I have gall stones?"

"We have to do an operation to get them out." Oh hell no! "Have you ever had any surgeries before?"

I began to list all of my surgeries. They're numerous. She cut me off. Why did she ask in the first place if she didn't want to know?

I'm not going to bore you with all of the silly, waste-of-time human interactions that I went through. Basically, every half hour or so, someone new would come along and "examine" me, and ask me the same damn questions over and over.

"Do you drink?"


"How much?"

"A lot."

"About how much would you say you drink a day?"

What the hell does it matter how much? I started greatly exaggerating the amount. "Thirty beers a day!" I proclaimed. Now, leave me the hell alone and let me get back to nodding from my last shot of morphine.

Tomatoes's Salsa

1. 10 Jalapenyos

2. one habanero

3. 5 serranos

4. cilantro

5. a teaspoon of cayenne pepper

6. cilantro

7. the juice of two limes and two lemons

8. at least, 10 tomatoes

9. the flesh of a couple of mangoes

gently blend. not too much. serve with anything


One doctor though I liked. I was telling him about how I wouldn't mind so much at least not drinking during the week. The compounded hangovers make me feel like I'm going too psycho. It's too much panic. I shake like a leaf, and I'm terrified of the world. It's crashing down on top of me. It's not fun. Well, maybe a little bit.

He sent a substance abuse councelor to talk to me. That consisted of some fat white guy handing me a Xerox copy of a list of AA meetings (I'm not religious or even spiritual) and inpatient detox centers (I had already detoxed, I'm not rich, and I don't particularly like sober people. I don't want to be around them 24 hours a day). That was it. That was my counceling.

Then, he left. Every four hours, I got a shot of Morphine. Not enough to make me high, but it was so luxurious not having to deal with the pain. And an adjustable bed, and one of those little TV's on an adjustable pole. And I got to wear a gown, I think that was the best part.

Erika's Burritos (like my mom used to make for me)

1. put refried beans lengthwise on a whole wheat burrito; put slices of sharp cheddar cheese al gusto

2. microwave two minutes

3. put lettuce or spinach, tomatoes, alfalfa sprouts, avocado, and sour cream (optional)

4. fold in half like a taco or roll it like a burrito and serve with a couple of raw serranos

There was this old man in a bed across from mine, and I think he was dying from cancer or something. He couldn't move around. The first night I was in there, there was this young black woman who was giving him what sounded like a blowjob, but I'm assuming it was more like a sponge bath, massage, and/or catheter change. I couldn't see. There was a curtain. Her voice oozed this intense sexuality. I'm sure you've heard that before. Some people, i don't know what it is, but their whole existence just seems coated with erotic sensuality. God damn, that sounds corny, but you know it's true. And then, the old decomposing cancer victim proceeded to have very loud diarrhea for the next five minutes. Complete with grunting and groaning and all of the usual delicious garnishes.

"Oh, that's right. Let it all out," she said, provoking an erection underneath my gown.

This old man, he was too vocal. He reminded me of some of the gross "hippies" my mother used to have sex with.

"Oh yes! Oh yes! That feels soooo good." Shut the fuck up, man! Nobody wants to hear that shit. If you were female, it would be a completely different story, or than again, maybe not. I suppose I wouldn't want to hear a sixty-year-old woman carry on like that either.

"Does that feel good?" she asked. My penis was about to explode. And then, he starts up again, "OOOOOOOOh, Oh, do it do it do it. Oh Yes! Just like that. Harder Harder Harder." God fucking damn it! I think I'm traumatized sexually now.

Just kidding of course. I'm already too far gone. Hmmm, maybe I shouldn't tempt fate, huh?

Debauchery Casserole (this one is going to take some experimentation)

boil potatoes, cauliflower, brocolli, and a couple of diced habaneros including seeds. Fry a bunch of bacon. Fry up some pork chops or milanesas. Mix the vegetables with nine eggs and/or can of mushroom soup. Put a layer on bottom of casserole dish. On top of that, put a layer of pork chops, then a layer of large flat skinny slices of your choice of cheese like thick lasagna strips. Another layer of vegetables, then bacon, then cheese, then vegetables, etc. On the top, a huge gigantic pile of shredded cheese. Bake at 375 degrees , covered for thirty minutes, then uncovered for fifteen.

This one morning this fucking asshole doctor came to see me. he asked me, "So, what are you here for?" I knew he knew. He was just being an asshole. I just stared at him. He stared right back, unflinching. It was very uncomfortable. He beat me. I answered.


"How many times has this happened to you?"

"Numerous times." I wasn't playing his fucking games.

"Well, I was reading your charts, and it seems that you were in here April of 2001 for the same thing." Fucking dickhead! Why did he ask me what I was there for if he already knew? That's a rhetorical question. Don't bother answering it.

"Yes, I suppose I was."

"You must be a really slow learner."

"Yes, I suppose I am."

"You know you're killing yourself, right?"

"Everybody's killing themselves. You kill yourself just by living."

"But, the way you're going, you won't even live to be forty."

"So? People were never meant to live as long as they do. I didn't even want to get to be thirty." I'm a real smooth-talker.

"Well, you need to stop drinking."


He left. I applauded. Well, not really, but I wanted to. That was the head doctor of the floor. He didn't know shit. I don't respond well to being scolded. I don't think anybody does.

On another occasion, there was this nurse walking by. She looked Mexican. She was fine. I knew that for sure because I asked her how she was doing. For a split second, I gave myself away. That unmistakable look in my eyes. I think it's an unconscious scan beginning with her eyes, then down to her lips, then scanning down to her ankles, then returning to her eyes. Whatever it was, she caught on to it, and came over and started talking to me. It was too late. At that point, no amount of nonchalantness could possibly save me. She caught me.

"You see, it's not so bad."

"I never said it was bad."

"Everything's going to be fine."

"That's terrific."

"It's not so bad." She took her index finger out and was shaking it in my direction. I was beginning to get the impression she was from El Salvador.


"Yeah, really. It's not so bad. You just need to quit drinking." All the while, that stupid index finger wiggling around like a god damn boiled weiner with some joints missing in the middle.

"OK, I think I understand now."

"Are you kicking me out?"

"Yes. I'm tired. I want to take a nap." She was just replenishing her ego with what she perceived to be my admiration of her but was in actuality, just horniness.


White Trash Tacos

fry up hamburger meat with salt and pepper; serve on flour tortillas or taco shells with cold diced tomatoes, cold chopped up lettuce, and shredded cheddar cheese. That's it!

I was laying in my bed, and I had some terrible gas which was weird because I hadn't anything to eat or drink in days. I knew it was going to smell bad, and I knew that right after I did it, that really cute nurse that I liked was going to come by my bed. It's the laws of the universe. It had to come out though. And these people are medical. They deal with the disgusting mechanical aspects of the human body day in day out. My stinky farts would be of no surprise to her. And plus, I can always use more humility. Somewhere down the road, someone put it in my head that it's healthy to embarrass yourself, and ever since then, it's been a non-stop laugh riot at my expense.

So, anyway, it came out like a never-ending God Damn It motorboat. The floor shook as if we were under the attack of an earthquake. What a relief, but oh man, did it stink. It smelt like rotting garbage. I was about to say it smelt like a rotting raccoon on an August afternoon in Austin, but I actually like the way that smells. They could bottle that and I would buy it. This wasn't in the least bit pleasant. She didn't come by. I sat there and watched the People's Court for the next fifteen minutes or so. I can't ever understand what they're talking about on that show, I just hear blah blah blah no matter how loud I turn it up. But it was either that or soap operas, and soap operas, they might as well be talking out loud in binary code.

I got up out of bed to get my socks because my feet were cold, and that's when I noticed that there was a huge brown spot on the bed. I tore that sheet off, and there was the same brown spot on the sheet underneath it. I tore that sheet off, and there was the same brown spot on the sheet underneath it. I tore that sheet off, and there was the same brown spot on the sheet underneath it. I tore that sheet off, and there was the same brown spot on the sheet underneath it. All the way down to the mattress. The only reason the mattress didn't have the brown spot was because they had put down a plastic sheet in between the regular sheets and the mattress. People probably shit their beds a lot in the hospital. I twisted my neck around and saw that I had that same huge brown spot on my gown. I took my underwear off, the gown off, and put some pajama pants on. I stuffed all of the shit-stained garments under the bed. I didn't feel like dealing with it, but I eventually wanted more sheets. This pregnant Jamaican nurse came by and I asked her for more sheets, and of course, she asked where the old ones were. Well, I had to tell her. I didn't want to, but she demanded an explanation. "Oh, you were trying to hide them, huh?" She went away and came back wearing gloves and holding a broom handle with the broom part sawed off. She spent the next few minutes dislodging the feces drenched linens from underneath my adjustable bed. She threw them in a plastic bag and probably took them down to the incinerator. I was disgusted with myself, but whatever. According to the doctor, I'll be dead soon anyway and nothing will matter. To ride my bicycle naked through an endless thunderstorm into an endless horizon with an endless supply of Steel Reserve listening to really, really, really loud black metal going to visit my lover to be cradled in her million arms, the toughest woman to've ever existed with black hole hair that sucks me in and spits me back out at the beginning of that eternal lightning and pounding rain to make the procession once again between the wet, cloudy streets lined with impaled bodies instead of palm trees.

Second Friday of every month, Midnight Ridazz, hosted by me, Tomatoes! Steel Reserve for everyone! Special Guests of Honor: Seung-Hui Cho, Khalid Almihdhar, Khalid Almihdhar, Majed Moqed, Nawaf Alhazmi, Salem Alhazmi, Hani Hanjour,  Satam M.A. Al Suqami, Waleed M. Alshehri, Wail M. Alshehri, Mohamed Atta, Abdulaziz Alomari, Marwan Al-Shehhi, Fayez Rashid Ahmed Hassan Al Qadi Banihammad, Ahmed Alghamdi, Hamza Alghamdi, Mohand Alshehri, Saeed Alghamdi, Ahmed Ibrahim A. Al Haznawi, Ahmed Alnami, Ziad Samir Jarrah

"So, I think it's time for you to try to drink some water."

"Well all right. I'm thirsty. My mouth wants water."

A few hours later, I got a little cup of water. Then, I graduated  to some  broth and juice, and before I knew it , I was eating a chicken leg, mashed potatoes, spinach. I was eating like a dog. People were talking to me. I wouldn't answer. I was too focused. I hadn't eaten in a week. I was trying to concentrate, damn it!

The next day, they released me. I shaved, took a shower, and put on my stinky ass clothes. Once outside, it was sunny. Things looked dismal. I wanted to go back in the hospital and stay in there forever.

Sitting at the bus stop, I gorged on candy. I swallowed a thing of Starbursts, some cookies, things that I had been craving while starving in the hospital. You're probably wondering about all the recipes, huh? I was so hungry in the hospital that my favorite thing to do besides sleeping was to work on my cookbook that I hope to someday publish. Fantasizing about food can be even more fun than actually eating it. Kind of like most stuff in life.

So anyway, I thought I would include some of those recipes for your enjoyment. Bon appetite to your mind.

Finally, the bus came. I got on, sat the fuck down and stared out the window. What the fuck ever.

I've been in a great mood ever since.



 Friday, June 01, 2007 

I came on an old shirt

I went to San Diego and she wouldn't have sex with me. We got naked and my penis was so big and engorged, it hurt. But no sex. her ovaries hurt. My pancreas hurt. As well as my genitals and my back. It was so sunny, I was afraid to go outside, I felt dizzy and nauseous, but I went and got on the bus. Everybody was staring at me. They knew she wouldn't have sex with me. People were talking to me. I couldn't understand, I passed down on those same streets. Oh yeah, at 4 in the morning. Go to work, Tomatoes. Go to work, Tomatoes, and if you're still alive when you get home, she'll have sex with you. Don't tell her you drink beer on your lunch break.

At the ticket counter in the greyhound, I couldn't understand what anyone was saying. "One ticket to LA, please."

I really wanted to go to the Coronado bridge instead, but I had shit to take care of at home.

The same ticket counter I went to when they left me out of jail.

"Where would you like to go?"

"I want to go back home. Back to LA please."

OK, and I put on the same stinky ass clothes that I had been wearing two months prior.

Festering in a plastic bag for two months. If only she would've had sex with me.

The same greyhound she bought a ticket for me from Texas.

Never having been to San Diego, they were all talking to me, but I couldn't understand what they were saying.

She gave me a blowjob in the car, some malt liquor, and five football Xanaxes. There in the parking lot of the San Diego airport. Right there, I can see her car there. Why is she still there?

She doesn't know I'm coming back home to LA.

She cheated on me while I was in Texas.

She was wearing high heels and thigh highs.

He commited suicide on my behalf.

I jacked off in her bed and came on an old shirt.



 Tuesday, July 03, 2007 

cats bring a dead bird, Tomatoes brings the cat

last night, I was laying there laying there laying there and I couldn't sleep, so I took a ride down to the transvestite liquor store so named because it's where all the she-male hookers always hang out. Yeah, you know the one over by Santa Monica and Highland. It's entertaining to me. I don't know why.

Anyway, I bought a beer, just one beer. I didn't want to get too much because I'm supposed to be job hunting today. Yeah right, ha! Don't make me laugh. Is that supposed to be funny? What did I mean by that last comment? We may never know.

So, I was cruising around trying to expend some extra energy enjoying the nice cool night when I saw sitting there in the middle of the road, the cutest little cat ever. And when I mean cute, I mean cute. Reeeaaall cute. It didn't run away. It just sat there and stared at me. It was a young cat. A black young cat.

God, it was so adorable. I circled back because I wanted to catch an extra glimpse. It was such a romantic moment. I stopped. There was nobody around, just me and this black cat in the street staring at each other in the middle of the night. Finally, I left pedaling down the street already missing it. I went around the block, circled back. I didn't want to let it go. I knew I had to, but I wanted just one more peak at such a beautiful creature.

When I got back to where it was sitting, I was surprised, it was still there, but it was laying on its side. "That's not right." I got a closer look and realized it was dead. "How could this be?" I thought to myself. "Just a moment, it was so full of life. And now, it's dead." I thought I saw it move a little. I didn't want to disturb it if it was still living. I pushed its body. It was totally limp. There weren't any cars on the streets. It was on Lexington. Not a busy street. Not a car in sight. Just some tranny hookers. I noticed some kind of fluid had expelled from its bottom. Yeah, that's right, doesn't your body secrete everything when you die? Its eyes were wide open. It didn't look crushed or bloody or anything. I picked it up. Wow, what an incredible feeling. It was sensual how limp it was. I put it in my bike basket and began to make my way down the street. I didn't know where I was going. Not really any destination in mind. Just having a funeral procesion on a bored summer night. I rode around and around. It's precious little paw slipped through the grate of my basket. I know it may be a little juvenile, hell this whole story may be a little juvenile, but all the same, it was thrilling to me to have that cat in my basket. A live cat would never ride in my basket.

I rode around like that for a while. I started feeling like a creep. a juvenile creep. I rode by Sandor's building. There was a chair out in the front. I picked the cat up out of the basket. It had shat itself. I laid it on that chair for someone to find. I hope it disturbed someone. That's the least we can do for that cat, to be disturbed by its limp shitty body.

Its funny, cats bring a dead mouse to your doorstep as a present, Tomatoes brings the whole cat. Today, the cat and the chair were gone. Who took my cat? I hope it was Rosa.

When I got back to the seedy hotel, there was some crazy guy standing in the hallway. Someone had taken a trash can full of trash and thrown it all over the place. There was a cop standing there in the hallway too. We stared at each other. He wouldn't fit in my bike basket no matter how dead he was. Plus, he certainly wasn't beautiful.



 Friday, July 27, 2007 

a big hole in my crotch

In case you didn't know, I rode my bicycle to San Diego a while ago. I really took my time doing it. It was extremely fun. That's a whole separate blog though.

I wrote this along the way, at a liquor store nearby camp in Encinitas:

"Whoa, those women were looking at me. They probably want to hang out and get drunk and have sex with me. Whoa check out the white one with dark hair and green eyes. She really likes me."

"Tomatoes, first of all, this is North San Diego County. Everybody's white. Second of all, the only reason they're looking at you is because they're wondering if you're a bum or what."

"That's not true. I'm very handsome. And I'm intriguing. Yeah, that's right. I'm a heartthrob."

"Oh, yeah right. You're funny looking and you know it. Remember a week ago, when you tried to kiss that woman at the park and even though she was giving you all the signs that she liked you but she still wouldn't kiss you?"

"Well, yeah, I vaguely remember that. We were on the swing set. It was three in the morning. She was looking deep into my eyes like she wanted to devour me. But, then she wouldn't kiss me. Maybe because I'm a drunk or a slob or a loser or my band's not cool enough or any reason. Who even cares anyway?"

"Well, sure, that's all good and fine, but if you were good looking enough, she would've kissed you anyway."

"Mmmm, hmmm."

"How much for this 24 oz. Icehouse?"

"1 sixty-one, out the door," the foreign cashier tells me. I pay and put the beer in my bag. As I mount my bicycle, I catch another glimpse of these women. They were still looking at me and grinning from ear to ear.

"You see, you see, you see! They were saying to each other, 'Wow, who's that sexy guy? Maybe he'ld want to sleep with us in our tent tonight.'"

"No, no, no, no, no Tomatoes. You have it all wrong. They're saying to each other, 'Ough, gross. what's wrong with him? It looks like he's been rolling around in dirt and there's a big hole in the crotch of his pants.'"

"GOD FUCKING DAMN IT!!!!!! How many times do I have to tell you? I'm a trend setter!! Five years from now, everyone will be going around with big holes in the crotches of their pants. It's like how black guys started wearing their pants extremely low. Somebody had to be the 1st to start that."

"Yeah, whatever you're a fucking scuzbag. Go take a bath."

"Just for that, I'm not sharing this beer with you, so there."

"Too bad, you have no choice."



 Sunday, September 23, 2007 

If you had any sympathy for victims of the Holocaust,

You will completely lose it after reading this book, Arabs and Israel For Beginners. The book is not Anti-Semitic, but still all the same, I will never be able to look at another yamaka or however in the fuck, its spelt without shuddering in disgust. You could search the earth high and low, through the mountains and valleys, the north pole, the south pole, the deserts and tundras, but no matter how much you search, you will never find a bigger conglomeration of assholes than in Israel. These people are major dicks, and the reason they get away with it is first of all, they're backed up by the United States. With tons of weapons and literally, billions of dollars. The homosexual dickhead love. Oh shit, I just realized that my friend that I play D&D with is Jewish. I don't want to offend her, or hurt her feelings, so I'm going to try to lighten this up a bit.

I don't even know where to begin. They made Palestine pay for the Holocaust. They invented terrorism. They have invaded almost every single country in the Middle East. They have caused so much pain, death, misery, and anguish, it's indescribable. The whole entire Middle East obviously hates their guts, and you may be asking yourself why they don't just all group together, and go in their and kick their fucking asses. Collectively lay their unconscious bodies face down by the curb, open their jaws, line it up with said curb, and stomp on the back of their heads until they are left toothless and deformed. Well, the answer is simple my friend, they are backed up by the United States.

Aways Remember, Never Forget, Israel's 1982 invasion of Lebanon brought to you by the following sponsors: the United Fucking States.

Get ready to watch Fall's new line up on Thursdays starting at 8 pm/ 7 central with World War 3 because God Damn these fucking Arabs are actually trying to defend themselves. How dare they! Following that, we're going to watch the fucking Jews tromp all over the Middle East bulldozing towns and Uzi-ing all of the residents of refugee camps. Then at 10, Dateline. "Are Jewish people a bunch of total fucking assholes or are we just judging them by their actions?"

You know, I caught myself in racism. I was thinking about all the people the Jews have killed, and it's almost like I thought of these Arabs as not having the same emotions as me. I know this may be a little convoluted, but I'm trying to sort through these emotions the best I can.

I remember watching the news and they were showing a Palestinian woman (terrorist) weeping miserably because the fucking Jews had killed her son, and it's almost like I thought that that pain wasn't the same kind of pain that my own mother would feel if I was murdered. That's not true. All mothers all around the world feel the same sort of devastation when people kill their children. We're taught in the United States to not have empathy for Arabs.

You can't even barely make an observant remark about Blacks or Jews without being accused of racism, but you can go to town on Arabs and everyone applauds. We're told to hate them because they have war written into their religion. Hello!?!?!?!?!? Earth to Mars! Have you ever read the Old Testament? It's one of the most violent religions ever! And God keeps on telling them to go and take over the world by sword or whatever means necessary.

And what about terrorism? you may be asking yourself. Go to the library and read a fucking book. As a matter of fact, pick one out that's pro-Zionist, and you will still be totally fucking disgusted at the morally putrid human waste that is Israel.

Oh, I was getting sidetracked:


let's tally it up shall we

The Fucking Jews:

Hundreds of thousands of Arabs killed in cold blood. Even more uprooted and sent into exile.

The Fucking Arabs:

They get what they can take. Ummm, let's see, 3,000 people killed on 911. (Huge applause from some guy in the back of the room with a gigantic mustache and scissors tattoo) There's a few other instances. It usually never adds up to anything more than a dozen dead Jews.

Munich, 9 dead Jews. Oh!, the horror!

You know, I'm sure I'm preaching to the choir, and on top of it, I deleted like a hundred people off my MySpace list, so I don't have much of an audience anymore for my blogs. What the hell was I talking about?

When white people go and kill innocent civilians for political reasons as a government  campaign for the intentions of provoking terror in people, it's TERRORISM. No matter which way you slice it. I don't give a shit if they're the descendants of attempted genocide. I don't give a shit if they're white, and the people they are terrorizing are brown skinned. It's racism.



 Wednesday, October 03, 2007 

Voltron of hatred

, and the reasons why, . . .

1. Big Sunglasses: I could actually write a whole entire blog about how much I hate big sunglasses or really just sunglasses in general, but here's the basic jist: It radiates insincerity. It's a fake confidence. Also, I hate people that pretend to love sunshine when really they just love sunshine because they're supposed to, and somehow wearing some big sunglasses is an expression of loving sunshine when really when you think about that it doesn't make any sense. I spend more time in the sun than anyone I know, and I don't need no fucking sunglasses for that.

2. A Big Stupid Looking Hat: This kind of goes along with the Big Sunglasses at least for women. It's this whole thing like instead of having guys admire them for  what they look like. Like we can't look at their eyes or their hair; We have to look at some big Stupid Fucking Looking Hat and Big Stupid Fucking Looking Sunglasses, so we can associate them with something that we've seen on TV.

3. Trendy Ass Bullshit: Wow, I could go on for years on this one. If you consider yourself to be "punk", you should probably stop reading right now or prepare to be offended. Don't get lame tattoos. You know the more I think about it, the more I don't want to dive into this one too much further. You know who you are and you know how much you suck majorly. That brings me to another thing. I can't comprehend why anyone would move to LA and choose to suck as hard as you all do. This place has so much potential to explore yourself and to be wild and to be expressive and original, but instead you choose to suck major donkey dick and be dull and trendy. It makes me curious. I would like to see you try to be any more uninteresting. Oh, I forgot to list trendy ass bullshit that I hate. It used to not bug me, but the longer I stay in the same city, the harder it is for me to ignore it. Here goes: fixed gear bikes and just that whole thing, rockabilly, "punk" (oh yeah I already mentioned that), ug boots, wrist bands

4. Cell Phones: I really should've put this on the top of the list. You see these people going around and they're talking about stuff that's so important that they have to do it while driving, while standing in line at the bank, walking down the street, but then when ever you over-hear what they're listening to, every single time, it's about Dancing With The Stars or some shit like that. That's what these people jeopardize my life for when I'm on my bike: a passionate conversation about "Dancing With The Stars". I can fully understand teenagers talking on phones because they don't have the freedom to move around like us grown-ups do, but if you're a full grown adult, and you want to hang out and flap your gums, why don't you just go hang out and flap your gums in person? Don't answer that question. I'll answer it for you. It's because you're lame. SUPER SUPER SUPER lame. You have nothing of value to say, and it makes you feel ashamed of your lameness for people to have to witness your big sunglasses and silly looking hat in person.

5. Expensive Cars: Wow, by this point, I'm all hated out, but I had to make it five because we're making Voltron here. Whew, I'm suddenly getting tired. I'm afraid it's bed time. Hmmm, What was I saying again? Oh yeah!, fancy cars, they're, they're sucky to the, . . . max, [smacks his lips with drooping eyelids] So, anyway as I was saying, I have bed bugs. I had to throw my bed out. I got it from keeping my bed in Public Storage. I'll never be able to see one of their ads for the rest of my life without cringing.

Oh yeah, and the fancy cars, people pretending to be rich. They don't even know anything about cars. They just drive whatever because they think it makes them look cool. I guess the other shitbags must think so.

so anyways, I'm burnt out on LA to say the least because I see this Voltron on the average five times a day and that's saying a lot because I barely get out and when I do, I'm not paying attention. 



 Tuesday, January 01, 2008 

shit machine machines

You cheapen life. As if it wasn't cheap enough. Your fucking brain has the same worth as a box of Pampers you fucking slobber factory.

I really gotta say this. The ultimate red flag to how stupid someone is pops up in the first ten seconds that you meet them. Anybody that feels the need to tell anybody else that they look like somebody famous is a fucking imbecile. I mean, it baffles me. I'm shaking my head right now just because I can't understand it for the life of me. The whole need to cheapen somebody's identity with some inane pop culture reference. I'm not even going to bother to complete that sentence. I just don't feel like bothering to use my fucking brain that much. We have a lot in common. Yes, I'm just like you. When I meet somebody, instead of saying something funny or amusing or even slightly witty, I prefer to just spew my fucking lobotomy juice all over them by commenting that they look like ACDC because they're wearing a tie and have long hair. Or any white guy that has a black moustache looks like Frank Zappa. And then, I like to smile and congratulate myself by how totally clever I was with such genius insight. "No, you really really do. You look just like him. I'm serious. You really do."

Don't get me wrong. I know by posting this blog, I'm not going to be making any huge imprint on human stupidity, but let me just say this. If you have ever told anybody they look "just like" some famous person, you probably are nothing but a shit machine machine, so make sure and pop that vermin out your pussy at the fastest rate possible and while you're at it, take a fucking shit on  it. We need all the shit we can get. We can't get enough of it.

And then, when you're done, put on some crazy exercise get-up. And take a ten minute walk at Runyon Canyon. And maybe along the way, you can stop at a coffee place and then get your phone surgically implanted to your fucking face you fucking mindless diarrhea mouthed nincompoop. If you call walking in a beautiful park exercise, I would hate to imagine what your daily routine comprises of. The whole idea that walking could ever be considered "exercise" by anybody under the age of 65, saddens me to no end. You are fucking dead. You are already dead. Please fucking kill yourself. And, I'm not kidding. I really really really want you to kill yourself in the most sensational manner as possible. And take as many people with you as possible.

I gotta wear some fucking ridiculous get-up to go take a walk in a park. As much day-glow as possible and plastic apparatussesseses. Hopefully some noisy pants. And then, I let my dog off the leash just to yell at it the whole time. And then, after ten minutes, "whew!", you wipe the sweat off your brow and trek back to your car. Wow, you're going to have to wash those "exercise" clothes twice to get all that sweat and dirt out. But, you've worked hard for all those multiple hours of stoned reality show viewing that you got planned for the evening.



 Sunday, January 27, 2008 

people that hate george bush, jr.

You are a total fucking sucker. george bush is the anti-ggallin. You're supposed to hate him. Yeah, direct all of your anger at him, you fucking mindless nincompoop. And, call attention to how stupid he is. You're only proving that you yourself are stupid. Vote for yourself in 2008. "Somewhere in Texas there's a village missing its idiot" or whatever in the fuck. Anybody that has this bumpersticker on their car probably had a lobotomy. George Bush is not from Texas. When he became governor of Texas, it was a huge slap in the face to all Texans to have some fucking carpetbagging Conneticut ass mother fucker with a fake Texas accent become our governor. Austin became a police state. His wife refused to live in the governor's mansion breaking a ~150 year old tradition. And her reason? she didn't like the kind of people in the neighborhood (downtown Austin). And who was she referring to? She was referring to Texans. She does not like Texans. The Bush family are not Texans. They are northerners, and it was a political strategy to pretend to be from the South.

Back to Bush-haters: correct me if I'm wrong, but as far as I can tell, this is the mentality: "We have a system that we can fix by voting for a particular president. If we vote the right way, we can make a real change." You are such a fucking dumbass. It's because of you that I have a passionate desire to kill on a daily basis. That's exactly what they want you to think. They would never ever in a million years, allow "the people" to elect anybody that had any conflicted interests with rich people. Just imagine what would happen if people voted in a communist president. total annihilation.

And, I should've said this earlier, but another advantage that they have is that all of the fuck-ups that the government does, . . . its now your fault. because you voted for him. You chose war.  

The Iraq War is your fault whether you voted for Bush or Gore or whatever. You wanted bush, but you voted for gore, but now you got gore. I wanted gore all along, and I voted for myself. See, the connection here? I got what I wanted whereas you got bumpkis. Moral of the story? at least one nuclear weapon for every man, woman, and child in "america". I'm impenetrable to nuclear war. It'll be just me and roaches hanging out finishing off beer reserves and pissing on your corpses, you fucking mindless bimbo, big sunglass wearing, dress and jeans, cell phone talking, coffee drinking, fixed gear riding foo foo ass motherfuckers

fuck me. My heart is full of love as well as my genitals.



 Sunday, February 10, 2008 

farst foord restarant comercialrrrrrrrrrrr

Where everybody's going into Mexico and there's so much traffic? I don't even know where to begin on this one. Obviously, it's based on Tijuana, but since when is there traffic going into Mexico? And the sad irony is that Tijuana is so totally morbidly fucked because of the new passport policy, and I'm sad, really really sad. I want to go get more Ketamine, but no passport, and I can't seem to uncover my birth certifacation. I've uncovered some flatulation and tons of defecation, but I don't think that one's gonna get me across the border with bottles of animal tranquilizers wedged between my fragrant butt cheeks.

Summer is once again upon us here in gawkerville. Did you see what that winter was? Some sort of kind of mildly cool weather, and then we got it once again. The sun beating down on us. I have no idea what I'm doing here. Don't get me wrong. I love California. really really love it. I just hate the weather, and I gave up TV for that. I watch the news, and they say it's beautiful out there. They might as well be pissing in my face. All up inside of it. I went to the doctor. They took a catscan of my face, and much to their astonishment, it was filled with piss. Cat piss. The stinkiest of all pisses. I was not surprised.

Have you ever heard people saw Wa'r'shington? Or daugh'r'ter"? I'm so bewildered everytime I hear that.It's like Feb'r'uary mandated some unneccasary Rs being placed everywhere they don't belong. I'rm gornna start doirng that now. Just throw sorme Rs all in my language all willy nilly. Why the he'rll not? It's a lort of furn if you ask me. I'm'a'go warsh my clothes while I;m at it as long as I don't fall off the ruff in the pro-cess. Yeah, that's right. I'm british now. I don't say process like a normal person. I say pro-cess, and when I speak spanish, I persistantly stick my tongue between my teeths like a homosexual. I don't know if you're going to believe this, but once when I was hanging out with a bunch of kids in Mexico, there was some spanish people hanging out with us too, and much to my repulsion, they were talking like that. Once gone, I announced my utter complete limp-dick-effect that that form of communication gives me, and I once and for all got the insidal information on that. Por su puesto, (Mexican expression designatred  for whatever-in-the-fuck) there was a spanish king that had an unintentional lisp, and so he wouldn't feel akward, everybody took on the annoying habit of sounding gay, and unfortunately for us all (or at least those of us that have to talk to spanish people, god rest y'all's souls), spanish people talk like they have a speech imperdiment

By the way, I'm gay now. I don't actually have the balls to stick a penis in my mouth or to kiss a man. I think they're hideous. But, still, I'm gay all the same. It's a quite a conendrum or some other made up word. I have trouble having sex with women because I'm so revolted by the fact that they're attracted to men. It makes me sick. But, once I get over that fact, I really liike it. It usualy takes at least 20 beers.

Listen to Fear of Eternity. It's Goblin meets black metal. That would be the soundtrack of my life if only I could be that chingón.

Death is all around us, and I'm in heavan. I'm a huge fan. My aunt died. I really love her. Growing up, she defined sexy to me. White with black hair to say the least. My boss died. choked on his puke, and then two days later, Kiko called me, left a message on my maquina saying he had something importantr to tell me. I was scared to death that my dearest oldest friend Sam had died. Fortunately he's not deard yet. Yet being the key word here. My mother ponders the ridiculous notion that she's going to die before me. Whether I will be able to get all of her money. God bless her naive mind. She's still convinced I don't smoke cigarettes even though I've been continuasly smoking since the age of ten and been a total drunk since the age of fourteen. Benjarmin Franklin said 9 out of ten men are suicides just by the way they live. I think he was dead wrong. Dead being the key word here.

no disclaimers. Please judge me based on this blog entry. I love that, you stupid ass motheruckers.



 Sunday, February 24, 2008 


but that's what I love about it.

Hi, are you ready for this week's drunk Sunday morning posting?

First of all, I'ld just like to say that I deeply apologize for all of the mean things I said last week. I'm sorry. I was drunk, really really drunk. I'm not even quite sure what I said. I don't remember and I'm too lazy to read over it again. I'm sure I must've thought I was a whole lot of clever at the time of writing it though. I listened to that song, OOps, I did it again over and over, so many times that it's permanently scarred into my brain.

So, I have this problem that I constantly reek like alcohol at work. It's usually due to the disproportionate amount of beers I drank on my lunch break, and the ones I drank upon awakening on my bed bug infested floor. I like a slight bit of pain when I sleep. And these dreams, I don't even know where to begin. I feel truly blessed to have so many dreams. I really mean it. And I don't know if you're going to believe this, but I still have wet dreams. But, it's always disturbing. I awake shuken up.

Last weekend I went to the Salton Sea. It knocked my chemistry out of wack. I feel like I'll never be the same. It made me horny and scared. That's a terrifying thing let me tell you. I think it's the drunkest I've ever been. And there was pain of all varieties in which I was indulging in and none of which I have even the slightest recognition of. I have serious internal bruising inside of my head. I kept on losing my shit figuratively and literally. Wow, where did I learn all these fancy words from? And fuck shoes. I like a bit of pain and punching when I'm walking around in the desert.

I thought that D&D and video games was killing my libido which is what I always wanted, but once it's gone, and you can hear that wind blowing, you feel so alone, and so dissasscoiated from the whole experience of being a human being, not that that's so terribly admirable.

I'm a bit ashamed to admit it, but I think I went a whole week without having an orgasm. I never thought I'ld live to see the day, but I've seen it, and it sucked, and I wish it would fuck off and die.

and don't even get me started on sobriety. It's a delicate balance between celibacy and being totally so fucking shit faced drunk that you can't remember women's names and you have to cover one eye to get a good look at them. I know I'm not the most enticing dish, but my penis works. I swear to gosh. Wow, how many sexual opportunities did I blow in that last paragraph?

When, I sit down and take inventory of my life, all I can think about is all the rejection, both inflicted on me and inflicted on other people by myself.

Everytime, I get my feelings hurt, I like it. I savor it. I want it more and more and more. I have no idea where I was going with that.

Oh yeah, the Salton Sea, I'm going back, I wish there was a fucking bus or something that went out there. I get the deal on rent-a-cars, but I'm way too drunk for that. Don't tell my boss I said that. But, he wouldn't fire me. I got the smog license (i.e. the please don't fire me, I like making shitloads of money and working three blocks from home license)

This week's black metal recomendational: Blodulv. I have no idea what language it's in, but it's really loud and reaally passionated. I strongly suggestuate it.



 Sunday, March 09, 2008 

here’s your air conditioning

yes, it's me once again spouting my apologies on a hungover/drunk Sunday morning. I have no idea what that last sentence meant. I was trying to roll with it and come up with something to apologize for, but I couldn't think of anything. It may be the forty beers I drank last night. I didn't even know my own name. So, I went to San Francisco last weekend. I'm scouting it out because I'm moving. It may be a huge mistake. I've never felt so at home in any other place other than LA, but still all the same, I'm ready for a change, and I'm sick of the weather, and even worse, I'm sick of people pretending they like it. Sunny weather is like live music. Nobody enjoys it, but they go all out to convince each other they do. Los Angeles is chock full of lame-o-s. Full to the brim. People from here are great, but it's just the people that move here from other parts of the country, and they're so concerned with acting "LA" whatever in the fuck that means. LA is open to anything, but apparently its biggest draw is people that come here to act trendy. These days, I think it includes wearing a t-shirt, jeans, blue sunglasses, and for some inexplicable reason, a scarf even though it's hot.

I've been putting together a science fiction story where I'm the dictator of California, and I have all these crazy laws. First of all, using the word, "dude" gets you tortured to death personally by my own hands. This dude thing is mass hysteria. When will y'all wake up and realize that you sound like total fucking dipshits when you say dude? You sound like your vocabulary is created by watching television. Yeah, maybe it's true that people in sitcoms sound cool saying that in your mind, but in real life, you sound like a fuking asshole. Grade A asshole, and once I'm the dictator of California, I will take great pleasure in inflicting extreme pain on y'all stupid ass motherfuckers. Death by a thousand cuts.

So, anyway, San Francisco is chock full of lame-o-s too, but they know they're lame. Women look at me like a peice of meat. rotten meat. that dish festering in their refrigerators. It looks so enticing but tastes delicious. especially its penis.

I like the Palestinian scarf trend. I saw a woman in LA wearing one of those, and I told her, "Let me geuss, you live in San Francisco."

"How did you know?" she asked.

because you're a trendy-ass-motherfucker who has absolutely no appreciation for any kind of originality.

She informed me that I was wrong as she took a sip from her Starbucks cup, began text messaging, and put those big stupid looking sunglasses and that big stupid fucking looking hat on. The Tomatoes repellent.

Yeah, fuck you Blossom. I didn't want to fuck you anyway.

I'm just kidding. I really did want to fuck you before you put the hat on. If you knew me only by my blogs, you would think I go around talking shit to everybody. I don't.  That's the purpose of my blog.

But the big sunglasses put a huge dent in my libido. Please stop. It will be punishable by death once I'm the dictator

before I moved to California, I had this girlfriend, and i idolized her because she had this totally unique and sexy fashion, and then we moved to San Diego together, or rather I should say I followed her, and I felt like I got shot with a bb gun in the penis region once we went out in Hillcrest and Northpark and I realized her fashion was complete mimicry. I lost all respect for her. I told her to give me a ride to the Greyhound station. I was determined to go back to Texas. I was an idiot. I was 22. People that age act stupid. Almost as stupid as 31-year-olds. Now, she's back there. In fucking Texas. mandatory air conditioning. She has a baby.

God bless vasectomies. You know what my dream is? To live in a child-less environment. Hollywood should be that. You would think all the debauchery would keep them away, but they're all over the place. And even worse, their parents are here constantly reminding you that you need to keep some sense of decorum. It's a bunch of bullshit if you ask me. I moved here for one reason and one reason only: to get out of Tijuana. But once I realized I was here, I understood what a beautiful place this could be; mandatory vasectomies for all. Once I'm the dictator, mandatory vasectomies for everyone. Doesn't matter if you're 8 or 80, you get a fucking vasectomy. Doesn't matter if you got anything to vasectomize, you get cut all the same.

"But, I'm a woman!" I don't give a fuck. I'm the dictator and I whatever I say goes, and I say you get a vasectomy! And take those fucking sunglasses off!

And anybody who pretends to like sunshine, I'm gonna chain them down on Vencie beach with manacles, and see how much they love that sunshiney weather bunch of pussy ass motherfucking air conditoned desk job working putos.

You like sunshine? I'll tell you exactly why you like it. It's because your sitcom tells you you're supposed to.

Execpt if you play Dungeons and Dragons; say dude to your heart's delight. mandatory dungeons and dragons. All people that play D&D have complete amnesty to the dictator's rules.



 Thursday, March 13, 2008 

sexual validation

When you need to know what someone’s job is before you have sex with them, you are the ultimate puta.Last time I checked, the purpose of sex was fun and to get off, but there’s this thing, and you know what I’m talking about. Insert short-haired white guy here. The most non-descript possible. The smallest penis possible. My dick is an old soul. My dick is white and short haired and non-descript. Maybe that can make up for the rest of me. My dick is named John too. I thought you would like that. If I was the dictator, all of y’all bland cunt-faced dickheads would be suffering. Fickleness is your best friend. If it’s at all possible to say the wrong thing to you, I would take great delight in seeing your decapitated head strung up on a pole.

A long time ago, I began to question myself why I would reject certain women and reject others, and I’ve come to the conclusion that it was a purely a matter of making myself feel like hot shit. And I’m still paying for it. I’m still paying for stealing cars too.

Anytime, I talk to a teenage boy, my biggest consejo is "Have sex with every single girl and woman who is willing." They think I’m joking. I’m serious as a heart attack.

"you’ll regret it later." and they laugh like hell. They just don’t get it.

So, the subject of this blog is sexual validation. You don’t have sex because you like it. You find a mate who validates you. Why would it matter that your sexual partner is in a band? You don’t know, do you? Well, allow me to explain. It’s because you suck. Major donkey dick. You suck so bad that you don’t even have sex for enjoyment. You go through the motions, and then when y’all are done, you feel like "wow I had sex with this short haired white guy in a band." and you think you’re hot shit.

Alert. Earth to Amy or whatever in the fuck typical name you place on yourself. You really really really suck. You are the reason people are able to engage in genocide with no remorse.



 Sunday, March 23, 2008 

penis and balls

You’re going to love this story. I was a senior in high school, and girls were gawking me, and I told them, we can make this happen. I can take the flower away from you. My penis works way too well. This was back then when I could tell underage girls crude shit because I was underage too. I had a whole lot of libido going on. My mother constantly encouraged me to have sex with girls god bless her soul and to masturbate with enthusiasm. I was able to get off at least three times in a day if not 5 or 6. I was abusing my genitalia with perfection.

Sam and I would go out every single night getting wasted until 3 in the morning and she would literally drag me out of bed in the morning. I think I was able to get away with it because I made all A’s and B’s, and I stank like beer like every Texan should.

No matter if you’re sixteen years old. All Texan boys should smell like beer. That’s our fragrance

So, anyway I was sitting over there in the corner, minding my own business reading a book like I usually would.

There was these two girls that would gawk me really bad.

Every fucking day, they would gawk me. And it wasn’t in the nice way either. I asked them if they wanted to fuck me and they just giggled and continued to gawk me day after day.

By the way, if you haven’t already gathered this, I have absolutely no game. My pick up line was, "We’re gonna get some forties after school, You wanna hang out?" It never worked.

So, anyway, these two girls were staring at me day after day, and I kept on asking them sexual questions. You see?  I would duck out on Fridays to eat a hot dog like every self respecting Discordian should.

OK, just stay with me. It’s gonna get better. So, one extremely hungover Thursday, they were staring at me like usual, and I was fed up. I couldn’t take it anymore. I took out my penis and balls, and showed it to them. Instantanouisly, they jumped up and told the teacher. It was a huge fiasco. There were parents involved. They wanted to expel me. I think the only thing that saved me was that I already got accepted to UT, and that’s how high schools determine their success: by how many people they send to collegge. I tolld them I didn’t do it. Fucking HPD came, and I told them I didn’t do it.

Those girls never gawked me again.



 Friday, April 25, 2008 

Do Not Drink Water

I think it was the third grade. Lovett Elementary. We got to use the pens. I had this one old white lady teacher. She was the one that took us out for recess. And this being Houston, it was so hot as shit outside, and we were little kids all running around, sweating and what not having fun and then when we were coming back inside, she wouldn't let us take not even a little sip of warm tap water from the drinking fountain. She said it would give us stomach aches. At the time, it seemed cruel and a little bit unusual, but we were like whatever. It was miserable, we were all so thirsty. We wouldn't get any water until our next bathroom break. That seemed like forever. I don't know if you're reading this, but if you are, FUCK YOU, Lady! I was really damn thirsty! Why didn't you let me drink any water after I was playing outside? I have a million bones to pick with you. I don't know what your problem is, but we can solve this right here and now. If you're still alive. If you're dead which you probably are, come give me a visit. I'll punch your fucking lights out, you decrepit old hag.



 Friday, April 25, 2008 

Do Not Drink Water

I think it was the third grade. Lovett Elementary. We got to use the pens. I had this one old white lady teacher. She was the one that took us out for recess. And this being Houston, it was so hot as shit outside, and we were little kids all running around, sweating and what not having fun and then when we were coming back inside, she wouldn't let us take not even a little sip of warm tap water from the drinking fountain. She said it would give us stomach aches. At the time, it seemed cruel and a little bit unusual, but we were like whatever. It was miserable, we were all so thirsty. We wouldn't get any water until our next bathroom break. That seemed like forever. I don't know if you're reading this, but if you are, FUCK YOU, Lady! I was really damn thirsty! Why didn't you let me drink any water after I was playing outside? I have a million bones to pick with you. I don't know what your problem is, but we can solve this right here and now. If you're still alive. If you're dead which you probably are, come give me a visit. I'll punch your fucking lights out, you decrepit old hag.



 Saturday, April 26, 2008 

Don’t fucking call me.

is Cher Armenian or what? Come on, I can take it. I need the truth. Has Britney Spears ever given anyone a blowjob? Intoxicated minds need to know. It's the quest for truth. The quest for fiber pills. And by the way, I want to go and find whoever decided the its and it's bullshit. I wanna punch them in the fucking face. The it's should be possesive and the its should be the one we can actually use every once in a while. I'm totally fucking fed up. I've had it. I can't decide whether to defecate or masturbate first because if I shit first I got the shit smell lingering and "it's" not too sexy let me tell you, but if I masturbate first my erection won't go down in time and it really bothers me the way it hangs over the toilet rim. It bugs the fuck out of me. And don't even get me started on masturbating at work. Sometimes, you just gotta get that shit out of your system. All of your frustrations just melt away. And they have this policy where they make all the women wear high heals. Please help me out. I just don't understand the trigger. Why does that turn me on so? Mentally, I think that looks totally stupid, but my genitals seem to love it.

Don't fucking call me. My mother fucking called me the other day. She was crying on the phone which makes me feel bad I guess, "Tomatoes, I just think when I hear your answering message. It just makes me think that maybe you don't want people to call you, and it makes me really sad. I've been crying all week about it." You neurotic ass mother fucker. I've told you a million times I don't like it when people call me. I'm confused why I even bothered to get a phone. "It's" only 5 dollars a month because according to the government, I'm poor. They call it the life line program. Yes, I need the phone to live. If I never have to use a telephone again in my life, I'll be a happy happy boy. I  can't hear what anyone's saying. I mean, I hear the words, but my brain can't compute it. It doesn't make any sense to me. I don't understand when I'm supposed to talk. Call me 323gofag15. I got the ringer turned off, so I won't answer it, but listen to the message. One of my best friends, Fucking John, he called me the other day, and it literally made him mad which I find comical because when I call him, it rings a few times and then, in the middle of a ring, the answering message comes on. So, in other words, he saw I was calling, and then he switched it so the answering service, and then he calls me 5 days later and gets mad at the answering machine. It was a sweet feeling for me.

My mother is involved in this program where she experiments with my levels of frustration. She goes and reports her findings with all of the feminist scientists. "Apparently if I constantly adjust the air conditioning level of the automobile, it seems as if Tomatoes' gets a bit fidgety. He seems to exhibit a high level of stress when applying the low level especially." Mind you, "it's" in Texas, "it's" 100 frucking degrees outside jesus fucking christ. Just keep it on fucking high.

Don't get me wrong. I don't cuss around my ma. I try to be as sweet as possible to my mother, but she makes it so hard. It takes me minutes to crack, and then I feel like shit about myself.

Last November, she was here in LA visiting. She likes to spend money on me. Everything I want, I already got. I don't like having a bunch of shit anyways. So anyways, we went to a book store, and she wanted to buy me a book. She told me to pick out a book, and she was gonna buy it for me. "What ever you want, Tomatoes. Just pick something."

So I picked this rad pictorial book about the Third Reich. I love the Holocaust. It amazes me when people are so mean to each other because we all think that we would be so incapable of doing something like that, but if you think that; if you think you could never do something like that, you're full of shit. You've just never been in the right situation. You can inflict pain without flinching just like the next guy.

So, she refused saying, "If I was a young woman, and I was over at your house, and I saw you had a book like that, I would totally be disgusted. I wouldn't like you." She judges my level of quality as a human being in what women think about me. Well, I got news for you, Ma: women are humans too, and last time I checked, humans suck whether they have vaginas or not. I mean I prefer them to have vaginas even if I know I'm never going to stick my penises in them.

I know this an awful thing to say, but I don't like my mother. She doesn't like me either. She saw an ashtray in my house and she was, "Tomatoes! you let people smoke in your apartment?" She's in disbelief that I don't give a shit about my health. I don't need a bunch of rules when I go over to someone's house. Smoke as much as you want. Rules is what you get at work or walking down the street or visiting a dick. you don't need that shit when you're a guest visiting a friend.



 Sunday, April 27, 2008 

I am gay

I just thought I would clear that up. According to MySpace, I am gay, and I get all these advertisements for gay shit. "It's" hideous. It really grosses me out. Not the gay thing just men. Heterosexual women gross me out just as bad except when they're fucking me. That's perfectly natural because I'm such a heartthrob. I know it's really typical to say this, but if I was a woman, I actually would be gay because that's so fucking nasty. And not in the good way either. "It's" just nauseating. It makes me fucking sick to my fucking stomach. The reason this world sucks is because of men. You know what?, I might just come out and say it, I'm a closet homosexual. I thought you just might want to know that. The its and it's bullshit. You know? just this, that, and the other. It's all just that. Now more than ever, It is what it is except when it's that.


Hell on Wheels



 Friday, May 02, 2008 

my little sister’s Bar Mitzvah

As I was getting home today from work after a nice refreshing bunch of beers with my coworkers, I was so excited to open my mailbox and see my Doctor Who in there (I have a subscription to Netflix with nothing but Doctor Who), I was surprised and a bit appalled to see a letter from My Dad and Step Mom. I opened it up, and much to my horror, it was an invitation to my little sister's Bar Mitzva. Yeah, you thought the subject line was a joke. It's not. Or maybe it is. I'm not quite sure. My father ,and I guess me too, are the descendants of Russian Jews that moved to Argentina so mind-blowingly long ago, that nobody has practiced Judaism for generations. They even changed the last name so it wouldn't seem jewish. From Tacsier to Taccir. It's stupid, but wait, it gets even stupider.

I grew up with an avidly atheist father. I grew up with, "Trust me, god doesn't exist. It really doesn't. Don't let anybody tell you any different."

I have never referred to myself as jewish in my life. Neither has my dad as far as I know.

So, one winter vacation as a teenager, I went and visited them in San Jose, and there was a minorah or whatever it's called, the thing with the candles whatever it's called. I couldn't understand it. Why it was there. I didn't make any sense to me. So, I casually inquired as to the meaning behind it. Really, I wanted to yell, "WHAT IN THE FUCK IS THAT?", but I just wanted to be casual about it. You know, just a simple question, and my step-mom answered for him not letting him talk, explaining to me, "Pancho, your father is trying to get back in touch with his jewish roots." I didn't say anything. I didn't comment, but I know her and I know what it's all about. It's about conformity, and I'm sad to say it is so engrained in latino culture that you have to "be" something. My dad couldn't just be Alejandro, or as he likes to say Alex. My dad has to sum up his whole being, his whole character with a nationality and apparently according to my step-mom, a religion as well. Or rather I should say, My step-mom has to sum up his character like that. Culture is confromity. I have absolutely no respect for "culture".

I didn't take it seriously and tried to ignore it simply for my own sake seeing as how conformity and even worse, religion makes me nauseous and blood-thirsty all at the same time, and I'm not a fan of puking unless I'm on heroin, and not a fan of murder except when  I don't have to go to jail for it.

So, the years passed by, and they had a little girl, and she is the prettiest most charming little girl ever. I named her "Santita Papitas" after me of course, and much to my dismay, they didn't speak to her in Spanish just like they did to me so now I speak Spanish like a total gringo as she will too someday.

Anyway, they came to visit in LA last summer, and it was sort of fun. I wish I could've just hung out with her, but they would never allow that. They don't want me to infest her mind. They don't want her to know that culture is conformity and even more importantly, they don't want her to know that conformity is a bad thing.

The first night, I had the most scariest hangover, and they took me to see "Pirates of the Carribean" at the Capitan. It scared the living shit out of me. I had to get up and walk out. It really terrified me. Those things and that other what ever it is and then they're something oozing blood, but it's water or you know something like that and then there was loud screeching in my head due to the hangover, and I was trying to tune it out, and sometimes I was able to, but then all I could understand was this mumbling. It was frightening. You know, I'm a little curious. Is it all the high decibel black metal killing my sense of hearing or is my brain getting scrambled and it's having trouble computing words when I'm not just reading them? I wish life had subtitles. I'm totally confused half the time. Well, OK fine, let's just say all the time.

OK, anyways whatever, don't watch that movie unless you enjoy getting the shit scared out of you or unless you're not me.

So, we were driving through that jewish neighborhood over by La Brea and Beverly and it was a saturday, and they were all dressed up in all those outfits that they wear which normally I would think were cool as shit if it were not a part of the fact that it's just total extreme conformity, and also because of the fact that my hatred towards is Israel is so totally rampant that it involuntarily extends outward to every single jew on the face of the planet. Well, maybe not all of them. I have some jewish friends. I hope they don't read my blog, they probably do, . . .  whatever.

But, this comment had nothing to do with that hatred, I simply stated, "I wonder in which part of the bible, god said that all the men have to wear big, funny looking hats." On one hand, I was trying to be funny and on the other, I'm actually curious how they came up with these wacky costumes which I find to be dazzling and glamorous, but they're taking the whole thing serious.

And my dad got so upset with me, "You know Gabriela goes to a religious school right down the street in Los Gatos and she's studying judaism." or however in the fuck it's spelt.

"Oh good luck with that. I'll give you a synopsis so won't even have to study it. 'Kill Kill Kill'. There you go. Now, you know Judaism. You don't have to study it anymore"

The conversation quickly turned ugly, and seeing as how my father and I only see each other once every other 3 years or so, we mutually decided it would be in everybody's best interests to change the subject to something a bit more light-hearted such as my fear of the "Pirates of the Carribean" which everybody found to be totally hilarious. I can't help it. The movie scares the living death out of me especially with a Steel Reserve hangover

Wow, I didn't think this was going to go on this long. So anyway, either this is an April Fool's Joke in the month of May or my little sister is going to become a man, . . . soon.



 Sunday, May 04, 2008 

stupidity is not a dialect

You know what I'm saying? I know it may be a nice convenient crutch to blame your imbecility on the ethnic group that you coincidentally happen to be a part of, but I have even less respect for that. I'ld rather you just be stupid and proud. And the wierdest part about it is the whole "ethnic group" goes along with it. They embrace it as part of their culture. Culture is conformity, and conformity sucks especially when it incudes walking around with no shirt on and rambling incoherent nonsense.  Oh wait, I was just describing myself. Please proceed.



 Saturday, May 10, 2008 

the whats and whats bullshit

and the its and its. And that and the other thing. It just makes me make you stop and think, that YOU are going to be the one to look immorally wrong. Wow, Tomatoes is a rascist.. I won't even think that much, but in your trained mind, the stuff that people told you in elementary, it makes you think that I'm rascist and that rascism is wrong. I used to agree until I moved to LA. It contaminates me. The police pull me over on my bike just to make sure that I'm not not being rascist enough. The not nots were intentional. The nots nots and the what's and all that. And tjhen, there's the other thing, but just a little bit, or maybe something a bit more like that. It couldn't ever be so true. You know? just kiss it on the side and a little bit up there on the tip.

Take your shoes off and off whether its more off and off than on and on. Yeah, I love love it when you do that. Never stop stop doing that.



 Saturday, May 10, 2008 

the dipshit police

I don't know if you've ever encountered this. I'm sure you have. The total dipshit. I'm sure you have. I saw an old aquantince of mine last night from Houston. She looked just like Buddy Bradley's girlfriend, but somehow incredibly even more stupider. "Yeah, I've been in San Francisco for 10 years." "Wow, cool, I'm planning on moving there next summer." She proceeded to inform me of all this stuff that I had never even heard of before. Apparently, there's this thing called a "stourage space". I hope I'm spelling this right. I don't know. The whole thing is news to me. And, also, I was amazed at this supposed fact that she illuminated me to: If I want to live in my van in San Francisco, I might have a hard time finding parking, and the cops might harass me for living in my car. I feel so fortunate that I was able to have this conversation with this woman. I've been going around in life completly lost, and then I ran into this wise woman, and then now, I know so much more than I used to. There's this neighborhood in San Francisco called the "Mishun Distect" or something like that. I'm not quite sure the significance of the name or whatever. According to her, "I'll fit right in." Wow, that's what I've always wanted. I just want to fit in. And, I want attension. I have no problem with stupidity. In fact, it makes me a bit envious. I wish my brain didn't have to work. It would make shit a lot more simple. But, I think no matter how stupid you are, you could at least have enough sense to shut the fuck up.  But, it's just the opposite. The lips and index fingers, . . . they never stop a wagging. Inversely proprtionate to your intelligence. It's worse than the black plague. The plague of idiocy. Wow, I love this world.

And then, I got some criticism on my moustache from an attractive woman with a boyfriend. "You should trim that." It goes in your mouth. She thinks I'm so much of a sucker, that I'm going to take grooming advice from a woman that will never fuck me, and walk around like a fucking pussy metrosexual with a trimmed moustache.

You can see a pussy from a mile away. The guy that listens to this bullshit, and grooms himself accordingly. I look "unkempt" they tell me. Why are you wearing a tie if you look like a slob?

Wow, I feel so blessed to've had this stupidendous human interaction. That's why I go out on a Friday night. I don't feel complete until people spew their lobotomy juice all over me.

Wow, maybe Texans aren't as cool as I thought they were. Maybe?



 Sunday, May 18, 2008 

Why do they want me to, . . ?

look through fucked up glasses. There's nothing even wrong with my vision. I see from here to there and everywhere other were. They trained me to think I need to wear underwear. I don't understand the point of underwear. Is it so you shit your pants at work, so you can just wipe up a bit and get back to work? I've never have had that problem. I want to have that problem. Maybe someday, I'll aspire to that. One time, in the seventh grade tripping on acid, I shat my pants. I went to the bathroom. I was literally tripping on acid.There was no toilet paper. Just the salvadoranians pissing in the middle of the floor. For some reason, they would always piss right in the middle of the floor. It was messy. Of course, I needed to be resourceful to clean up the brown stripes. I tore out some pages from a notebook. You never realize quite how slippery that is until you try to use it as toilet paper. If I was the dictator of Texas, there would be an anus cleansing device in every middle school bathroom all across the blue plains of Texas. The one that squirts. 'm not so sure the salvadoranians would ever be able to figure out how to use it.

Almost everyone I work with is from El Salvador, and sometimes I worry about it. Sometimes, I worry that they're going to read about my rascist blogs.

I'm goiing to go to work on a Monday morning with a brutal hangover, the emotional hangover, the impending doom, and they're going to ask me, "Pancho, why'ld you say all that fucked up shit about us? I thought we were friends." I'm deeply sorry. "On Saturday morning, we brought pupusas, and we invited you to eat with us. Why do you write all this bad shit about us on the internet?" Allow me to clarify, . . . I don't like pupusas. It's so greasy. And you're supposed to put this watery red sauce and rotting cabbage on it. And when I bring food to share at work, everybody is instantly full. Y'all don't eat my food, why do you want me to eat your pupussy? I still eat it anyway.

Outside of work, I'm so totally hostile, but I'm as friendly as possible when it comes to my companyeros. Although, it's night and day, me and them. We work on commision. They all have babies. My only purpose for work is the rent and the beer and the food. It's cheap, my life. My life is cheap. I think if I couldn't have beer, I would shrivel up and die. If I told a psychiatrist that, they would be conscerned. Well fuck them anyways. Kaiser wants me to see a psychiatrist. "Do you hear voices? Do see things that maybe other people might not be seeing?" Well, fuck off. I don't want to do that. I like my mind. It's quite all right.



 Friday, May 30, 2008 


so the other day, I went with one of my best friend's to Jumbo's. The plan was just Wednesday afternoon bicycle bar-hopping, and that just so happened to be the first stop. I really didn't want to go. I don't like strip bars. It's too personal for me. I just think about their lives, about their families, about school, about what toys they liked playing with as little kids, about their first boyfriends. All this shit. It's not fun. It's not cohesive to the whole experience. And yeah, sometimes, it's overstimulating, and I'm not quite sure what I'm supposed to do with myself. It makes me feel awkward and pathetic. It makes me feel like I'm being toyed with. I don't like it. I just thought I would reiterate that point.

On the way riding our bikes down Hollywood Blvd, I explained it so simply, "I don't like Jumbo's. The strippers always try to talk to me."

"But, that's part of the whole experience."

"Maybe that's why I don't like it."

So, we were talking over some drinks discussing an acquaintance of our's who had recently commited suicide and about how happy I was for him. I wish I could give him a congratulatory pat on the back, and a friendly, "Nice Job" with a rare Tomatoes smile, but it's too late. So, anyway, I finished my beer and the bartender suddenly vanished realizing we were only there for the semi-decent beer prices. I couldn't get another beer. So, I'm just sitting there. A black-haired white girl got on stage and started dancing too "She's So Heavy", easily one of my favorite songs on the face of the planet. I felt like my brain was about to explode, and not in the good way. I was trying to look away, and I couldn't. I began to feel confused and hot. Hot, not in the good way. Like, I felt like I was burning up with the autonomic body on fire responses that I get so frequently. Like, my body, was literally coated in perspiration, and yet they still wouldn't serve me a beer

So, this "woman" with a French accent walks up to me, grabs my arm, starts fondling it with gloved hands, and trying to get in a conversation with me about my tattoos. I had a strong suspicion that the accent was fake. I couldn't tell if I wanted it to be or not. Because on one hand, if it's fake, that's really cheesy talking in a fake accent, but on the other hand, if it's not fake, then it's a real French accent. I don't know which is worse. Either way, I was repulsed, and I didn't understand why she was touching me. "Oooh, those are tailor scissors. I used to be a tailor." I strong suspicions that this was a man too. Not that that offended me or anything. It just makes the story slightly more interesting. Its boobs were too perfect. And the whole act of being a french ex-tailor.

Right then and there, my mind went to its safe place. Daydreaming, sitting on my park bench in my apartment with four different fans blowing on me drinking beer, smoking cigarettes, and watching Doctor Who. Unfortunately, when I snapped out of it, "it" was still there, and she still had my arm, and was still talking in that dumb accent. She asked me my name. My name is Tomatoes. It's not a nick name. That's just my name.

And, yeah, I've gotten in literally five billion small talk bullshit conversations about it in my life time. I'm tired. I'm really really really tired. I'm worn out. I'm not an unaffected badass. I was that until about three years ago. I've had it. I'm done. I would've already finished it all if it wasn't for the fact that I don't believe in an afterlife. This is all you got. Might as well, just live it out.

I didn't say anything. "Well, I will name you Andy." I don't fucking care. I just wish you would leave me alone.

It suddenly occured to me, I'm an adult. If I don't like being here, I can get up and leave. I just walk right out, and go home and sit on my park bench under fans and drink beer and smoke cigarettes and watch Doctor Who. So, that's what I did. I left. I left my friend. I would mention his name, but he doesn't want me to.  I went outside and unlocked my bike. I instantly felt liberated, riding riding riding. One of the best feelings in the world. And then, I felt guilt for abandoning my buddy, so I went back. I tried to order a beer. They wouldn't serve me. There was nobody there with a fake accent to serve me. The "French lady" was still talking to my friend. I could overhear her. "So, are you two a couple?"

"No, we're just good friends."

"Are you two in a band?"

She was searching for reasons why he would be associating with such an unpleasant person such as myself.

I got news for you lady. I have a job, and I have to stand around having conversations with people all day, and I don't like it, but that's what I do to pay for the apartment, and the park bench, and the fans, and the beer, and the cigarettes, and the Netflix subscription to Doctor Who. I don't understand why I need to sit around in here on my day off, and listen to you making the same fucking comments that I've heard a million times about my scissors tattoo and my name, and insinuating that I'm gay because I don't want to talk to you.

So, I left once again. And you better believe it, I drank the fuck out of a lot beers, and smoked the fuck out of a lot of cigarettes. Doctor Who was extra charming that afternoon, cold sores and all. And the fans were blowing cold as fuck. It was an arctic breeze.

But, the sad part is that I felt sad. I felt defeated. It's that thing.

You know, in case you haven't noticed, us penis people, our success as human beings is gauged on whether or not we are able to get attractive sexual mates, and that usually includes sitting around and having conversations.

And you know what? I don't care how good looking you are. If it includes me having to talk into a telephone or being sober enough to drive a car or being monogamous, than just consider me a socially retarded nerd. And oh yeah, I feel like a loser, but that's something I'm just going to have to live with.

I like what the mind produces with written word. The shit that comes out of your mouth doesn't interest me. The shit that comes out of my own mouth doesn't interest me.

"Getting to know each other" doesn't result in good sex.

Eat your desert first, you mindless diarreah-mouthed nincompoop. earthquakes are god's way of telling us to eat your fucking desert first. There's no time.

I already know you. I know you more than you know yourself. That's why I don't smoke pot. It makes me insanely intuitive. Every banal little thought that crosses your mind invades my own in agonizingly painful detail.

But, you know, a year from now, I'm going to be beating myself up about all the lost inopportunities due to my social gimpness or even more probable I'll still be writing self-defeating blogs.

I'm a pussy. And I'm gay. I'm not made of the right materials to be a real man and talk on telephones.



 Saturday, June 07, 2008 

Daniel Pinkwater

it's a bit spooky how much this author has made me into the person that I am today. He's a "children's" author. The main character always smokes cigars even though he's eight years old. And he makes it a point to venture around on the bus. And he comes across total weirdos. Everybody stays awake all night. And it's extremely psychedelic. Nobody sleeps. They're into eating really greasy food and staying awake all night cruising around the city and venturing in between alternate dimensions.

And, I was so bummed out thinking that all of his greats were all he had to put out (Daniel Mendelson, the Boy From Mars, Lizard Music, The Snark-Out Boys and the Avocado of Death, just to name a few), and I found out, he wrote some new ones. I got them sent to me to the Hollywood library, and was ecstatic to discover that they're even better than the ones he wrote in the early eighties.

The Neddiad, almost the whole thing takes place in LA which I thought was interesting since he's from the east coast. The main character goes to the La Brea Tar Pits. And it was such a beautiful thing because I never knew this: :La Brea" means "the tar" in Spanish, so when you say "the La Brea Tar Pits", you are actually saying, "The The Tar Tar Pits".

Just remember that. Whenever anybody wants to bust your balls about anything, just tell them that.

So, I just read this book, "The Education of Robert Nifkin". It's amazing. It's loosely based on Daniel Pinkwater's life growing up in Chicago. Very loosely.

It's one of those books that's so short and so good that it makes you feel a bit guilty reading it too fast. Every single sentence is heavenly. It's written so well, and so super fun to read.

So, if you have a LA Library card, go to www. lapl. org, and hold a copy and you can get it sent to your local library.

If you don't have a LA library card, you suck major cajones. I can't even understand how you can subsist from day to day.

It's free, culeros! Use it!



 Sunday, June 15, 2008 

rap music

rap music. It transcends like what kind of stuff I dislike and enters the dimension of everything that I fucking totally hate in the world. I can think of no other thing that brews up as much hatred and anger in me as rap music. That is my hell. Rap music is my hell. Those same feelings and emotions that "normal" people feel when they listen to black metal, that's what I feel when I listen to rap music. When I was in middle school, I was a total juvenile delinquent. I huffed a lot. like really a lot. I had a mohawk. I was "punk". It's OK when you're "punk" when you're twelve-years-old. You're too young to know it's cheesy. I took acid constantly. I slept in parking garages on a normal basis. So, anyway, they sent me to in school suspension at another school because I was fucking up so bad I guess, and everybody was black, and they were fucking with me so bad. The history of my public school life is getting fucked with by black people. They constantly picked on me. I tried my hardest to ignore them. I constantly read books. Really really good books. Books are the best thing in the world. Books are better than sex. Books are better than beer. Books are better than life itself. But, people hate you when you read books. Those black people, they hated that I read books. I was in love with a girl named Michelle. I constantly thought about her. Like every other second. She was white with black hair. Oh, I was so crazy about her. And she liked me too or so I thought. I wanted to infect her with Tomatoes. I wanted to make her mine with a serious passion. When I took acid, I would think about her, and about all of the dirty stuff I wanted to do to her body I never got that opportuniy. I think she was a little scared of me. At school, I would walk up to her to say hi, and it made her nervous I think. Everybody knew that I was in love with her. It was common knowledge. One time, I was talking to her on the phone, and she told me, "Puree, I like you too." My heart nearly stopped working. I never want to feel like that again. I think I would keel over and die. My body is not equipped for that kind of emotion. White girls with black hair do something crazy to me.It makes it hard for me to function. I can't think straight. It makes me confused and bewildered. It makes the cerebro not work anymore. Just fucking might as well throw my fucking brain in the garbage because it's totally useless around white girls with black hair. You know those triggers? Like most guys, it's high heels and skirts and make up or whatever. For me, it's white girls with black hair. My brain stops to function. All I can think about is sex. Sex, sex, and more sex. It fucks with me. I try to tune it out, but it makes it so hard for me. That hair, oh my god, that black hair.

I'm going to die at some point, and when I'm dead, I'll look back at my whole life, and the whole thing consisted of me being obsessed with white girls with black hair. Literraly, that's the only thing that ever mattered to me. Black hair, that's better than sex. Black hair; that's better than beer. Black hair; that's better than life itself..

Oh yeah, and rap music. In the in school suspension, my days consisted of daydreaming about Michelle reading books, and the "teacher" he fucking played rap music all day long on the radio. He was set out to make my life miserable. It was his mission. It was his goal in life to make me suffer. It was a mutual thing how much we despised one another. We had an understanding of pure unadulterated spite. Extreme hatred. I wanted him to die. The second they legalize murder, I'm going back there. Back to Houston, and I'll give him so many knife holes, he won't even know what happened. I don't fucking like rap music. It pisses me off. You want some macho bullshit? You want some macho bullshit? How bought a fucking knife down your fucking throat?  And I'll call you a dog if that would make you feel at all a bit more comfortable. And his friend, the school robocop, he would come in there with some hedge cutters and pretend to cut my hair off. Every single day. The joke never got old for them. Why is conformity so ingrained in black culture? These people were seriously offended by my hair. I was constantly stoned, trying my hardest to ignore them, disguising the book. I knew that they hated my books. I tried to be sneaky about it, but they could tell. They could see me reading those filthy books. I'm sorry that I like reading. I apologize that it offends black culture to stick your head in a book. I'm deeply sorry.

When I was like 7 or 8 or something, my mother began to get the impression that I was racist against black people, so her genius idea was to put me in a day care in the ghetto. Shape community center. She thought it would be cohesive because those people are extremely left wing, but she just didn't consider, well rather I should say, she didn't take into account, that black people hate white people. They hate us with a passion. And yeah, whatever, I'm from Argentina or whatever in the fuck. Technically, I'm not officially white, but all those black kids, all they saw was whiteboy, and they let me know it. Every second of every day. They made me feel like shit about myself for something that didn't even involve me. I wasn't even born in this country. Nobody in my family was born in this country but they solely held me responsible for slavery. And, oh yeah, they fucked with me. Thanks Mom. You masterminded total fucking hatred in me. When's the big earthquake coming? We're rioting our fucking hearts out. Let all that hate flow.

My target? Do you really wanna know? Well, I'll give you a hint. It includes big sunglasses and cell phones and people that drive around in cars. They're gonna get it. I don't even care if I wind up dead. It'll be worth it. And oh yeah, don't forget about the rap music. Never forget about the rap music



 Monday, June 16, 2008 

blowing it

Never even mind bothering yourself wondering what I'm doing here on this planet. I'm on a mission for the Keys of Time. Me and my lovely assistant, Romana. Isn't she breath taking? And don't fuck with my scarf. Time and Relative Dimension in Space. A really, really long scarf. And my dog will shoot you in the fucking head.

I totally fucking blew it. It's my expertise. I'm sure I've already explained all this to you. It's the only thing I've ever been good at. Self defeating shit.

My neighbor took up the annoying habit of banging on the wall for no reason, so I started doing it back, and last night, I was really drunk and I was banging on the wall, and I didn't realize how hard I was banging until

I knocked a hole through the wall, and I could see his wall through that hole. I think if I was really determined enough, I could probably tear the whole wall down with my bare hands. I have no plans to do that. Don't tell my landlady.

So, anyways today, I'm so fucking hungover. I'm shaking like a leaf. And I noticed that people can look into my place underneath the crack in the door. I'm all black and blue. Apparently, I was "divebombing" people when Weekend Warrior was playing. Now, I'm in a world of pain just when I was recovering from my bruised rib. I could hear her voice calling me, but I couldn't move.

Every time I turn around, I'm blowing it. It's the history of my life. Five books, maybe six, and then, I'm going to officially blow it for the last time.

So, never mind Sex and the City. Well no. We're still forming that band. And, it's going to be all scuz bags. All guys, scuzzy ass guys. But, we're going to have an all girl band that always plays with us. They're going to be called Desperate Housewives. I'm not sure if anybody's getting my sense of humor on this one. Maybe I'm the only person I'm amusing.

So, everybody I work with is convinced I'm on drugs. They ask me what drugs I do. I tell them nothing. They stare at the hearts, and shake their head.

One of my favorite black metal bands, Leviathan. It's probably the most depressing music on the face of the planet. It's just one guy. His girlfriend commited suicide, and you're probably going to think I'm a shitty person, but it makes me laugh and smile whenever I hear about that because that's probably what he intended. She was such a sweet girl. Every note he played, he did it all to impress her. He wanted to impress her. He was doing it all for her. And she knew it. It went into her, and she did it all back to impress him, but she's not around to reap the rewards. I hope he appreciates it at least. I'm just imagining all this of course. It's the story I like to create in my own head. If he read this, I don't think he would like it.  I probably blew another few dozen times just posting this fucking bulletin. Oh, fucking well. I think somebody was punching me in the head.

I took an STD check recently. It turned out negative. That's a good thing, right? It doesn't sound good. Why do they call it negative? I think they should call it positive. That would make more sense to me. The doctor literally called me himself. Every once in a while, I pick up my phone as a prank just that I'm answering it. It was him. He was like, "Well Francisco, all of our test results came out good. The only problem is your liver. You got high results on that one." That's a good thing, right? Or so one would think. I scored high in that category. Isn't that what one would go for? So it might seem. Well, not so much. "So, try cutting down on the drinking, and come back in and take some more tests, and we'll see if you improve at all." So, believe it or not, I cut down on my drinking, and it's the most dismal, dreary, depressing thing. I savor it. I get into it. You know, the majority of the population of the entire world does it. Why can't I? I can do anything I set my mind to. No matter how unpleasant it is. I'm not a child anymore

Blowing it some more. Blowing it is king. Babblemouth on the keyboard. Let your neurosis shine like a beacon of hate. I don't even know what the word beacon means. It just seemed like a nice word to use.



 Friday, June 20, 2008 

Love Songs

"This is 103.5, the Coast. We're playing nothing but love songs after ten. Caller, where are you 'coasting' from?" a sexy mature lady's voice asked.

"This is Jennifer in Los Angeles. I want to dedicate a song for my boyfriend. He's in the next room, and he's high."

"Wow, what an accomplishment. How long has he been high for?"

"It's been a while now. He hadn't been before, but now he's high, and I love him so much. I wanted to request James Taylor."

This is what I heard as I was going down the escalator coming home from my D&D game. It turned to static. I knew I must've been hearing it wrong. I was trying to figure out what they were actually saying. Were they really happy that he was high?

All in the same week, one Ipod broke, and I lost the other. And besides losing my two Ipods, I totally lost my shit too. I had never really heard the subway. I mean that's some scary shit. That's the noise in my head when I'm at work and have a really bad hangover. The impending doom hangover that I've had everyday this week. I was looking around me and everybody seemed totally comfortable with the noise.

I turned into 18-years-old this week.. I have no control over my emotions. It feels kind of nice because I thought I was totally dead inside. It's nice to know that they're still something going on in there, but it's not comfortable. It's OK. Things aren't always comfortable. Maybe I want it like that. Well, this blog is quickly turning boring.

On the train, some cops got on, and as I was getting off waiting for the doors to slide open, I could've sworn the lady cop was staring at my crotch. I tried to make eye contact with her, but all she could do was stare at my crotch. I mean, I don't blame her one bit. If I was her, I'ld be staring at my crotch too. I have a magnificent crotch. It's truly a sight to behold. I think it's my best feature. I mean, I really do. I'm quite proud of it.

Oh, and I left this part out. When I was riding my bike to D&D, I was riding through Burbank, and I couldn't fucking believe it, a cop pulled me over.

He said he pulled me over because I had both of my earphones in my ears, and that that was illegal. He asked me my name. I said, "Hi my name is Francisco,:" and I thrust my hand out and smiled and vigorously shook his hand. It surprised him to say the least. He asked me if I had ever been arrested. I said no. I've probably been arrested at least 8 times in my life.

I told him that I couldn't believe that that was illegal. I told him that riding a bike with headphones on is my all time favorite thing in the world. "Well, you know besides sex, of course," I told him. He smiled so big.

Fuck, now I kind of regret writing this story right now because I probably could've made a way funnier and more well written anecdote out of it, but I'm so tired right now. Work has been so exhausting because of the heat, and I haven't been able to sleep on account of being so worked up with guilt on behalf of totally losing my shit last weekend as well as other things that I could describe with dumb little meaningless fancy expressions such as, "on account of" and "on behalf of losing my shit" and "such as".

May the "It's and Its bullshit" live on! May it live on in our hearts for eternity evoking meaningless teenage emotions and erections and nighttime sobbing. You know, it's always this, that, and the other except when it's even another thing, but even then, it's just a bunch of bullshit if you ask me, so may you all go fuck yourselves.



 Monday, June 30, 2008 

I regret nothing

Walking down that trail over and over again. I've never seen anywhere so devoid of human life. I got lost in the desert. I caught a ride to San Bernardino with Tomato. We were gone camping. There was a bunch of us, and yeah, you guessed it, I was shitfaced drunk listening to headphones. I was sitting up on a hill, chainsmoking cigarettes chainchugging warm beers, and right then and there, I knew once and for all, I regret nothing. If I keel over and die right here on the hill in the desert, I don't regret sticking my hand up her skirt. Maybe she didn't like it, but maybe she did. So, I'll just cut to the chase: I got lost, really really lost. I think I was literally walking the wrong way for maybe 12 hours I'm guessing. The idea of sticking my hand up her skirt brought me the most comfort. There was two of us: the reasonable Tomatoes and the panicking Tomatoes. The reasonable Tomatoes told me, "Maybe if you survive all this, you'll get the opportunity to put your hand up her skirt again. Maybe just one last time. Maybe this time, there won't  be so many people in the room." "Oh fuck it, here lies a macho fucking slut. He died the way he lived. Sunburnt, drunk, horny, full of pain, and covered in grime." You take it and you leave it. I took more than I left, and now, there's nothing left to do besides laying here in the gravel and daydreaming about her panties. They had ladybugs on them I believe. I would bet one million dollars that that's the sweetest pussy on the face of the planet. I would bet another million that those are the sweetest kisses on the face of the planet. I won't live to redeem the money though. I will be validified though. She will spread those sweet, sweet kisses and sweet, sweet pussy all across the land. All in my name I'm hoping.

Every time she fucks somebody, my quiet voice will be urging her to fuck him even harder. Oh yeah, you better believe it! I will be lingering way after death. Yes, it may be true, my corpse will be laying rotting in the desert. Animals will be eating me, tearing my intestines out, but my eyes will be watching her have sex, urging her to give him an enthusiastic blowjob.

Why does it smell like crack in my apartment? In the future, they will have cocaine-less crack, just for people like me that just like the taste, but don't like jacking off with a limp penis for hours.

Miley Cyrus was over here the other day. We did a bunch of lines of coke and I dressed her up with a plaid skirt and some knee highs and nothing else. Suffice it to say, majorly illegal shit occured. I don't  regret that either. I knew I was going to get lost in the desert.

I would slice a thousand throats for just one kiss. Well, yeah, duh, When such said "just one kiss" is taking place, it's a given, she's going down on the floor with me on top of her. I didn't spend 20 hours alone in the desert for nothing. I mean, what's one act of rape after I just murdered a thousand people? I'm just kidding of course. I would never rape anybody. It makes me sad even joking about it. So, one would think I would erase that last comment. Oh fucking well. Some major fucking is about to take place. Fucking whatever. Literally.

So, I saw some teenagers and they were drunk and jocks. It was the first people that I had seen in probably 8 hours. I ran up in the front of their truck, and they stopped. They had to. They would've killed me otherwise. They were all drinking beer. So, I ran over to the driver's window. "I'M LOST!!!! I'M LOST!!!! CAN Y'ALL GIVE ME A RIDE TO A PAYPHONE?!?!?" Well, they drove off laughing hysterically, much in the same way I had been doing just a few minutes prior just out of desperation and hopelessness. It's funny, I asked for it. I'm always interested in exploring loneliness. Well, not no more. Nearly everything I want eventually comes my way. Well, yeah, you better believe it. I think this was easily the most lonely I've ever felt in my whole entire life. "WELL, AT LEAST TELL ME WHICH DIRECTION TO WALK TO!" They showed me the way with multiple middle fingers. It was up by the powerlines. The powerlines: besides the trail and the jocks and their middle fingers, the only evidence of human beings that I could see. I know what they were thinking. I'm nearly psychic. They were thinking, "Fuck LA people. LA people like middle fingers. Let's make him feel at home." Maybe not in so many words, but pretty much something along those lines. Well, anyways this blog is in two parts. I'm saving some of my creative juice for part two, most probably the best part. Stay tuned to see how I'm alive to write about it.



 Monday, June 30, 2008 

that and Snoopy

Walking down those dusty trails. Not even the comfort of a few extra hot cup of tea beers eased my pain, but Snoopy; I knew she was back in LA. Snoopy would take a nap with me on the floor. Snoopy will lick those wounds like an affectionate puppy. All I have to do is walk into the lights. That's what the reasonable Tomatoes said. Unfortunately, he wasn't in control of the direction I was walking into. I had a third encounter with a fucking cop car. I saw them. They were driving around and around shining their spot light up into the brush. "NO! NO! OVER HERE! I"M FUCKING LOST! HELP!!!!! HEEEEEEEEEEEELLLLLLLPPPPPPPPPP!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!" I screamed until horse. That didn't a damn bit of good. Luckily, Tomato had given me  a towel. Some slight bit of good that provided me. At one point, I nearly threw it away, but once nighttiime came down, it got really cold, and that fucking towel made me a real man. I curled up in it shaking like a motherfucking pussy leaf. The sweetest pussy leaf in the world. All you need is a towel. That and an English bloke saying the expression "bloody cunt" over and over.

"SNOOPY!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!! SNOOPY!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!" She couldn't hear me either. I just wanted to live. I want to live. I will always want to live. This macho fucking slut wants to see at least one more day. I want to sit at my bench with Snoopy at Echo motherfucking Park and drink some motherfucking beer and put expletives all over the place for no reason. You know what makes me happy? drinking beer with Snoopy at Echo motherfucking Park.

I walked down Powerline Road. It was so mean. It was cruel how beautiful it was. I've never seen anything like that. "Damn, that's one big fucking rock," I thought to myself. I thought to myself, "I can sit right down here and weep miserably, but that won't get me any closer to Snoopy." I considered cracking, but that wouldn't get me any closer to Snoopy. Not in the slightest bit. "HEEELLLLLLPPPPPPPP!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!! HEEEEEEEELLLLLPPPPP! AYUDAME!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!! AUXILIO!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!" Nobody came. It was just me, myself, and I. I think I fell down at least 20 times, and each time, I checked myself. The reasonable Tomatoes told me, "Well at least you didn't break anything." And you know what my consolation was? Good question. I don't even know what the word consolation means. I wish I did, but I threw my dictionary out because there was bed bugs breeding in it. And all those cuts. I'm experimenting with trying to make my limbs fall off. Just not my right hand. I don't want my right hand to fall off. I like being independent, and my right hand plays a major part in that.. It wasn't the first time I've been lost in the desert. When I was 18 years old on Kristmas eve I walked out into the desert in Mexico. I saw a UFO. You think I'm kidding. I'm not. I was walking down from Real de Catorce. Looking to get eat peyote. The nastiest possible thing you could ever eat. You have to eat it with oranges. Unfortunately, I didn't know that at the time. I ate a bucket of sand with my buttons. The tradition is when you find peyote, you don't eat the first one you find. You leave that for the next 18-year-old wandering by himself in the desert, but the next one, you carve it out. Leave the root, so it can grow some more for other people that want to trip. Only eat maximum 4. You will trip so hard from just 4 buttons. Don't eat anymore. Wait 'til you come puke and then wait another 4 hours or so, and then puke some more and then eat some more. Besides Ketamine, peyote is the only halucinogenic I could eat on a daily basis. I took it at the Basilca in Mexico City. Some lady had her kid dresses up so erotically. I said out loud, "Why would you dress up your 4-year-old kid like a fucking clown?" I was assuming nobody knew English. Unfortunatelty, the mother did. I got the Evil Look to end all Evil Looks. OK, so I guess this a 3 part thing. My D&D charcter is calling me. She's an evil witch. King Buzzo would say the Stoner Witch. She's a decrepid old hag witch that gets off to killing people. She does it every chance she gets. She's looking for her dog, Pesadillacrutschia. If you find her dog, please let me know. It'll ease a slight bit of suffering.



 Sunday, July 06, 2008 


I got really tired. I kept walking like those drunk jocks told me down by the powerlines, and I kept on thinking that I could hear cars. That's what kept me walking. Yeah, it was probably 3 in the morning. There's no traffic in San Bernardino County at 3 in the morning. My mind didn't realize that. I hadn't had any water to drink and I had been walking around in the desert for 12 hours. "Fuck!, everybody's probably gonna think I did this just because I want attention." I mean, I do like attention, but not that much, and if I would get intentionally lost in the desert just for attention, I mean, that's pretty inconsiderate. I laid down in the dirt and ate three sugarless Lifesavers just to inspire my mouth to salivate. The moon came up over a hill. It was beautiful. It was awe inspiring. I didn't eat anymore. I didn't want diarreah. It'll give it to you. It says it right there on the package. "Dear, whoever in the fuck, you can have all my shit. Play depressing music at my funeral and get shit faced drunk every single day for a whole year in my memory. I want to be buried naked. And everybody that attends my funeral must have sex with each other. The two most important things in life: getting drunk and sex. I want it represented for my death." I jumped up and began walking again. I thought I heard traffic. It was actually just the buzzing of the power towers in case you hadn't already gathered that already. God fucking damn it, it was so beautiful. I got Aflack. I'm not sure how you're supposed to collect on it when you're a dead rotten bloated corpse in the desert. I was wondering about that. I mean normally, this would've been heaven for me. I love remote shit, and I love loneliness because it makes the company of another that the much sweeter once it comes, but I was saturated in fear. Fear, that I would never finish my dumb book. If I would've let myself, I could've busted out crying. But, once you start doing shit like that, it's hard to return. I placated me by thinking of ideas for my next book. I'm on death row in a foreign planet, and they're going to chop my head off and eat it, and as a policy they make you write an autobiography before you die. But, the whole thing is going to be me cussing out those that are about to kill me, and about a girl that I like that was fucking me before I got in jail, and she won't  come visit. I think my favorite book on the face of the planet is Hunger. It's about being hungry in case you hadn't already gathered that. Thirst? a blatant rip off. I can't help it  I can't help that it was summertime, and I went and shot a bunch of people in front of Grausman Chinese Theater. Superman told me as he was bleeding all over the stars, "Tomato!, why did you do this to me?" "TOMATOES, MOTHERFUCKER!!!! IT'S TOMATOES!!!!!!!!!! IT'S MORE THAT ONE TOMATO, YOU STUPID ASSHOLE!!!!!!!!" and then I fill superman with more holes. Hot weather makes me pissed off. "TELL, WONDERWOMAN, i ALWAYS WANTED TO FUCK HER!!!!!," but I was too shy to do anything about it.

I saw some cars driving way off in the distance, so I walked in that direction. I f I just get there, and lay down in the middle of the trail, when they run me over, they have to stop, right? I mean, I might dead and all that, but they'll have to stop. I want to be buried in Austin. That one graveyard over east of the 35. And, I want to be wearing my skull ring, and I want everybody to kiss my corpse's face. Kiss my on the lips, you stupid ass bitch! Is it OK? Can the dead Tomatoes say, "you stupid ass bitch!"? I mean, I;m dead for shit's sake. At least give me that. And bury me with Steel Reserve. And, I'll drink it. I promise.

So, anyway, I was so very tired. I fell down a few more times. Took a whole bunch of naps. I finally got to the road where the cars drive. I turned around three times and made my pallet of crunched gravel. The lonely sex wolf howling alone in the desert. It was so soft down there. It was comfortable to say the least. I curled up in Tomato's towel . I was smelling it hoping that that smell would keep me alive .

The sun came coming up. It stirred me a bit, and then low and behold, a car came barreling down the trail. They had their headlights on. I screamed and yelled, "DEAR NATALIA!!!! i'M FUCKING DEAD." I ran in front of the car, and she curved around me. It was this lady, she had me sit in the backseat just to make it that much easier to strangle her. And much to my disfortune, she was talking about Jesus. I felt like a pussy to not've strangled her. I would've been doing the world a favor. One less christian equals one tiny little step towards a more pleasant world. Imagine a world without Jesus where people are nice to each other just because that's what you're supposed to do. So, suffice to say, she let me have it. She was a native American. More to come. 



 Saturday, July 12, 2008 

spankings and then fuckings

You probably think I'm going to say something offensive here. Well, I'm a serious dud right now. The subject line is pretty much all I come up with right now. A slight fizzle and then absolutely nothing. The wind is blowing in my head. I'm listening to Reagan Youth. They sound so good, but I'm seriously disappointed. They're from New York. Seig fucking Heil. Ha Ha, very fucking funny. If you wanted to fuck me, you could've just asked. I'm easy. I don't know why you're playing games about it. I mean, I was about to come up with a guess, but seriously, I'm clueless. I really don't get it. It all seems so simple to me. And another thing I don't understand, why do men pay women to have sex with them when women want it just as bad? I've paid for sex twice in my life. Both times in Tijuana, and both times, I couldn't do it after about five minutes. I can't have sex without kissing. To me, sex is just a supplement to kissing. Sex without affection is just masturbation, and I'm really good at masturbation, and that's free and a whole lot of fun. I don't need another person there while I'm doing it. Especially not another person that I'm paying. For what? For shit. Wow! how many sexual opportunities did I just blow right here? Please judge me for having unfulfilled sex with prostitutes.  And in Tijuana, they're all like sex slaves. They get them from rural parts of Mexico with promises of going to the U.S., but once they get to Tijuana, suddenly more fees accrue before they are able to get across the border. These people are so rural, they barely even speak Spanish. They speak Zapotec and shit. So, once there, "You owe us 1,000 dollars more, and once you give us that, we'll get you to Los Angeles. I'm not quite sure how you're going to get that money, but we have a suggestion." It's prostitution, and then, I was one of those gringo assholes that fucked her for twenty dollars. 



 Tuesday, July 15, 2008 

corpus christii

oh my god! I have no idea why this band named themselves after a town in Texas, and I don't understand quite why they're spelling it wrong, but oh my lord!, do I love it ever! You know, I know I'm preaching to the choir because I'm sure all of y'all have already been listening to this band til youl turned blue in the faces. You sons of bitches! How come nobody ever illuminates me to anything cool anymore. I mean, I'm not that old, geez louise. I just wish somebody would've turned me onto it before. I feel like before discovering this band, I was just wasting my time being alive. Now, it all makes sense. I've remained alive this whole time just to listen to it over and over and get drunk by myself on work nights. I think headphones have been the number one contributor to my lonerness and my subsequent dumb, but mildly amusing bulletins.

Last night, I had this dream. I was at UT, and there was a bunch of people all around me and I accidentally punched this prep guy in the face and he got mad; then we got in a fight and I kept punching him in the face until he was unconscious and then all his friends were going to beat me up, but I flew up on top of a moon tower, and they followed me up there and I got scared, so I was grabbing them and throwing them off, intending to kill them and all, but still, it was so gruesome. When each one would fall, he would land right on his head and it would splatter, and you could hear the bones of his neck crunching from the impact. Some doubled over backwards. I kept on flying around, and hanging out in different spots in Austin. And I was having sex with this girl. She was friends with them. I was suggesting we could go to this bar and drink some beers. "None of them will be there," I told her. We were flying down Guadalupe. She said she didn't have an ID. "Well, how old are you anyway?"

"I'm 15."

"Well, that's legal in some countries isn't it?"

And that's when I finally got so scared, I woke up.

You see, I have this nasty habit of taking Benadryl around 8 on a work night, and what ends up happening is I sleep for 11 hours. I don't know why I said it was nasty. I love it because I have so many dreams. I fly in almost all of them.

You know what concerns me though. All of my dreams take place in Texas and Mexico. Nothing takes place in California. I moved to California when I was 22-years-old, so I've lived here almost a third of my life, but none of my dreams take place here. It makes me wonder if something died in me when I moved here.



 Friday, July 18, 2008 


How are you? That's a rhetorical question. I'm so tired, I don't even really remember what the word rhetorical even means right now, but I've heard people use that expression before, and it made them seem really smart and stuff, so I thought I would try to pass myself off as clever using it as well. So, anyway, now that I've put aside the task of trying to act smart, I'm going to, . . . , uh, uh well um, I forgot about that as well. I think it had something to do with how I don't like people staring at me on the subway, but I'm not quite sure. It was something along those lines. Like about how when I stare at them back, they look away, but that could just be my imagination. I wonder what my coworkers think when I smell like alcohol every single day. Is it against the rules to smell like beer at work? So, anyway, now that I'm done being clever. Let's just cut to the chase. I got major butt rot the other day. Oh boy, let me tell you. It wasn't pleasant. What the fuck? That wasn't the chase I was trying to cut to what so ever. Hold on, Hold on, give me a chance to get a hold of my bearings whatever that means. Which bearings am I trying to get a hold of and why? Why do I need to hold these bearings? Please help me. Seriously, I need help. I don't understand why I keep repeating these meaningless expressions. It's just stuff that I heard. I'm just trying to act like I'm saying something deep, and it's not going well. It's starting to frustrate me. I just want me to be heard. You know, I have so much to much to give to the world, and unfortunately, it usually just comes out like unintelligible gibberish. I just want myself to be heard. I have an active mind. I really do. You gotta trust me on this one. It's just, it's just I don't know ,..., it's just like something I was hearing somebody say the other day. I don't actually remember what they were saying. I was totally blacked out, but it seemed to make sense at the time, and I wanna start being like that. I wanna turn over a new leaf or a stone or whatever inanimate object somebody was talking about the other day. I was so shit-faced drunk, I couldn't even stand up anymore under my own will. But, I'm telling you, really really. They sounded so smart, and I wanna start sounding like that because that's me. Super Smart Tomatoes. I'm an incredible person. It's just people usually fail to realize it. Because I don't know. It probably has something to do with politics I guess. I don't know. My mother always told me, "Politics is only to be discussed amongst adults" and I thought I was an adult and everything, but apparently, I still don't have any idea what the hell I'm talking about. I mean, it seems blatantly obvious that Israel is totally evil, but you know, I'm still learning about life and the world and everything, and I guess I just have to take people's word for it that the jewish occupation of Palestine is somehow justified. You know, because they're white and stuff, and the U.S. government backs it, and if they back it, it must be good, right? I mean, the right wing dictatorships of Chile, El Salvador, and Guatemala? Those were good things just like Israel is, right? You know there's nothing wrong with anything if it's done in moderation. Even if it's apartheid. Even if it's murder. Just as long as you only kill 100,000 people max. The Nazis? Now, that's wrong. They killed way too many people. Especially, since the people they were killing were white. You can kill 1,000 poor, brown-skinned Palestinians, and that's just "defense". But, if just one single Israeli soldier loses his life while he was invading a foreign country, and somebody got the fortunate opportunity of killing him for what was is in actuality truly defense, that's such a travesty. That's such a huge travesty, we even hear about it all the way over here. They don't mention the fact that he was directly responsible for the deaths of thousands of Arabs. Good thing, I don't have a say in matters. Hitler's ghost would visit me at night and shake my hand. Not for the right reasons though. I'm anti-racist. And that's the specific reason I would like to revisit the Holocaust. You know what it reminds me of? The cycle of abuse. The dad hits the mom that hits the big brother that hits the little sister that hits the dog that bites the cat that mauls the rat. The rat is Palestine.



 Sunday, July 20, 2008 

you make it hurt so good>

You know that corny song? I'ld give you a million dollars if they didn't play it every single time I went to the roller skating rink when I was a little kid. I never understood it. And then, after I had witnessed sex, I asked a friend of mine, (another little kid) "Why do they make those noises when they're fucking each other?" I was explained that sex is painful. "It hurts," he told me. I'm not going to insult your intelligence by any comments of how totally deep that is, but oops, I just did. After that conversation, the roller skating rink was a deep dark den of depravity in my mind whenever they would play that song.



 Saturday, July 26, 2008 


I was thinking all day about how much I wanted to kill the dog. He's always back there fucking with my head. I just couldn't wait to get alone and kill him. My plans were to kill him gently. You know, a sympathetic murder. Just to put him and myself out of our misery just for a few hours until he resurrects. He always resurrects. Sometimes, it only takes minutes, and there he is again, bugging me.The hose was squirting nasty compressor smelling water out of my guns all day. The idea of killing him brought me the most joy. I came  home covered in grime and sweat with a thirty pack of beer, and there she was looking beautiful sitting on the steps in front of my building. She wanted to participate in the dogicide, and on top of it, she wanted me to kill her dog too. Not all women have a dog to be killed, but she most definitely had one, god bless her soul. After 15 beers and a shot of Dilaudid, she laid him to rest, but not in the way I had planned. She tore off his head and shat down his throat like an angry drill sergeant. It hurt me as much as it hurt him. She gave a new definition to "killing the dog". I hadn't intended for it to happen that way. For just a split second, I grew concerned that my dog would never return, but he's back, thank god.



 Sunday, July 27, 2008 

L motherfucking A

August 1st will by my sixth anniversary here. I wasn't expecting to stay here this long, and I know recently, I've been threatening to leave. It is true that I've always wanted to live in San Francisco. ever since I was a little kid, but I've thought long and hard about it, and I'm not leaving. ever. Was I talking about San Francisco or my penis? These days of my life have been the happiest, most fun, most productive, most drunkest, most fulfilling days ever. Damn, I don't think that was gramatically correct what so ever. Yeah, that's me, Tomatoes, . . . gramattically incorrect. I feel like I'm supposed to be here. And if you're reading this and don't live in LA, you probably have some totally incorrect picture of it. You're probably thinking something totally different than what it actually is. I'm an atheist to the teeth, but still I always feel like I'm in direct communication with god purely from the weather. God tells me if I'm doing right just by how it feel outside. It actually gets cold at night. I mean, if I have a vasectomy, is it  actually even wrong for me to have sex with my relatives? There's no chance that we're going to breed. Especially, if it's a man. I mean, what kind of a child would that produce anyway? Two men sharing gentle caresses under the moonlight. and then, wallah! some weird fucking looking baby spawned by homosexual incest. All one needs is a shovel and such said moonlight to make those such said wrongs right. The shovel: the implement to end all implements. It serves so many purposes.



 Wednesday, July 30, 2008 

my surfer accent

the last band I was in, we recorded a bunch of our music, and I was the singer. I never realized the way I talk. That's the way I talk? I sound like a surfer or something. I had no idea I talk like that. Maybe that's why people are always calling me dude. Do I talk like that from living in southern California for the past ten years or did I always talk like that? Is there any hope for me? Maybe if I move away, at some point I can lose that shit. I've been listening to a lot of old punk, and they sound like that. Maybe all the punk rock I listened to in middle school stuck in my head. But, the funny part is the way they sing, it's comforting to me. I'm listening to "my" music right now, and it gives me such a warm feeling inside. There's this band. You've probably heard them or at least heard of them: the Dirty Rotten Imbeciles. And they're from Houston like me, but the singer totally sings in a surfer voice. They rectified themselves by moving to California decades ago, but even the shit that they put out while still in Texas, they sound like skaters. I was a skater. That's where the Puree in Puree Tomatoes comes from. I was so bad, and so wreckless, and so masochistic, that I was literally pureeing the tomatoes. I wore an army jacket so totally blood stained from all my falls. I refused to have it washed and refused to bathe. Girls liked me. They would "practice" kissing on me, but they would always be disgusted by how bad I smelt. "Well, if you don't like it, go find a boy your own age to make out with," I would tell them. They thought I was kidding. I plan to write a book about it. It's going to be called Tomatoes at 10. I'm editing my first book right now. I wrote this shit so long ago that I feel like I'm editing somebody else's book. And now, I know exactly what I did wrong. I can fix it, but Tomatoes at ..10, I'm going to write it without any need for editing. Just for spelling and grammar. Just to make it just a bit easier to read. I just want to write shit that's fun to read. After I'm done writing all the autobiographical shit, I'm going to start writing fake autobiographies. I want to write Dave Clardy's autobiography. He's one of my best friends. I think his life might possibly be even more interesting and funny than my own. I'm just going to write it as a collection of short stories.   



 Saturday, August 16, 2008 

MSX3 and the Salton Sea

MSX3!, you sons of bitches! Ms, god Damn motherfucking X something something, X3! Damn it! Damn it!" "Tomatoes! shut up! You sound like a fucking broken record!" "You shut up. You sound like a broken record!" Now look what you've done! You broke my fucking train of thought!" "MSX3! Oh yeah, that's right! MSX3! What in the fuck was I talking about anyway, and why do I keep on repeating 'MSX3'? Can you answer me that question?" "Tomatoes!," "shut up!" "You know what I never wanna do? Kill somebody with a fire extinguisher, that's what. That's not the task a fire extinguisher was meant to perform. It seems a bit perverted if you ask me. to kill somebody with something that was meant to save lives. Nobody has any decency anymore. This wpr;d is turning to shit."

At this point, you may be wondering why I kept on repeating MSX3. Allow me to explain. MSX3 is this gang that I was inducted into. At work one day, on a fifty day hangover, I was there taking a messy shit, when there on the wall, I saw that somebody had scribbled "MSX3". I thought that was so fucking cool. MS stands for Mara Salvatrucha. A Salvadoranian gang. The X3 stands for 13. The number representing the letter M thus standing for the Mexican Mafia who are the heads of the Southsiders. An umbrella gang encompassing all latino prison gangs in southern California and thus all latino gangs out on the streets in southern California. I hope I'm not boring you with all this information. Ha! I called them an umbrella gang! Can you imagine them prancing around with their little umbrellas? There's this one at my work that I'm friends with, and whenever I see him talking to anybody, I walk up and say, "You know Jose?, he acts like a real tough guy here at work, but you'ld be surprised, when we're alone together, he's quite the little snuggler." Thus, he acquired the name Snuggles by practically everyone. He went to jail for two months, and then he got out, and miraculously, they gave him his job back, but then he went back to jail. This time for a nice long hard sentence where he can indulge in some hard core snuggling with his MSX3 brethren. He was braking into people's houses.

So, anyway, this blog is messy just like the shit I was taking, but that's why it's a blog and not the House of Seven Gables or some such other bullshit they force teenagers to read to teach them that books have to be boring to be "good". I have a major problem with the English teachers in this country. This country, we could be producing a million John Fantes, but instead we choose to produce a million "INSERT-BORING-AUTHOR'S-NAME-HERE". I mean, John Fante, he's kind of boring, but oh my lord, his words are like "INSERT-RANDOM-EUPHORIC-ADJECTIVE-HERE". If John Fante were alive and he was willing, I would literally give him a blowjob. That's how much I like his writing.

So, somebody scratched out MSX3 on the bathroom wall, and every time I go in there to take a messy hangover shit, I write MSX3 again, and then they scratch it out. So, I write it again, and then they scratch it out again. And then whoever originally began writing MSX3 began writing it too again. Somebody put a big magic marker "X" over it, so I decided to include the "X" they wrote in my MSX3. It was nice. They made it a bit easier for me. Writing MS ,…, 3. It saves me a lot of time. Makes me a more efficient worker. And then somebody scratched that out too. And on top of that, they accused us of being "PUTAS". Well, that majorly offended me. We may be a lot of things, but if there's one thing we're not is "putas". I mean, we're tough. We kill people and shit. How could we be putas? What the fuck? The ,…, represents my moustache.

So, she suggested that I take a vacation day on top of my three day weekend to make it four, uh days, god damn, why do I have to be so boring? She's back in Sweden now. So, I'm really happy we got to spend those last days in my all time favorite place on the face of the planet, the Salton Sea. We rented a car, and then came back over to my dingy apartment to pick up our Tomatoes style camping equipment i.e transporting my bed on the floor. All my blankets.. She had been house sitting for this crippled lady  with a massive pill collection. "Tomatoes, I have a surprise for you." and she put 10 Methadone pills in my hand. The all time best present for me is pharmaceutical drugs. And the company of a woman that I like. Anything that I want that costs money, I've already bought. I have zero expenses. Well, I pay rent and buy beer, food, and cigarettes. What the fuck am I talking about? Why am I bragging? I guess it's part of the story.

So, she gave me a Dilaudid at my place. If you ever run into Dilaudid, please do yourself a favor, and don't swallow it. It was meant to be shot. It takes some finesse, and a lot of practice, but once you get it down, the rush is only comparable to a shot of heroin that would be so big it would probably kill you. You cook it, mix it up, crunching crunching crunching. You draw it up. There will be a lot of powder left in the spoon. Don't worry. You're not done. MSX3. Put a bunch of water on that. I know what you're thinking; you don't want to shoot too much water because it gives you a headache, but don't worry, I'm going somewhere with this. Cook it again. Mix it with the back of the plunger. Draw it up again. There will still be some residue. Rinse and repeat. If you do it right, in the end, you will only have like 40 units in the syringe, and near zero residue in the spoon. And you just might puke from the intensity. MSX3. I'm glad it's gone now. It's a drug I could easily get addicted to. It's like heroin, but it doesn't give me pancreatitis.

So, I took a methadone, and grabbed all my blankets. I was walking down Gramercy and some idiot attractive lady in big sunglasses looked at me, and started laughing hysterically. Well, I'm so glad that I was able to amuse her. I just wrote a fantasy about her and erased the whole thing because I think violence against women is wrong. It's such a shame because it was so well written. But, I'll give you a hint. It involved skateboard decks, and her dental records wouldn't've done a damn bit of good. Wow, how many women decided they would never have sex with me after that last sentence? At least, never again. Damn, I'm really suffering. MSX3

I wonder how many times a year she takes an hour to drive down to the beach and hangs out for ten minutes. Just to say, "I went to the beach". She spends 99% of her life in air conditioning, but she loves the sunshine because she's supposed to. That's why she moved to California. LA is not the beach. If you like the beach, move to San Diego. Hollywood is not the beach. And I'ld like to keep it that way.

When we got to the Salton Sea, I was well into my third Methadone and slobbering like an idiot. I brought my cute butterfly sweater. I thought it would be cold at night because it's the desert. It was 103 degrees outside and pitch black. {the new moon) I was going to make some references to that that would've probably seemed both racist and sexist, but I thought I would leave that to y'all's imagination. We went out there in the dark. She would've been looking beautiful if I could've seen her. She was wearing my favorite outfit: MSX3, a little black dress, her black hair in braids tied up on top her head. Her little tiny body was driving me mad with desire. "Tomatoes, I'm not OK with this. It's freaking me out. I can't see anything." We hadn't thought to bring a flashlight. You couldn't barely see your hand in front of your face. She had no idea what she was in for. The Salton Sea ,…, it's meant to be scary. She began screeching because something out there touched her. "Yaaaaaaaaaaa! AAAAAAAH! AH! AH!" My Mecca. I took all my clothes off besides me pannies and then I put my shoes back on. It was so fucking hot, I was baking. I took our gallon of drinking water and poured it all over myself. I don't believe in drinking water when I'm on vacation. She retreated into our brand new 2009 Kia Spectra beckoning me to join her. I refused wanting to catch up on all the beers and cigararettes I had been missing on the ride down there. She refuses to let me drink in the car, and I oblige seeing as how she's driving, and I don't want to. A DWI would inhibit my job-hunting abilities for reasons that are too mind-numbingly dull to list here. Not like I'm job hunting. I have the eerie, spooky suspicion I'm going to be at my job for years for years for reasons that are too mind-numbingly dull to list here.

     "Stop the yelling already. Don't worry. I'm a man. I'll protect you. I'm tough, constantly prepared for violence." and then, I spontaneously fell asleep on my feet. I was so fucking high. I had no idea they made Methadone in pill form. Have you ever been observing a sleeping person on a bus, and they constantly get arisen each time their lazy neck gets a bump from the road, and then they wake up realizing the rampant run on sentence, and then they realize they thought they were being clever, but none of it really made any sense anyways, so their eyes glide shut again just to realize that they were out there in the pitch black in their male panties and some steel-toed work shoes, and it really was just the beginning of an awful horror movie, so they decided to take more drugs and chug 10 beers in a row even though a beautiful girl wanted to give them a blowjob? Has that ever happened to you? Yeah, me too. I hate it when that happens.

     I coaxed her out of the car after many many beers. We had bought some firewood just for light, but it was hot. Not as hot as Texas, but really fucking hot. "Let's go sit over there on the park bench. We'll light that jesus candle we got, and, it'll be nice." Much to my surprise, she agreed. You could see some lights coming from Indio. The wind was powerful. I began to mimic an "Indian" referring to the wind as the "powerful spirits of the Earth." I was hoping to lighten the mood. She didn't think it was funny. I'm sure she was right. At least, I was amusing myself ,…, and probably her too.

     We went over to the park bench. She brought some of my blankets and laid belly down on top of the table. "Come here, Tomatoes." She's a Texan like me. I've known her since is was in high school. And I saw a little light dipping and bopping approaching us. I blindly searched around on the ground until I found a nice sized rock. It was the size of a football. Whatver that dipping and bopping light was prepared to do, I was unconcerned. My only thought was to hit it over the head with what such intensity I could muster. "MSX3, you sons of bitches! We Are Not 'Putas'!!!!"

      "Tomatoes, come here." And at that, she pulled downed my panties, and gave me the blowjob to end all blowjobs. She was laying down on the park bench, and I was there standing like a high and drunk dipshit. It didn't matter the 103 weather. I was having trouble clutching the mortar football in case any monsters came. I won't insult your intelligence referring to myself as the coming monster.



 Saturday, August 23, 2008 

my thoughts on monogamy

It reeks of desperation and loneliness. Besides Christianity, violence, and starvation, it's the number one contributor to human misery in our world. And top of it, it often leads to Christianity, violence, and starvation. Or those things led to monogamy. It's antisocial and unfriendly to make some union that excludes everyone besides y'all. It breaks down individuality. You're not who you are in a monogamous relationship. It dilutes you. It promotes bleakness and more importantly, blandness. It might seem mean for me to say this, but you know it's true. If you're totally in love with somebody, and they're totally in love you, that's stupendous, but why are y'all cheapening yourselves with that? It's not human nature. You're killing the whole thrill of being a human being.

But, I get it. It's kind of like war. Whether or not you choose to acknowledge it, it will still be there. And if you stubbornly refuse to play by its rules, in the end, you will be the victim of an unappealing occupation, or even worse, . . . . . . a war if you chose to fight back.

If it wasn't already a predetermined attribute of our culture, it wouldn't even matter, but people find the bizarre need to own each other. Have you ever heard this one?: "Everything's going great Ma, I have an apartment, a job, and a girlfriend." The girlfriend is part of his list of possessions proving that he is a successful human being. When people fuck each other, they're not even fucking each other. They're getting a human need satisfied just like taking a shit, but on top of it, and more than anything else, they're validating themselves. I'm fucking a girl, and she's not fucking anybody else. She's mine.

And it leads to so much heartbreak. It's 99% heartbreak and 1% percent pleasure. And, I know what you're thinking. I'm writing this because I myself have gotten my heart broken, and that is true, but so have all of y'all. Just as bad, or even worse. And, you know it's true. 99% of all of your pain is due to boy-girl monogamous relationshits. Sorry for all the percentages, but I've done tons of scientific research, and I can't let the millions of dollars of taxpayers' money go to waste.

Just stop it. Fucking stop it. If you know what's good for you (which you don't), you will fucking stop it (which you won't)



 Wednesday, August 27, 2008 

conclusion of getting lost in the desert

I came upon a trail that had tire tracks on it. I knew that if I just stayed there for long enough, a car was bound to drive down it. And even if they wouldn't be willing to pick me up, they would hopefully at least, call the cops or something. I laid down making a fresh pallete, and draped myself with Tomato's towel. I was hoping it would smell like her, but it didn't. I figured I could survive for at least 24 hours more without water before becoming delirious. Half of me wanted no cars to come. That would be so glamorous dying lost in the desert. Not as predictable as heroin overdose or a drunk driving accident or suicide by cop. Leaving this world alone just like I came into it. Just me, Tomatoes, and I. But the other half wanted to live. New people to fuck, new cities to live in, new drugs to fuck my life up with, new grammatical errors that I had never dabbled with. I've never tried PCP, and would hate to die without experiencing that. I fell asleep keeping an open ear for cars. Right before the sun came up with just a tinge of light, I heard the pathetic groan of an old fucked up domestic car barreling down the trail. I jumped up and jumped in front of such said fucked up car waving Tomato's towel around like a matador. That was unintentional. I wasn't trying to be funny, I swear.  I knew they wouldn't stop which they didn't. They swerved around me and seemed to be abandoning me when suddenly it stopped. A middle age dark-skinned woman smoking a cigarette was at the driver's seat motioning for me to get in the back. And I know this is going to sound corny, but I couldn't get the opening scene from Slacker out of my head. It was so bad, I had to catch myself from explaining all of the different trails that I could've possibly taken, and what might've happened had I made those different choices.

I was speaking Spanish to her, and she had no idea what I was saying. I felt like an asshole assuming she spoke Spanish. So, I assumed that she was "native American" still being an asshole with my assumptions.

"You could've been killed out there, you know? Lots of people die out here. You're just lucky you didn't die. You better thank Jesus you didn't die"

"I know, I know, I know. Yeah, I didn't get lost on purpose. I was over by the hot springs, and the next thing I knew, I was lost."

"You know, my five-year-old son walks up to the hot springs from our trailer and he doesn't get lost, God bless his soul."

"Yeah, I know, I'm an idiot. I wasn't paying attention. I just didn't think it would be possible to get lost with so much open space around."

"And, at least, next time, bring some water and food with you. You know, I just can't believe you would do something like that." At this, I had just been assuming that she was going to offer me some water to drink. She didn't. She lit another cigarette and continued to reprimand me. "And, I'm going to be late to work because of you."

"I saw cops across the mountain top last night. They were shining spotlights around. I was yelling and yelling. They were completely off."

She began to laugh like a maniac. "No, there's no cops around here. The only time a cop comes around here is never. That was my neighbor. He's a fucking asshole. Drunk motherfucking asshole. I mean, don't get me wrong, God bless him, but still he's an asshole."

I didn't feel the need to comment on what she had said. It hurt just a tiny little bit. When I had seen those spotlights, it made me feel like somebody cared. It urged me to move in the direction of those lights. It was just some dickhead like me fucking with his neighbors.

We were silent for quite some time. Her chainsmoking cigarettes in her hotel uniform and me sitting there in the back seat quietly contemplating the urgent need to make out with every single woman that lets me.

After about 15 minutes or so, we began to drive through some area that was semi-developed. There was the cutest little bunny sitting right there in the middle of the road. It was facing in the opposite direction. Its long ears were perky. In the equivocated direction away from us. It was gazing in awe at the sun that had begun to arise over a mountain top. Truly serene to say the least. A sight to behold or some such other cliché expression. I wanted to warn her, but I didn't want to scare her by touching her or yelling out, "HEY! THERE'S A FUCKING RABBIT!!!!!"

It went underneath her old, shitty tires with a satisfying snap. Completely obliterated. Broken down to a pureed blob of red and white desmadre. Her fucked up tires and the difficult terrain turned what could've been a neat stop into us nearly crashing into a ravine. Her sobbing came and came and came. I thought she was never going to stop crying. I thought about what I had seen in movies and television. When somebody's going through something traumatic like that, you're supposed to lay your hand on their shoulder and console them. "But, that's so fucking typical," I told myself.

"I take care of all the animals. All the dogs, and the cats, and the bunnies, and now I killed the innocent bunny. At least, the bunny's going to heaven." Besides in movies, I don't think I've ever experienced anybody weep this hard, but still, I just sat back there and tried to mind my own business. She started driving again, but had to pull over once again to ball. And ball she did, it came out like a broken fire hydrant. Right then and there, she was crying about every single painful experience she had ever had in life. She was crying about the boy in high school that she liked that didn't like her back. She was crying about her cruel dad that never paid attention to her. She was crying about her granma dying. She was crying that she lived out in a trailer in the middle of nowhere. She was crying that she had to go to some bullshit job that pays her nearly nothing even though she's worth so much more. She was crying that she had some dipshit alcoholic in her backseat. I'm no stranger to emotional pain, but this was truly something else. I still refused to react.

She dropped me off at the gas station half an hour later. I waited until it opened, and then gorged on Carrot juice, peanuts, and Steel Reserve. The cab company said it would take 2-3 hours to come pick me up since it was so remote. I sat the fuck down over towards the side of the store guzzling 211 admiring the dawn and the bunnies and expecting to get harrased by the local police. That never happened. Everybody out there is even weirder than I am myself and on an infinite amount more of meth.

The cab driver picked me up with a gigantic mouth. It was full of tobacco chew. He looked like a victim of Chernobyl. I was instantly in love with him. I was smoking a cigarette back there helping him out, studying the Thomas Guide. Fortunately, I had a crumpled up flyer with the directions where the camp was. We were gonna take a right down this one dusty road, and there was 5 SUV's with San Bernardino County Seals on the side blazing down the trail at 40 miles per hour. They raised so much dust, we had to roll up the windows and turn on the AC. I was joking about it, saying, "Hey, I bet they're looking for me."

He was laughing. It all felt so good. I was drunk once again, hanging out with someone of questionable mental integrity just like me. But, more than anything, I wanted to get back to LA, so I could get to work the next day. Being financially independent is very important to me.

As we rolled into camp in the cab, that's one of the most embarrassing moments of my life. All those cops were there. There was like 15 of them. They were about to deploy helicopters. The search and rescue team was getting all suited up to go look for "Tomato". I insisted that Tomato is another person, but they weren't having it.

     The main cop had me take off my shirt to get a photo of all my tattoos. "Oh yeah, any excuse to get me to take my clothes off." He didn't like that.

     Anyway, I'm alive, as you've probably already assumed by the fact that I wrote this. I'm sorry to've made y'all worry.



 Saturday, September 13, 2008 

Tomatoes + Guns = Not Good


I was taking the Greyhound to visit my mother in Houston, and on the way, the busdriver let us down to stretch our legs and shit and eat shit at a truck stop. I bought one of this little cheap playsets off the rack from Taiwan, so little kids can pretend they're cops. You know?, with a fake badge and some fake handcuffs and a fake gun and all that shit. After three days, when I got to Houston, I was surprised to find that my mother had moved back into the apartment that we lived in between my ages 4-13-years-old. It was nighttime and I couldn't sleep. I was laying there on my old bed in my old bedroom, and I took out the playset and realized that the gun was real. It was a 357. Magnum. "This could come in handy," I thought to myself. It was so heavy and shiny and beautiful. I was caressing it and caressing it and caressing it. I tried to open up the barrel or the chamber or whatever-in the-fuck it's called to see if there was bullets in there. The gun accidentally went off in a silent pop. It made a neat little hole in the wall, and I could see light coming through the hole from the apartment next door. I looked through the hole, and I could see that the bullet had made yet another hole in the next wall. Then the lights went out and I could hear shrieking. I grew concerned, so I went outside to the balcony, and up the stairs comes this Russian family in agony. "I'm really, really sorry," I said. "It was an accident."

They were crying and cursing me, all these little kids. "Where did I hit you?" "You hit me here and here and here, and she pointed at her heart. I could see down in the pool, there was this young woman, the girl of my dreams. She was white and had long dark wet hair. The pool was lit and she looked so magical and completely unaware of all that was happening. She gave me this look, this look I would never be able to do sincerely myself. It was a smiling hyper-flirtatious look. Staring directly into my eyes with this unbelievably sexy smile on her face and green eyes, beckoning me to come in with her. She was completely oblivious of all these little kids that had begun to ransack my mom's apartment. They were bashing out all the windows, tearing out the screens and what not, and wailing about what I had done to their mother. "Shouldn't you be bleeding?" I asked her, and that's when I could hear the police sirens approaching. I looked down at myself. I was wearing skin tight Wranglers and an old Che Guevara T-shirt that I had bought in Mexico D.F. The shirt was inside out. It was way too tight on me and had deodorant stains. I was barefoot. "So, I guess, I'm going to jail for a really long time. I'm'nna go inside and change into some more comfortable clothes," I told the woman that I had accidentally murdered. All of her children were weeping with the only kind of passion that that sort of situation could muster. The black-haired woman in the pool gave me the "come hither" sign. I couldn't believe how callous she was to my situation.

So, I went inside, and there was a bunch of little kids tearing everything apart, and for some reason there were cocker spaniels shitting all over the place. I was about to call out for my mom, to ask her advice or whatever, but I already knew what she was going to say, "Tomatoes, I told you guns are wrong. And especially, with your temper, you don't have any business with guns." "But, I love guns. They're beautiful and they kill people." She wouldn't've approved of that, so I didn't even bother going and waking her up.

So, I went into the closet that I had masturbated in and huffed so much White Out and Rubber Cement in in middle school. I began to pick out some clothes I wouldn't mind going to jail in. The sirens got louder and louder. I realized it was just a matter of minutes until the HPD was there. I was going to write a note; that Snoopy could keep all my shit back in LA. I love you, Felicia, Shanti, Snoopy, Michelle, Sam, my mother, mis abuelos, mi tio Werner. The sirens got louder and louder, and I realized I had no time because if they got me, it was just a matter of time until I killed myself in prison because I hate rap music culture, it would be a matter of days. I could hear them busting through the front door yelling, "POLICE! POLICE! HPD! HPD!". I cocked the gun and raised it to my temple, and right before I pulled the trigger, "I WOKE UP!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

Suddenly, I was laying on the floor of my dingy Hollywood apartment surrounded by empty beer cans. I looked at the clock. 5:00. Only three hours until I had to be at work. Snoopy was peacefully sleeping next to me. Looking like the sweet beautiful angel she looks like when she's asleep. I've never experienced the feeling of relief quite in that way ever in my life. I wouldn't call the dream a nightmare because at no point was I scared. It was just so sad. I felt so terribly bummed out that my life was going to end just because of a little mistake. I really really really thought it was real. Normally, in my dreams, I know it's a dream, but this one, I truly thought it was happening for real. I hadn't the slightest inkling that it was a dream. Before I was gonna pull the trigger, I felt these immense feelings of guilt that I hadn't told my mother, "Good-Bye, Mother. Thank you for taking care of me all these years."

I thought it was the end. That day, I had never felt that happy to be alive. Hopefully, in the future I will have some more days like that.



 Sunday, September 14, 2008 

violent thrusts

I had moved to San Francisco, and me and my friends were having a caravan in the morning to high school. Yes, that's right. We were adults that were still in high school for some reason. It's pouring rain outside, and I was slumped down in the back seat, drunk as hell feeling that ecstatic bliss that I could only feel in real life if I had kicked the winning goal for the Mexico team in the World Cup. Not like I can play football or anything. People have wrongly assumed that I could because I'm supposedly from Argentina. I played football for years until I was ten-years-old and began to smoke cigarettes which quickly deflated my stamina. If I could play football, I would denounce my Argentine citizenship, become a Mexican citizen, live in Guadalajara, and take Mexico to the top of the world by winning the Cup in 2010. Oh yeah, what was I talking about? Aren't you glad you're not hanging out with me in person? and had to hear all this mindless blabber in person? Consider yourself fortunate.

Oh yeah, what was I talking about? This dream I had. We stopped because the rain had gotten so bad, and the Earth was getting flooded. The water had gotten so tall. My euphoria had gone rampant. I demanded to be left out of the car. I stepped out into two feet of water and right then and there, that's the happiest feeling I had ever felt in my life, awake or asleep. The feelings of happiness were crashing down on me wave after wave after wave. The rain was pouring down and the wind was blowing so hard I could hardly prop myself up. All the beautiful creatures of the sea began to emerge from the water. A sea turtle the size of a horse got up on a crushed piece of cement, and it was hanging out next to me, and normally, I'm so scared of turtles, but at this point, I knew I was dreaming, and I knew that no sex or drug could ever make me feel quite this way. I will never feel that way ever again. It was a warm rain. There was no people around. Rain, it's the dickhead repellant.

And I thought to myself, "Everything's so perfect. Life has never been this good to me. This is the ultimate. The ultimate in satisfaction, but the only thing that's bugging me is I want her to like me as much as I like her."

I made a proclamation, "I refuse to acknowledge the fact that I refuse to accept the fact that she doesn't like me as much as I like her." And by making that proclamation, I was both acknowledging and accepting the fact that she doesn't like me as much as I like her. It was a bullshit mature epiphany that could only occur in a dream.

I woke up, drank a beer, shaved, braided my hair, and went to work. All day long, I was thinking about this dumb proclamation that I had made in my sleep. My mind went over it again and again and again.

Finally, I decided it was in fact, bullshit. Yes, it may've been reality. It is reality. But fuck reality. Reality can kiss my ass. Reality and Truth have never done a bit of good for me.

The "real" reality is that she spends all of her time longing for my enormous penis. Night and day, she wiggles uncomfortably, craving my adoring but violent thrusts.



 Thursday, September 25, 2008 

the 401k plan

there's this woman at my work that I have a crush on. Anytime she talks to me, I nearly keel over and die. I can't think straight for hours afterwards and have trouble breathing. I was drinking beer with her the other day and was so fucked in the head for weeks.

So, anyways, she comes into my stall and tells me that there's a mandatory 401k meeting that I have to attend. Immediately, I could hear the screaming in my brain. My heart was beating so hard, the vibrations were coming from my body down into the concrete and over into her's causing her to visibly sway.

I knew right then and there if I was to go to this "401k" meeting, I would dump the table over and eject myself from the situation.  Most notably by screaming and yelling. All those feelings of guilt and shame that keep me up at night pouring out of me publicly.

And I don't have any need for the 401k. If I was ever eligible for that, i would never redeem those benefits. It would be a subsequently quiet matter involving nobody but me, myself, and a hundred dollar shot of heroin, and paramedics, and somebody to remove all my shit and discover my porno collection, and think to themselves, "Damn, Tomatoes was a pervert."



 Saturday, October 04, 2008 

eager to press

It can't wait! I have to tell them right now! There is absolutely no way that the world can continue to turn unless I tell them this right now! Brenda and Tad broke up! If you would've waited a whole two hours to learn this information, you would've been so fucked! Everybody would've known about Brenda and Tad's break up before you! I mean, uh, how do you think Tad feels about that? That you waited a whole 15 minutes until you realized that he broke up with his girlfriend. I mean, he called you, and falsely assumed that you have a cell phone. He left a message, peppering it right and left with the word "dude" and not bothering to leave a phone number because only a loser doesn't have a cell phone. Well, "dude", I'm up to my knuckles in fecal matter. I wish it was blood. Hitler and the jews had nothing on the way I feel about "dudes". It "smells like cookies"? Are you fucking kidding me? That's a very small price to pay to cancel the word "dude". Give me the button. I'm eager to press.

 Monday, October 20, 2008 

I shat myself then ate shit.

so me and Dom were sitting in here in Oakland listening to the Bart go by over and over screaming and yelling. and Susie's next door neighbor comes in here telling us to keep it down. She said she had a headache. I have the perfect remedy for that. Unfortunately, it involves my genitalia. It's really true what they.say about it. It's freezing.

It's cold to the bone. The Bay Area, not my genitalia. Well, sometimes both.

It probably wouldn't be worth it for her anyway because other part of her body would end up hurting even worse than her head hurt in the first place. So, I managed to shit myself upon first arriving. Than, I ate shit so many times. At some point, I was drenched in my own blood. I'm not quite sure whether they'll let me on the plane. people keep on looking at me on the street and they laugh hysterically. Despite what they may've believed, I'm not here for their amusement. There's a sleeping cat next to me snoring. I didn't know cats snored. It was concerned about me because I was laying on the floor. I had no idea cats were capable of being concerned. That was my god damn daughter in there. So, I packed like a god damn diva, and I'm still wearing the same clothes from Thursday night. Feces included. I miss LA, I miss the way it assasinates my libido. I miss the way it prevents the writing of dumb blogs. so, you're never going to believe this, but my landlady wanted me to change my answering machine message. because I'm cussing on it. I'm so polite to her, I'm surprised she doesn't just throw the fuck up everytime she sees me walking down the hall. We get competitve trying to see who can nauseate the other worse. I think I'm winning. I over-pay my rent a month in advance. It makes me shudder to think all the gross shit that has occured in my apartment. Both with me living in there and before. I wonder how many people have died in there. Now, the cat's purring. I'm not even touching it. It's just sitting there purring. susie last night was trying to get me to admit all the awful shit I've done. It's not happening. I'll admit it's bad, but no details. I had to completely reinvent my moral fiber. and then I shat myself. I still smell like it. Please stop me. i can't control myself. Just stop reading this then. That's the least you can do.

This place, you ring this doorbell, and people let you in. There's a ping pong table in there.



 Thursday, November 06, 2008 

Evasive Contempt

I regret Nothing; Part Infinity + 1;

My body was a gift exchanged between me and god to do with as I please. If I want to wreak havoc on it, that's for me to decide. It's just between me, myself, I, and a few other people of whom, the names: right now, I just don't quite remember. I think one of their names began with a J, but I'm not quite certain right now. I know that there was a smell of a public urinal in the air at the time. Please consult me on this in the future when I'm not so drunk. Good luck on that. You will need it. And a gasmask too. You might want to bring one of those along as well. Apparently, my breath smells like paint thinner according to one of my coworkers.

Sometimes, I feel bad for my body. It's been one long, cruel joke on it, all for my own amusement. Like it thinks it's dying, so it goes about pathetically trying to sow its seed as far and wide as possible and I just sit back quietly giggling to myself. It's quite the spectacle, let me tell you. Its aimless reckless wandering; the only thing in its mind is to procreate. "Yeah, go sow the seed," I tell it and laugh hysterically. Little does it know there is no seed to sow. My body is as sterile as George Bush, Jr. with coke dick in a room full of Iraqi suicide bombers. I don't really know why that would make him sterile, but it sounded nice. I think that would make him get coke dick, I mean impotent.  

I'm always fucking with its head. Yeah, go stick your penis in things and see if you can replicate yourself. Stupid ass bitch! Yeah, I know that sounds terrible. Even to me, the phrase, "stupid ass bitch" gives me a gag reflex. But the idea of calling my own body "stupid ass bitch," entertains me to no end. And, the idea of fucking with my own body's head is even better.

"Yeah, you stupid ass bitch! You're dead to me! All of y'all are dead to me! Especially you, whoever's reading this. I'll kill you! I'll kill you all!"

The only two things that would satisfy my body's desires are to see a baby Tomatoes or the smell of living cadavers burning in a gigantic oven. Especially if it smells like cinnamon cookies.

This blog's black metal suggestion is Wolves in the Throne Room. They are one of those black metal bands that even non-black metal fans like. They are stupendous. I'm pretty sure I have seen them at least once, but it wasn't until I heard their recorded music, that I completely fell in love with them. I don't even want to describe it because I feel like it would cheapen it for you.



 Thursday, January 01, 1981 

culture is conformity

It's just a bunch of people copying each other. Sometimes, it's cool when it has to do with food like Mexican food especially enchiladas, yum!, and when it has to do with music like rancheras or nortenyas or really for that matter, I guess just all music has some cultural context in some form or another, but what if you don't find somebody's culture aesthetically pleasing? Does that mean you're racist against those people? I'm going to give you a very sarcastic answer. I'm going to give you an exagerated version of people's bullshit moral code version. You know how easy it is to just follow a mass consensual mentality where everybody feeds off of each other. Rather than use their brains, and stop and wonder how they themselves feel, they just take these stances that are easy to say at a party. "911 is bad." Wow, you fucking genius, a true free thinker was never left unkilled. So, my tongue in cheek answer to the question, "Does finding someone's culture aesthetically nonpleasing mean you're racist against them?" The answer is, "yes", but only if they are black or jewish. If they are arabic, it is free game. And by free game, I mean FREEEEEEE GAME!!!!!!!!!!! Hating arabic people is a staple in our own morally reprehensible culture, but the second you say you don't like rap music or that the Koran is only suitable for wiping your ass with, you're a racist. Hating christianity and Islam is totally acceptable though. Hmmm, why did I capitalize one and not the other? You know, now that I think about it, it's time for me to cash in on this playing the victim bullshit. I'm an atheist, and our people were victimized in the Inquisition. You know, I fucking sneeze, and people tell me, "God Bless You." That really offends me, and for the first time in this blog posting, I'm not kidding. Don't tell me, "God Bless You." or "Merry Christmas" or other some such said other bullshit. I feel so fucking stingy, every time a bum asks me for money, I say no just because I know they're going to say,"God Bless You," to me, and it really pisses me off, and I hate being angry. Me giving you a quarter has nothing at all to do with God. If there really is a God, it is a total fucking asshole, and I don't want to have anything to do with it. But, seeing as how god doesn't exist, I'm not quite sure what I'm even typing anymore. And on another note, speaking of god being an asshole, why do we call child rape, "child molestation"? why are we trying to dumb it down? Anyway, as I was saying, MORAL STANCES. It's old, boring bullshit. Yes, that must be nice to be able to have socially acceptable ones that you can comment on at a cocktail party. As y'all are all sitting around sipping martinis or gins and tonics or whatever the fucking hell it is you people drink, wearing sweaters by the fireplace since it's January, but still it's LA and it's 80 fucking degrees outside, it must be nice to turn to the person next to you, and state the mind-blowingly banal, meaningless, and not in the least bit thought out comment, "You know, it must be rough for the Jewish, the dilemma they are in with the Palestinians." Anyway, on the other hand you have me. Sometimes, I wonder if my moral stances, . . . I just have them because they're the opposite. Which I know is ludicrous too, but I'm just trying to call myself on my own bullshit. Like abortion, I'm neither Pro-Life nor Pro-Choice. I'm pro-Death. If I had any say, I would have infants vasectomized. Abortions would be free and encouraged. But, I don't have that moral stance just for fun. I really truly believe it. I think abortion is the best thing to happen to us since the bicycle. Hmm, abortions probably came first, huh? But, I digress! Stop boring the fucking shit out of all of us and yourself! If you think George Bush, Jr. was an awful awful man, that's fantastic! It is true, but you a total fucking idiot for stating the obvious, and projecting all your hate on just him. Yeah, it's just George Bush, Jr. that's the problem. I was being sarcastic. I think one of the most ironic things I've ever seen are these bumper stickers that say, "Somewhere in Texas, A Village is Missing Its Idiot." I may be using the word, "ironic" wrong, but whatever. George Bush, Jr. is not from Texas. He is from Conneticut or some such said other bullshit. He talks in a fake accent. The fact that the U.S. president talked in a fake Texas accent for 8 years and everybody believed it because they wanted to believe it really says a lot about us as a people. And the fact that that person had that bumpersticker on their car really says a lot about that person specifically, i.e. they themself are an idiot. Probably not as much as me with this genius grammar. Anyway, it has been fun writing this blog. Hopefully, I offended you. I took a huge emotional shit doing it. I am in Oakland. It's nice and cool here. We're going to Lake Merritt today I believe. I love it. It makes Echo Park Lake look like a puddle of urine. Don't tell Echo Park I said that though. It would be so upset. It would spray my bench with cat urine.

 Friday, February 06, 2009 

Time And Relative Dimension In Space

I am the Doctor!, you sons of bitches! getting drunk with Suzy at Dolores Park on a Monday evening, and then I took out my sonic screwdriver, and then, uh uh uh, we did some G-rated ass shit, and some drunk teenagers smashed a beer bottle, and uh, I just you know like explained to them that I was a Time Lord. I'm from fucking Gallifrey! My name?.., You can just call me the Doctor. And they were placated. I told them that their world was in great danger. I attempted to save them, and the police box showed up. I almost tripped on my extremely long scarf or maybe I was just drunk. What was I talking about? Both of my hearts pumping. Yeah, that's it. That's what I was talking about. Wait. No, that wasn't it at all. I'm 750 years old; all the facts start to get confusing. Yeah, that's it! I'm just confused because I'm old! How come I didn't think of that excuse before? Well, why in the hell am I making excuses to y'all? I'm a Time Lord for shit's sake! And then, they didn't want to let me on the Tardis. They said I was too drunk, but then, they let me on, and then I shat myself on the plane going back to LA.



 Sunday, February 08, 2009 

Por Tu Maldito Amor

It was so refreshing, my girlfriend owned the Depeche Mode record, Black Celebration, and her roommate's brother who always was hanging out had a daily delivery of cocaine and heroin and a wide supply of clean points. I felt like I was hanging out with my friends back in Texas. But, they don't let me lsiten to Depeche Mode. First you put some water on the spoon, then the coke, and you mix it up with the back of the plunger. It turns clear. Just like water. That's when you put the heroin on there. I don't cook it. That's so much bullshit. Just mix it mix it mix it. Be patient. I know you're trembling, and you want to get high so bad, and oh yes, you will! More high than you even wanted to!

So, that happened a few times, the guy kept on coming back it was over in Hillcrest. Pukealicious! I tried walking around, but it's so god damn sunny in San Diego, it makes me dizzy.

And then, my girlfriend came home from work in her sexy secretary outfit. We ate dinner. I literally was shoving it down my high gross numbed throat. We went in the bedroom, and proceeded to do nasty stuff to each other. She was on top of me, half in her professional garb, and it felt so good. I started to feel uncomfortable. The lights were on, and I felt like people were staring at me. The blinds were shut, but still. I felt uncomfortable.

"Hold on, hold on, hold on" I walked across the room, my enormous erect penis bobbing comically, and shut the god damn motherfucking light off.

I laid back down, and she continued fucking me in the most greatest way. Something about the way it felt, . . . and then, to my horror, I realized that somebody, presumably a previous tenant had written the word, "PREITO" in gigantic, capital, glow-in-the-dark letters on the ceiling. I have no idea what in the fuck that means, and quite honestly, it kind of freaked me out.

I chose to ignore it and just enjoy her beautiful body.

"Yeah, fuck that pussy. Fuck it hard."

"Who in the fuck is this?" I said inside my mind.

"Just do her hard. Do her just like that. Get her on her knees and pull her hair, and hard."

"Well, I was already planning on doing that, but I don't need you bossing me around. That's fucking bullshit! What is your fucking problem?!?!?"

And then, that voice went away for a while. It waited until the sex became especially hot, and then it came back as you knew it would, and the voice: "Fuck her hard! Fuck that sweet, sweet pussy!"

PRIETO was blazing. I jumped up, put my pants on, and ran outside quivering in the chilly San Diego weather on the sidewalk and literally crying.

So, no Black Metal review for this blog, but if you're able to watch this

Vicente Fernandez video without seriously contemplating suicide, well, uh uh uh, maybe you should seriously contemplate suicide:



 Tuesday, February 10, 2009 

What the hell was I talking about?

jail, the final frontier. So, I'm going on unemployment. Unemployment, Carlo Rossi, and a whole shitload of push-ups. Deprivation of the things I like most, drugs and eating. Whenever I want to eat something, in my mind, everything equates in Carlo Rossi bottles. That's like half a bottle of Carlo Rossi! Whenever I crave morphine, Jesus fucking Christ! that's like 10 Carlo Rossi bottles! holy shit!

So, I finally did my taxes. It's the first time in my life I've claimed a dependent, and the first time I made over 30,000. 36,000. too bad I didn't save any of it. What the hell did I do with 36,000 dollars?!?!? Please somebody tell me. I was claiming 3 dependents. All of my dependence. "I have three people's worth of dependence!" I plan to claim. God Damn, this fucking blog gets goofier by the sentence.

Salton motherfucking Sea this weekend! Team Salmonella lives on!

so, I did my taxes with a neighbor. He was wondering what the deal is with my last name. I told him it was Russian, I'm from Argentina from a family descended from Russians, so he kept talking to me in Russian. I don't know a single word in Russian. nyet? nine? I didn't know what in the fuck he was talking about. I know English and semi-OK Spanish and some ASL. I didn't understand what in the fucking hell he was talking about.

Then, he started talking about his ex-wife. Apparently, she lives a couple of doors down from me and gives excellent blowjobs. I wasn't quite sure why that would concern me. She's like 60 years old.

So, I'm going on unemployment and they're making me go look for work. How come they don't do that to anybody else I know? I'm going to apply at every single stripper clothes store on Hollywood Blvd. I know they won't hire me, but if they did, that would be cool anyway. If I was a woman, I would dress so fucking ridiculously. God was doing the world a favor by having me born a man. God? What in the fucking hell am I talking about? I mean, just the fact that I don't even know how to refer to those stores. "stripper clothes store" I'm pretty sure there's another name.

Do they hire heterosexual guys to work in those stores? Hopefully not. I just want to sit around in my apartment drinking Carlo Rossi, and doing push-ups, and working on my dumb book, and reading Doctor Who books of course. My TV broke which is actually a blessing. I got a whole shitload of Doctor Who books and Carlo Rossi bottles to catch up on.



 Thursday, February 12, 2009 

you eat shit, dad.

Your name is Alejandro, motherfucker! But, you call yourself, Alex! It makes me fucking sick.

You're pretending to be something you're not, and it makes me so ashamed of you!

You forced me to cut my hair when I was 6-years-old, and I told you I would never forgive you for that, and you just treated me like I was being a stupid little kid. Well, guess what you literal motherfucker?!?!?!? I still haven't forgiven you for that! Nor will I ever! How fucking dare you?!?!?! To force somebody to cut their hair. That's preposterous. Some guys like having short hair. Some girls like it too. And, that's fine. But, I don't! I never have! They gave me such a hard time about it in elementary school. And, I always refused to stand for the pledge of allegiance, and I still do that at Dodgers games, but whatever. Nobody fucking cares. I live in the not-giving-a-shit capital of the world for a reason.

Well, actually, to be honest, I just show up late. Whatever, go Dodgers! and go Houston Assholes and go the imaginary team that I believe to exist in Austin! And, we went to San Francisco once on the BART, and we were walking around, and we went to Tower Records over there, and you told me to pick out a record, "whatever I wanted", and I picked out a Slayer record, and you and your bullshit evil Christian wife insisted on reading the lyrics, and right there, at the BART station, you publicly threw out the record in the fucking garbage. Right in front of a bunch of people. Knowing full well that once I got back to Texas, I would just buy that exact same record.

You eat shit, dad.

But, then again, let me put myself in her shoes, I mean his, but it's really her's. If I ever had a son or daughter (which I won't because of my vasectomy), and I took them to the record store, and they picked out some christian bullshit, I would throw that shit in the garbage so quick. I would break it into a million pieces, take a shit on it, invite strangers to vomit on it, spit on it one last time, throw it in a dumpster, soak it in gasoline, and light it on fire.

What the hell was I talking about? Oh yeah, that's right. You eat shit, dad.



 Wednesday, March 04, 2009 

Bust Magazine

I'm here in Portland. Like a big slap in the face, it's been sunny the whole time. God, or rather I should say, the idea of God likes fucking with me, or rather should I say, loves fucking with me.

So, I got up this morning with a hangover for the first time in a week thank god (for the hangover not the "nice" weather), and I went to go take a shit and was reading this magazine, "Bust". Have you ever read this magazine? It's bewildering to me. You probably think I'm going to talk shit about it. I'm not.

It's just a bit confusing. Now, I know a lot of people are going to disagree with me when I say this, and fine whatever, I'm going to go ahead and say it anyway: I think men and women are pretty much the same. well, actually, I think men and women are totally the same. We all want the same things: happiness, comfort, companionship, fun, accomplishment, satisfaction, alcohol, butt sex.

But, you know, when I was reading this magazine, it opened up a whole nother world to me. I had no idea all these things existed. For example, did you know that in the job market, statistically speaking, if you're a woman, you get paid better determined by how good looking you are? I think the same thing applies for men too, but they're not oppressed, so it's different.

Did, you know they make washable Maxi Pads?

You know, I'm sorry, I set out to make a point here, but after, "fun, accomplishment, satisfaction, alcohol, butt sex," I completely forgot what the point was or why it was even supposed to be interesting in the first place.



 Friday, March 06, 2009 


When I was a little kid, I knew another little boy that hit on every single girl he encountered to be rejected nine times out of ten, to me it didn't even seem worth it. Rejection, it's not a pleasant emotion.

"Doesn't that hurt your feelings when they turn you down?" I asked while lounging in the jacuzzi in an apartment building of which we knew nobody.

I remember it like yesterday.

Sweat was trickling down his forehead. It wasn't from the hot water. It was 95 degrees outside. We got in the hot water just to be funny, God Bless Texas.

"Waaa Waaa! Oh. she rejected me. I'm not sure if I can go on any longer."

"Oh yeah, I guess I get your point."

"Oh boo fucking hoo. She doesn't like me. I'm hideous."

"Yeah, you're right. It's dumb to let it affect you."

"Oh, I'm just going to curl myself into a little ball and cry myself to sleep."

"You know, I get your point. I feel like you're making fun of me. Can we talk about something else?"

In mocking falsetto, "Oh, I'm Tomatoes, and if a girl doesn't let me kiss her, I lock myself in the closet huffing rubber cement and cutting myself for a week."

I haven't seen him in quite some time.

And, suffice it to say, whatever in the fuck that means, I hope he died in a terrible car crash.

But, still, . . . he had a point. 

 Monday, April 06, 2009 

my birthday party II

I'm having yet another birthday party. This time, it's going to be at Ridge Way. April 24th

I know I know I know It sounds totally ridiculous. It's a birthday party two months after my actual birthday, and on top of that, I've already had another birthday party at Coma. And that one was a month after my birthday.

Hopefully, I won't have alienated everybody from my Facebook persona by that point.

Here's the info:


1435 Ridge Way, Los Angeles, CA 90026

It is in Echo Park

go to Short Stop (if heading towards downtown) make a right on DOUGLAS

Go up the hill

Make a right on Ridge Way



 Friday, April 10, 2009 

PC Bullshit

The other day, I was hanging out with my mother in Oregon, and she asked me if I had any "african-american" friends. She claims she has one. By the way, I should've probably already mentioned this, but she's ultra left-wing. And, I knew where she was going with this question, and it so blatantly exposes this racist bullshit.

I don't even think about it. I don't give a shit what race people are. I mean I know they're black or they're asian or whatever race they happen to be, but why should it be so important to me what race my friends are?

I mean I respect everybody for their background and everything and wouldn't mind hearing all about it if that's what's on their minds, but in the end, we're just all hanging out having a good time and living life and surviving, and to need to take count of how many "african-american" friends you have, I think you might be the racist if you pay attention to dumb shit like that.

 Saturday, April 18, 2009 

brilliant cell phone people

I'm beginning to feel like a granpa. I long for those ol' timey days when people had some god damn fucking phone etiquette!  you stupid sons of fucking bitches! What in the fuck is wrong with your fucking mushed brains, you spineless sniveling nincompoops! My favorite is when somebody calls me, and I make the terrible mistake of answering the phone:

"Hey" Right off the bat, terrible manners, you stupid motherfucker! I wouldn't even say, "Hey," to somebody in person. and then I proceed to have a five minute long conversation with somebody, and I don't even know who the fuck they are!

Or, they call, and leave a message. They don't even say who they are nor leave a phone number! This is not a cell phone, you presumptuous dipshit!

Or, I like this one, "Jimmy?" That's what you do? You call people and make guesses as to who is going to pick up?

I know this may seem dumb, and I'm sure if you were born before the year 1992, somebody has taught you this before, but I'm about to teach it to you again because you're an idiot. Here goes:

"Hello, may I please speak to [fill in the blank]?"

"No, he's [she's] not in at the moment. Would you like me to take a message?"

"That would be great, please have him [or her] give me a call at 323-555-5555.  That number again is 323-555-5555."

"OK, I got it here written down."

"Thank you."



This is what you stupid motherfuckers do:

ring ring ring


"Is that a question?"


"I'm assuming you're saying that because you would like to speak to her?"


"Ok, well, fine, uh, she's not here."

"Tell her to call me."

"All right, I will."


Who in the fuck was that?!?!?!? I have no idea nor care! Why in the hell would you not even know the fundamental basics of telephone conversation?!?!?

You don't even need to be that polite. If you don't want to be too ultra-corny,

"Hi, is Sarah there?"

"Uh, she's not here right now. Do you want me to have her call you? I could write down your phone number."

"Do you have a pen?"

"Yeah, go ahead, . . . " etc.

My favorite is when somebody calls me, hangs up on my answering machine, and then asks me later why I never called them back.

I never knew that you called. It's not a cell phone, and I don't have caller ID.

What do they say about assumptions? Everyone's got 'em. I don't even know what they say about them.

This is way off track, but I love it when people hear me speak Spanish and say, "I didn't know you spoke Spanish, . . . "

By any chance, has your brain been put through a food processor at any point recently? Is that something that I'm supposed to tell you upon introduction?

That's the same person that calls me and says, "hey."



 Wednesday, June 24, 2009 

I Don't Remember the Fucking Stork!!!!

So, I was having sex with my girlfriend the other day, and I just realized that I completely forgot what it was that I was planning to get her for her birthday. I remembered the date at least. I felt pretty good about that.

So, I momentarily ceased the humping and inquired. It was something good. I was sure of that. Something ingenious. Something that I had thought of myself even, A great, well thought out gift, but besides that, I couldn't recollect what it was.

"Oh my God! You don't remember what it was? We were just talking about it last night!"

"Yeah, I remember that we were talking about it, I just don't remember what it was, . . . hmmm, . . .  let me think, . . . hmmm."

"You were going to take me somewhere, . . . somewhere special, . . . " she was staring at me expectantly, knowing that such a moment could not escape the dizzy fog that surrounds me. She was wrong.

But, I had some clues. I knew that it was some place in California. I have an aversion to leaving this state unless to go visit Mexico or Oregon, or back home to Texas. Maybe Louisianna if I happen to be in a good mood that day.

i was sure it was California. "Catalina Island?"

"Wow, i can't believe it. You really don't remember. Catalina Island is close though."

"It's close?!? Long Beach? Is it Long Beach? I don't know."

"You don't remember?"

"I remember some things. I shot up enough pharmacuetical drugs to kill a medium sized family. I drank 24 beers. I remember some stuff."

The situation quickly got worse and worse. The erection vanished, and I began to reflect on a similar situation with Suzy. We were walking this bratty, fluffy black dog around Lake Merritt in Oakland. Loock, I believe his name was. Fuck, I don't remember that either! Well, whatever. It sucked no matter what the dog's name was.

"You remember that  time we were here, and you were drinking your beer - "

"Wait, hold on." I interrupted. "My beer? You were drinking beer too. We always drink beer at Lake Merritt."

"Yeah, OK, well, whatever. We saw a lot of different birds that day. We even saw a stork. It was so meaningful to me."

"We saw a stork? Wow, . . . " My mind churned and churned over this thought. I could not believe it. A stork? That's the name of a bird? It's a bird that fucked married women in the fifties and brought her babies covered in diarreah. But, besides that, I could not even imagine what it looked like. I knew it has a big mouth to fit the shit stained shit machines within its gullet.

Oh my god, it's so fucking annoying, the ads i recieve over MySpace because of my gay status. There's this white guy fucking with a basketball on a webcam this whole time.

"You don't remember the stork?"

"There was a stork?"

"You don't remember?"

"No, I don't, interesting. What did it look like? Did it have a big beak?"

"You don't remember?"

'No, I don't remember the stork."

"Are you sure? How could you not remember it?"

"I just don't. I can't even imagine what one would look like."

"Wait, let me get this straight. You don't remember the stork."

"No, I don't."

"Tomatoes!, we saw a stork! It was beautiful! It was monumental!"

"Hmmmm, . . . " I scratched my chin in a futile attempt at unraveling the foggy haze that covers my life. "No, can't say that I do. I bet it was amazing though."

"You don't remember the stork? How could you not?"

"i don't remember the stork, all right!?! I don't remember the fucking stork! Fuck that stork! That stork can kiss my ass for all I'm concerned!"

"I just can't believe you don't remember it, . . . " She trailed off mumbling something.

I looked over and saw the hurt look in her eyes. "Oh yeah, now that I think about it harder, . . . hmmm Yes! Yes! Yes!, I think i do. It had a big ol' mouth!"

We went back to the Huffin House and engaged in some such said other dispute in which I was ejected from the warehouse and made to roam the streets of downtown Oakland although my plane wasn't to leave for four hours.

Encumbered with numerous bags, I eventually found refuge in a Church's Chicken where I bought a crazy indigenous person two fried chicken body parts and a soda. I think there was a biscuit included.

Oh yeah! like that date when I was twenty years old, and I took her to a dollar movie theater. What was it? Spice World or something. I don't remember because we were imbibing malt liquor and making out the whole time.

Afterwards,I took her to Church's Chickens, and then we proceeded to fuck each other on a twin sized bed in my mom's house. We were rudely interrupted various times, by guess who? , . . . my mother. I ejaculated on a pillowcase I'm sure as is my nature.

So, I'm taking her to Monterey Aquarium. It quickly comes back to me now. I'm shuddering at the though of any storks being present.



 Sunday, July 12, 2009 

don't be concerned

So, I was hanging out with my girlfriend. I got off work, put two xanaxes underneath my tongue, did a shot of morphine, and proceeded to chug Steel Reserve and chainsmoke cigarettes. I don't know what the fucking hell was going on. I hadn't gotten much more than three hours of sleep in the past week.

"So, how was the beach yesterday?"

"This is making me really concerned, Tomatoes. I never went to the beach. I went to my uncle's funeral."

"Why did they have his funeral at the beach?"

"They didn't. It was at the graveyard. What's wrong with you?"

"I think they didn't give us back our deposit at the hotel we stayed at out by the Salton Sea."

"We never went there."

"No, yes, we did, there were floursecent lights. I made sweet love to you on a gross bed."

"I'm growing concerned with you."

"How was the beach the other day?"

"I haven't been to the beach in years."

"Didn't your aunt have her ovaries taken out?"

"Yeah, that's where I was yesterday while you were at work."

"Fucking god damn Xa bullshit steering knuckle blot nut camber bullshit."

"Tomatoes?, . . . "

"Yes?, . . . "

"How old are you?"


"You're not. You're 32." I had no idea.

Suffice it to say, I am no longer with girlfriend.

So, if anybody wants to fuck me, give me a call 323gofag15. female only.



 Monday, July 27, 2009 

Why do they put eggs in cakes?

I mean, I really want to know if that's truly necessary. But, that's not actually the topic of this blog. It's about this moral corruption that happened to me one winter about two and a half years ago. Not totally sure the year.

When I used to live with my girlfriend, Tookie, we had this huge apartment in Koreatown and it completely haunted me. When I was in the bedroom, relaxing, I constantly thought people were in the living room. I started sleeping with parts of my drum kit ready to beat people to death. Anybody that was ready to come into my bedroom, I was going to hit them over the head with a part of my hi hat stand until they were dead. And, there was this thing. I would be laying there trying to sleep, and I could hear it slobbering and breathing through its teeth. I would try to ignore it for as long as humanly possible, and then, I would tell myself, "Tomatoes, just open your eyes, and you'll see, there's nothing there." And every time, I would open my eyes, I would see this thing. It was about four feet tall. It looked like a quivering praying mantis with a slightly humanoid body with big lobster-like claws and it was drooling so bad. Long strings of phlegm were hanging from its mouth almost touching the floor. It would be there for a second or two, and then, it wouldn't be there anymore. I would jump out of bed and run around the apartment naked trying to catch it. I knew it was a figment of my imagination and everything, but the only problem was it was a figment of my imagination that would never go away. I would open all the cupboards, dump out boxes of shit. Just hoping to satisfy my mind that there was nothing there. I knew there was nothing there, but it was so vivid. I would lay back down, and the sounds of slobber would return. It kept me up so many nights. And my girlfriend had the night shift, so I was left alone night after night in that scary huge place. Cuntmas came around, and I went to go visit some friends for a few weeks in Austin. The first night that I was there, I went to a party at a friend of mine's place. And lo and behold, my ex-girlfriend walks by. She looked so beautiful. I was stunned. She's white with black hair and green eyes. And then, the only thing I remember was people shooting bottle rockets at each other and at me too, and then, I woke up next to her in her bed, and we were both naked, and I thought to myself, "Oh shit, Tomatoes, what have you done? You cheated on your girlfriend." and the worst part of it all was that I didn't even remember any of it. She would always do something to me. It was these sexual marathons. We never lived in the same city. She lived in Austin, and I, in LA, but whenever we got together, it was almost to the point of being unhealthy. My penis would really take a beating. So, I looked over at her. She looked so pretty sleeping over there. I had never gotten to try out my vasectomy on her. I got on top of her and fucked the living bejesus out of her until I came, kissing her the whole time because I can't have it any other way. And then, after giving her many more sweet adoring kisses and her giving me them back, I returned to slumber land. When we finally got up, I went and took a shower and walked down to the beer store. I purchased an 18 pack of Steel Reserve, something I no longer allow myself [no longer true] but at the time, drank it religiously. I sat there and consumed the whole thing on her couch while she lectured me about how upset she was at me for coming inside of her. It was the beginning of a complete unraveling of my sexual morality. But still the guilt was enormous. I knew that she enjoyed it, but she was saying she didn't. "Don't you think you're being a bit severe?" I asked her. She continued to reprimand me. "I'm looking for a boyfriend." "Why in the hell would you want a boyfriend?" I asked. This infuriated her further and the scolding continued with no mercy. Her roommate was sitting on a big, comfy chair across the room witnessing the whole thing. I wanted to fuck her so bad, it was bothering me. I got pancreatitis right there in her house. It's this extremely painful syndrome I get from time to time due to excessive alcohol intake often accompanied by negative emotions. I've been hospitalized for it five times. She kind of felt sorry for me, but not really. She just wanted me out of her house.

She dropped me over at my Bry's house that I was mainly staying at. He was out of town for three days. With pancreatitis, you can't drink anything, not even water, and food is completely out of the question. It causes excruciating pain if you drink as much as a sip of water. What happens is if you drink or eat anything, your pancreas knows it, so it starts working and releasing digestive enzymes which are normally supposed to just travel through a duct into your intestines, but those digestive enzymes just emit into your whole abdominable torso region eating away at the other organs. Also, there's a nerve by there and for some reason it pinches it or something, so your back hurts really bad too. So, I just laid there for two and a half days suffering. I wasn't going to go to the hospital. I was on vacation. I wanted painkillers, but once they get a hold of me, I'm stuck for days in the hospital with lectures and people feeling sorry for me, and I don't like being pitied. They take it really serious because you can die from it. Obviously, you can die if your pancreas stops working, but also while in the throes of the bloated pancreas, the pain can be so intense that your body goes into shock, and some people die from it. What a way to go, huh? Die from pain. The pain should be incidental. The whole idea of dying directly from pain. So brutal. I understand the consequences. I wish my body was more resilient, but it's not or maybe I just drink more than other people. Either way, as long as I put out some books before I die, I'll be happy.

It was storming outside. The front door has a glass window that I could see from the bed that I was lying in. It was raining so hard. The scratching was coming from the window. I tried to ignore it so hard, you have no idea, but every once in a while, I just had to open my eyes to prove to myself that it wasn't there, but each time I opened my eyes, I saw it there, the short human stink bug with its enormous claws scratching at the windowpane. Motherfucker! It had followed me all the way to Austin. In one quick swoop, I jumped up and ran out the door, hoping to catch it. I ran down the stairs in the freezing rain in nothing but a pair of waxy black jeans. I wanted just a glimpse to either prove to myself it existed or didn't exist or whatever in the fuck. I got to the bottom of the slick wooden staircase in time to see it running across 38th street through the rain, vanishing just before a Ford Tempo would've hit it. Such impeccable timing. A more cunning foe wouldn't even have any interest in me.

I finally got better. Not good enough to eat. I could drink a few sips of water, and it hurt, but I was so thirsty. At least, I could move around. Michelle, she really hurt my feelings. My old buddy, Larry the Leopard came to pick me up to go spend Cuntmas eve with him and his kid at his house out in the country.

We stopped at Michelle's cuntmas eve party. The girl I fucked with no regard to her emotions according to her. I care about her emotions, and I care about her pussy, and besides anything else, she loved it. She was in heaven. She had so many orgasms, it wasn't even funny.

A bunch of her friends were visiting from New York. All those people can eat shit as far as I'm concerned. But, anyway, they're all sipping their foo-foo cocktails. Michelle's hopeful boyfriend was there. He makes me feel inferior. I'm not an artist nor will I ever be one. Writing is not art. It is truth and a whole hell of a lot of lies. But, even through the lies, it is truth and even more than that, a whole bunch of bullshit. That's why she didn't want to fuck me anymore she said. Because she wanted to be boyfriend and girlfriend with him. Why am I boring you with this?

I wasn't being my normal friendly self. I was cracking up though. Larry, he's so fucking funny. Such a sweetheart, and so fucking weird looking. His whole body is tattooed in leopard print. Even his penis. He showed me one time when he was visiting me in San Diego. One time, we did heroin in my old apartment in Austin, and I watched him getting a blowjob from this girl I had a crush on, and surprisingly, it didn't make me jealous. And then, they started full on fucking and it cleared the room. Eventually, we all went to sleep and the lights were off, and then me and her friend were fucking each other, and Larry got up to go pee, and I stopped the humping because I felt bashful. The next day, we drank Robotusin and she said that she wouldn't have sex with me anymore. They teased me relentlessly for months about that. It hurt my feelings, but what the fuck ever. I mean, seriously.

At the Cuntmas Eve party, everybody was sitting around with legs crossed drinking their civilized amateur night Cuntmas cocktails all the while, Larry's four-year-old kid was going about rambunctiously smashing all of Michelle's shit and scratching her paintings and shit much to my pleasure. She had to yank ballpoint pens out of his hands various times. She went about gathering all the potential art damaging implements to hide them. I felt guilty. Like I was mentally commanding the kid to do it. Larry did nothing. Much to my pleasure.

We left like I wanted to anyway. I didn't even want to go to the party, but Larry insisted. I think maybe he thought I could reconcile shit with my ex-girlfriend. I broke up with her because I made her a 99 cent Store sandwich and she was too good for it, and then I gave her a twenty minute blowjob. "That was so fantastic," she told me. I hadn't had sex for months because I had a girlfriend.

"Can I have a blowjob?"

"Tomatoes!!! You can't just ask for that! It's a present!" as she playfully smacked me on the chest.

She didn't want my 99 cent sandwich. She didn't want my 99 cent proletarian dick. So, I waited til she left town and broke up with her over MySpace. Just to be a shitbag, I did it over MySpace. I even announced it in a blog before I did it personally. And by "personally", I mean by calling her on a cell phone while getting drunk at 11 in the morning lounging by the pool at a friend's rich parents pool in the mountains in Thousand Oaks.

So, we get into Larry's car. Get the kid in there in the kid seat. And Larry's like, "Tomatoes, can you get my keys? I forgot them in there." His shitbag car was perpetually left open. I hadn't even said good-bye to Michelle. The very last good-bye. So, awkwardly, I had to go back and ring the doorbell.

I was completely sober.

"Larry forgot his keys." She said nothing. I saw them right there on the table. She won't answer my e-mails. She's says she's French. I told her if she's French, then I'm Russian. All the stupid shit that people say, it wouldn't bother me so much if they would acknowledge it for what it is: stupid shit. I say more stupid shit than everybody else combined, but I call myself on my own bullshit and welcome others to call me on it too. But, in Michelle's world, she wants to think she's French.

So, we got out there. It was freezing. Larry had tremendous B.O. much to my pleasure. I live in stuffy-ass LA where nobody has B.O. Not even the insane homeless. We watched his kid unwrap presents and go berserk playing with them breaking half of them in the process.

The next day, he showed me this awesome deer stand right next to his house. They kill deers there. So fucking cool just from awfulness. There was blood on the ground. I collected a jaw bone which I still have. Larry made some macaroni and cheese and his kid wouldn't eat it. "You don't want to be a big boy like us and eat your macaroni and cheese?" I said obviously kidding. I could give a shit less if he eats his macaroni and cheese. I was finally able to get some beer in me and was in a way better mood. But, he started crying. I was always forget how gullible little kids are.

Larry, to console him, got some Incredible Hulk like punching gloves or something, I don't know what the fuck and urged him to attack me which he did, and it was funny. Teach children to resolve their issues through violence. Who the fuck cares anyway?

So, then we went to this like Walmart of hunting on our way back to Austin. It was incredible. They had every living creature stuffed and on display. What a way to go, . . . you not only got killed, your body also gets stuffed, and everybody gets to gawk at it. Legalized murder: delicious, fantastic stuff. I love it. so beautiful and so Texan.

A bunch of rednecks were making fun of Larry in front of his kid. So rude. Why would you make fun of somebody in front of their child?

Back at home, Dave Clardy came and picked me up. He's so funny. He has a tattoo of George Bush, Sr. fucking a dog. We've known each other since we were really young. Sometimes, I feel like I rip off his whole personality. So, he picked me up, and there was like a towel or something on the shotgun, and then, I began to realize that everything was kind of wet, and he was drinking gin. "What in the fucking hell happened in here?" I asked.

"Oh, I've been drinking all day, and just right before I picked you up, I threw up. I tried to get it all in this cup, but a lot of it spilled out." And sure enough, there was a paper cup full of vomit in the cup holder. My sugar honey bear. My sweet poopy pants. I always write myself in for president and I always write Dave Claredy in for vice-..president. Really, it should be the other way around, but you know, . . . whatever.

He explained to me all about his ex-girlfriend. I knew her. She taught me about the methadone program. It's fantastic. Better than heroin. I think it almost killed me once though. She commited suicide, and Dave had to organize the whole funeral. What I want to know is do our ex-girlfriends die young because of us or were they with us because they lead a lethal lifestyle in the first place? Was that convoluted enough for you? We went and got Tamale House #3 and then got thoroughly wasted and cuddled.

Bry left town again, and I found out a friend of mine was in town. visiting from Sweden So, I called her up, and invited her over. I was being good. Just wanted to hang out and get drunk and smoke cigarettes which we did I'm sure of it. She took a cab over from south Austin. She looked really good: tiny wearing gigantic boots. The next morning I woke up in Bry's bed naked with her. "Oh fuck! I cheated on my girlfriend again! and I don't even remember it." fuck fuck fuck.

You see, I was a bit surprised for various reasons. I didn't think she would ever fuck me again after I gave her Chlamydia years prior. She was so mad at me. Also, Bry doesn't like me to sleep in his bed naked, and I respect that. He's been letting me stay with him for like 15 years or something. Whenever I go to Austin, I always stay with him. So, not only did I sleep naked in his bed, but I had sex in it. Well, whatever. Don't tell him. And, he boycotts MySpace, so he'll probably never even read this.

FUCK FUCK FUCK! I used my vasectomy on her and remembered nothing. I put her lying face down ramming her head into the pillow, relentlessly punishing her, and then just as I came, I pulled her hair forcing her mouth up to me and violently kissed her all the while coming in her pussy.

And then, we proceeded to coat the entire City of Austin with our icky love juice. Many public bathrooms cringed in fright upon seeing us approaching walking down the sidewalk. The downtown public library gouged its own eyes out after seeing the truly horrendous activities that took place within its walls. One public bathroom commited suicide from the trauma.

She left, and then I did too. Me, Larry, and Dave Clardy all hung out together on my last night. We hung out at Larry's tattoo shop and got drunk and gave each other tattoos. It was sickly sweet and nostalgic and beautiful and fun and it made me so sad. I tattooed the word, "TOMATOES" on Dave Clardy's ankle. I was cracking up so hard.

The next morning, I woke up, got rippingly wasted, and Bry gave me a ride to the airport. After some difficulty and much confusion getting through the checkpoint, I sat down next to this girl on the plane. She was probably about 22, blond hair. Wearing an Aber-Crombie and Finch shirt. Probably a UT student. I couldn't tell if I thought she was attractive. She was so generic, it was like there wasn't even anything there.

Once the plane took off, I began balling like a little baby. It came in waves and zero inhibition until I got a glance at her, and she was staring at me, startled. Like, really really startled. So, I closed my eyes, and swallowed very hard and began the internal dialogue, "Tomatoes, what the fuck is wrong with you? Nothing's wrong. Swallow. Swallow hard. We're gonna get home to LA, get drunk, do a shot of heroin, and watch some Doctor Who DVD's. Everything's all right." All the while, tears were trickling from within my closed eyelids down my cheeks gently sprinkling the collar of my shirt. But, at least I wasn't making any noise. Sitting there with your eyes closed is not an aggressive act even if you do happen to be obviously weeping. At least, I wasn't making any noise. That is until the plane touched down again in Burbank, and then the sobbing returned. Even grislier than before. The girl looked twice as alarmed. I couldn't help it. I lost complete control of my emotions. I wasn't even quite sure what was upsetting me so.

I got my backpack and walked down the tunnel whipped, whimpering, and tired with my tail between my legs. The apartment was dirty, I couldn't find the Doctor Who DVD's. It took me an hour and a half on the buses. Tookie was disappeared. My heroin dealer came over. I comforted myself with that along with lying on the bare floor with some Steel Reserve and a book of Philip K. Dick short stories.

Three o'clock rolled around. I thought it a good idea to get some sleep. Just to escape life for a bit. It's healthy for every man, woman, and child. I masturbated to the prostitute ads in the back of LA Weekly in the bathroom. Before I even shut my eyes, I heard somebody shuffling about in the living room. "Hello?!?! Hello?!?!? Tookie, is that you?!?!?" No answer. I ran out there wearing speedo underwear with the pole from the throne ready to break heads. There was nobody there. So, OK. That's a good thing.

Well, not so much. The slobber monster returned. I want to wring its neck, so bad. I probably slept no more than an hour that night. And then, somebody came into my bedroom. I was so ready to kill. I jumped out of bed and took a wild swing. Thank fucking God. Thank the fucking Universe. Thank everything I could possibly imagine to thank. That I missed. It was Tookie.

She called 911. I put on the most uncomfortable clothes I could find. Some wingtips with no socks. For punishment. You piece of shit, Tomatoes. If there is a hell, you will burn in it, certainly. You don't play nice in the sandbox. You don't play nice anywhere. I went outside and waited for the cops on Normandie. I knew I was going down for a really long time. Oh yeah, all my old friends: the Woods, the Southsiders, the Blacks trying to give me food so I get beaten up by the Woods. Challenging me to a taboo game of chess. "I can't play chess with them?"

"No, you can't. We'll kick your ass."

"Well, that makes no sense to me."

"It doesn't need to."

Those fucking Marine push-ups. Nine point push-ups. Fist fights. I already knew how I was going to end it. Stick my hands in the elastic orange and jump head first off the balcony. I hate all that macho bullshit like you would never believe. I like the comfort received from the company of women. Deprived of that, I'm not so sure life is worth living. Deprived of alcohol, I would shrivel up and die regardless of intent.

The police showed up in spades. At one point, there was at least, I don't know what. fifty of them. Tookie came out. Told them what happened. Apparently, it wasn't anything illegal. I breathed the biggest sigh of relief I ever will.

I was shuddering out there "thanking the Universe" as my mother would say. If that would've hit, I wouldn't be sitting here at nine in the morning in my dingy Hollywood apartment drinking a beer writing this blog. I can honestly say, I probably wouldn't be alive.

They wanted to take me down for warrants of which I had none. "Well, what are we wasting all of our time with this fool?" I overheard one saying. A fool? How appropriate. That's a crime I'll readily admit to committing. I'm not sure if it's a jailable offense. Apparently not.

They left. I couldn't stay the night. I walked over to Sam's. It was comical. In high school, we lived on the same street. And then, here in LA, we both were living on Normandie, in Koreatown.

I laughed so hard. And fell asleep on his couch. Fell asleep on many couches. A week later, me, Sandy, and Fucking John came by with the U-haul, and put all that shit in public storage.

Tookie was sleeping on the bed. I told her to get off. It got bed bugs in public storage, Such a nightmare, but I think that's another blog.



 Tuesday, August 04, 2009 


So, I didn't really notice until a couple of days ago, but I'm sick. I'm not paying attention to anything going on.

I call my morphine dealer, then my heroin dealer, then my morphine dealer, then the heroin dealer. I think I'm taking breaks, but really, I'm disillusioning myself by using different drug dealers.

I briefly snapped out of it. "OK, OK, Tomatoes, Fucking stop it. You're going to blow all your money and then be sick."

Too fucking late. They cut off my unemployment.

I went over to my ex-girlfriend's house in Canoga Park a few days ago. Her mom gave me 10 Vicodins. I ate all 10 at once and washed them down with 14 beers.

Suffice it to say, unspeakable acts took place. They took place all over the place. The living room, the kitchen, the backyard. I have no idea what happened to her mother nor why we were not in the slightest concerned with her possible entrance. Although I must admit, I was a bit confused with her apparent conviction that we were being convalesced by next-door inhabitants.

We played the "You take it, I take it" game. I entertained myself by pulling her panties down and putting them back on at least 50 times. She likes it when I get bossy. Well, I pretend to think that.

Around nine in the morning, I realized I had Dungeons and Dragons that day. "Can you give me a ride to D&D?"

"No way. I'm tired. I'm going to sleep."

"Well, it's not 'til 3. How bout we set the alarm clock, and you take me?"

She refused nor would she had sex with me before my departure to take the  buses for four hours to the opposite end of Los Angeles County. She accused me of treating her as a whore which was a bit disconcerting to me.

Women like sex just as much as guys do. Possibly more. It's weird when they act like they do it as a favor.

So, I piled the gallon of Carlo Rossi and all the remaining beers into my backpack, and set out with no good-bye because I was pissed off. She possibly may never speak to me again. It'll probably make me cry at some point, but I purposefully choose to not consider that imminent destiny right yet. There's plenty of time for crying later. Maybe one of my days off? Half a mile walk to the bus stop, waited for half an hour in the hot summer sun. It was a Sunday. It was a "beautiful day" as the people that drive around in air conditioned cars, work in air conditioned offices, and sleep in air conditioned homes like to say. I think the sickest word in the English language is the expression, "SUNBATHING". Are you sick in the fucking head or what? What the fuck is wrong with you?

I'm not going to bore you with all the details. It was a mind numbing four hours of sheer joy. I drank beer on the bus. I was bored as fuck. Oh yeah, and you better believe it, I drooled on myself various times. I had a good book with me though. Haunted by Chuck Palahniuk. I feel a bit typical for liking his writing so much, but it's good. When something's good, it's good. That's all there is to it. Quite possibly, other people will like it too. There's nothing you can do about it. If other people didn't like it, you probably would've never've heard about it in the first place.

i went home, got my Player's Handbook, my character sheet, my bag of dice, and my bike. Upon arrival to the D&D session, I was completely confused. Why did I leave the comfort of her soft kisses and arms cradling me for all this? I'll never be able to answer that question.

I love D&D though. There's this book, I want it so bad. It's called "Manual of the Planes". It's about "extraplanar adventuring" in the D&D world whatever in the fucking hell that world's called. It's not Earth. That's all I'm sure of. Besides, it's insubstantial. But, when you go to these other planes, you wouldn't be on Earth anyways. Like I previously said: insubstantial.

Am I making words up or what?

It was fun. I play an old Satanic witch of course as I always do. She's a pathological liar. She's milks people for the old lady sympathy, . . . and then cuts their heads off with a bastard sword. She's the granma you always wished you had.

I named her after one of my favorite black metal bands: Blodulv.

but, her name's Blodulvia for some reason. Wow, this blog's quickly going downhill. I'm sure some immediately got the glazed over expression immediately upon mentioning Dungeons and Dragons if they even got this far.

According to my roommate, she can tell how fucked up I am gauged on the percentage of forced conversation concerning the best game on the face of the fucking planet!!!!!!!!!! Dungeons and Fucking Dragons!!!!!

and cribbage of course, never forget the cribbage.

I got home, drank a whole shitload of beer, woke up the next morning, and went to work. I was in so much pain. My whole body hurts like you wouldn't believe. There's a constant feed in my brain. It says, "Don't call the drug dealer. Don't call the drug dealer. Don't call the drug dealer. Don't call the drug dealer." for the sake of my bank account, for the sake of Tookie, for the sake of not feeling like shit when the money runs out, and I lie on the floor squirming and crying. I'm a grown man, damn it!

Last time I got addicted to heroin, I moved to Monterrey, Mexico to break myself of the habit. I lived on this old lady's roof in the winter time. It was freezing. Her name, "La Chata". I think it was. It means smooshed face. Mexicans, they have this weird tradition of blatantly making fun of each other.

i.e. if you're fat, they call you "El Gordo". But, they also have a weird tradition of being extremely hospitable which is stupendous of course.

"Te gustarian algunos tacos?"

"Fuck yeah, me gustarian tacos!"

One time, I was fucking my girlfriend on an old gross mattress in an abandoned warehouse in a shanti town outside of Guadalajara. I took my dick out and came on her stomach. She called me, "cochino." I took a half-dranken caguama off the floor and chugged it down. We took buses for three hours back to El Rancho Nuevo, the South Central of Guadalajara. It was hot as a motherfucker.

I heard she was murdered. What a drag. And, the people I was staying with: Yaki from Fallas del Sistema, him and his whole family died in a fiery car crash recently. It was Yaki that told me she was murdered last time I visited him in Guadalajara, and now he's dead himself. It sucks. I would always crack up so bad, he had this girlfriend, she was a beauty queen. Like for real. It was fun hanging out getting wasted in the ghetto with Ms. Mexico.

Anyway, they're all dead because people in Mexico are shitty drivers and apparently have a desire to disembowel people.

So, I went to work, sick as fuck. I hid from work and watched somebody destroy cars as part of the "Cash For Clunkers" program. They drain all the oil, and then put in liquid glass and run it. It's rad. Completely destroys the engine. You can't even overhaul it. I'm going to tell my boss, I want that to be my job!

Echo Park Cribbage Club tonight. Nika and Abby are bringing a croquet set too. It oughta be fun. It's free. Bring beer and fortified wine. and maybe just two Vicodins for me. If you could please. Just to get over that hump. Everything hurts.



 Tuesday, August 11, 2009 

Your ex-boyfriends are not a template.

but still, if you're anything like me, the second anybody of the opposite sex shows any interest in you, at least twenty concrete assumptions flash into your mind.

Number one on my list:

1. She doesn't ever look around for a lighter or matches. She always lights her cigarettes off the stove. Because she always knows where that is. The stove rarely moves.

Wait, hold on. I'm talking about myself.

Okie Dokie, as my new drug dealer likes to say, the real number one, or maybe it's just number two:

2. She always forgets to turn the stove off.

Speaking of my new drug dealer, I love this guy. I had a half hour conversation with him in Spanish, and then, he asked me if I really spoke Spanish.

"Te estoy hablando en Espanyol."

"Okie dokie, just making sure."

"OK, de me un viente de piedra, un viente de crystal, cuarenta de chiva, esa pastilla por su puesto, Oxycontin, y un viente de Ketamina."

3. She probably smokes lots of marijuana, and at some point, it's going to annoy you.

I think my downstairs neighbor died on the toilet. That's my theory, and Tookie seems to agree with that said theory.

It's that stink in the bathroom. Something rotten, and we washed the towels, scrubbed it down, and everything. It smells terrible, and you can't leave the door open or the whole apartment smells like that.

There's this guy that lives in the building. He's very friendly, and he's in these plays or something, and he's been promoting them like crazy. I can't do that. Sit in a room with a bunch of people, and stare at other people. It makes my brain want to jump off a bridge.

4. She's going to go into your apartment, and think it creepy the smell in the bathroom, the fact that you have four fans on in the middle of the winter, the fact that you sleep on the floor, and live with your ex-girlfriend. You know what? I'm going to stop right there. To list all of the things creepy about me, god damn it.

So, he taped invitations to his play on everybody's door. "Experience an Unforgettable Night with Original Music Featuring Stories of Survival and Hope." I'm not trying to make fun of him. I like it when people are creative in whatever form they choose. I just never ever ever ever want to "Experience an Unforgettable Night with Original Music Featuring Stories of Survival and Hope." Count me out. I'ld rather be in court. But, industry comps are available. I'm not sure what that means. You get free stuff if you're an actor too.

5. She's even more horny than you.

So, my downstairs neighbor never took off the taped invitation to Experience an Unforgettable Night with Original Music Featuring Stories of Survival and Hope. So, either he hasn't been home or he died. And he's sitting in there on the toilet, the aroma rising up into my own. not necessarily through the toilets. The vents or whatever, FUCK!

This is my 101st blog entry. I don't even like it.

6. She's going to be offended by your blog at some point.

I went to the library the other day and randomly picked out books. I just read a comic book book, Black Hole by Charles Burns. I just read it for fun, and at first, it seemed really corny, but by the time I was done with it, it cut a piece out of my heart that I'll probably never get back. Other people's pain hurts me even more than my own. Even when those people are fictional characters. Even in a comic book.

7. She's going to want you to say absolutely nothing.

And, then I started on this other book, "The Last Book In The Universe" Oh my fucking god! Stupendous! It's fantastic! I think it's meant for little kids. You could probably read it in one night. I never do that though. I really like to savor it. The more I like it, the more I don't want it to end. You can always read it again, but it's never the same as the first time. ever ever ever.



 Sunday, August 09, 2009 

Are books mental junk food?

I got bed bugs, and considered it a blessing. I had to throw out my bed, and never realized how much I love to sleep on the floor. The bed bugs are gone, but fuck beds! Sleeping on the floor is my prayer.

6 years ago, they towed away my car while I was in jail. My father insisted I needed a car. I didn't want it, but he said a grown man needs to own a car. What the fuck ever. so when my girlfriend at the time visited me in jail, she told me through the glass, "no more car". "the boot" it took up half the visit time because I couldn't understand what she was saying. I used to think I was hard of hearing, but now, I think it's just my brain. I was upset because at the time, I lived in my car, but I got through it. All my shit was in there. Well, not shit, . . . some clothes some random trinkets I kept for no discernible reason. But, I survived and what not. I'm here whatever.

My TV broke, so I started reading lots of books. shitloads and shitloads and shitloads of books. I can't get enough of it. My library card is my most prized possession.

And, I grew up thinking it's supposed to be good for you to read books. I'm not so sure of that now.

Like, oh yeah, I'm smart, I read books. You don't have to be smart to read books. It's mental junk food. I got this thing. This is going to sound even stupider than what I've said already, but here goes: I bought a dictionary at Rite Aid, and it's stupendous. Whenever you don't know what a word means, you look it up in the dictionary. I think that's a great thing. What the fucking hell does this word mean? You open the book, and there it fucking is in blazing glory, and all you people can eat shit.

It's a great way to conduct an argument too. Don't say anything at all. Just open up the dictionary to words they use wrong. And try to have sex with them. Never forget that.

And listen to 97.1. It's my contribution to evilizing the world. I get into customer's cars, crank up the AC full blast, crank up 97.1 and then I drive by this girl's work that I like all along with the mantra repeating in my head, "EVILIZE THE WORLD. EVILIZE THE WORLD. EVILIZE THE WORLD." Take pleasure when you get it, and enjoy the pain even more.

And lo and behold, whatever the fuck that means, I had "I want your disco stick" up full blast, and she was out there washing the windows. I couldn't believe my eyes when she got down on her knees. It was a green light. I was supposed to take a right. I wouldn't. I refused. There was a car behind me. Fuck them anyways. I had twenty Steel Reserves and a half hour nap before work. I was fine. Good to drive. Just gawking. There's no harm in that. Being a creep: that's my expertise. Focus on what you're good at, and I'm very good at that.

I stopped off at the Ivar Hollywood library to drop off this shitty Philip K. Dick book. "Solar Lottery"? Have you read it? It sucks. I still enjoyed it though. He wrote it in the fifties. He refers to a black person as a "Negro", and all the female characters are these total helpless, pathetic victims that just need a good man to protect them. It was not news to me. I mean, I've heard about all that fifties shit, but even Philip K. Dick's mind was a victim to that. Wow!

Stranger in a Strange Land: same shit. It's a bunch of bullshit if you ask me. Also, Brave New World, same stupid bullshit.

These "Negros" and "dames" are just in need of a few good white men to help them along. and a working library card. Pay your fucking fines!, assholes! and never forget to stalk. Stalk relentlessly. Find out where she works and lives and ride your bike by at least three times a day. Maybe she'll notice you some day and hope you go away.



 Sunday, September 13, 2009 

take a moment to rest

and ponder on how much you've been acting like an asshole. I am so completely burnt out. I have a mortal fear of tree roaches. And I've overcome it. Don't drink Steel Reserve. The Tomatoes crack. Don't even take a sip. You might like it too much. I really really like it. It's delicious. It scratches every itch. And then, sends you a hospital bill for 20,000 dollars. Nothing in life is free: the stupidest but most poignant cliche on the face of the planet. You're gonna end up paying for all this shit. Everything in life has negative side effects. And, you know what I'm talking about. Pay your library fines, and always remember, never forget: about your friends. About stuff that makes you happy. the first kiss, the first beer of the day. Hanging out at the park. Dungeons and Dragons. shooting up drugs. Spend every last dime abusing drugs. Show up to work on time. If you're drunk and on meth, show up half an hour early and eat something. If anybody comments on you being drunk or track marks, suggest that they fire you. Live where you want to. When it's overcast, make it a point to walk around outside. Be friendly to strangers. Be hospitable to people from out of town. And, always remember; sometimes, it's better to admire her from a distance. If she introduces herself to you, act totally stupid. Tell her a fake name, and make it a point to lie about everything. Tell her your phone number is 323-765-4321. She'll like you even more. And then, never go back to that place you met her. STAY AWAY. When your ex-girlfriend sends you an e-mail with that in the subject line, pay attention. She has a point. Go to the Echo Park Cribbage Club. Don't go in bathroom number 2. There was a terrible mess in there. A pile of clothes, and medical devices, and shit smeared all over everything. I'm so haunted by that, I'll probably never go to that bathroom again. Take a moment to appreciate punctual drug-dealers. Encourage people to leave LA. How could that possibly be OK? This place. Sometimes, I feel like I'm in a train station. Everybody's coming and going. It makes me so sad, knowing they'll never find what they're looking for. Just remember, humans are at nature, totally lame. Eat something at least once a day. And, I'm sorry to have to remind you people of this, but beer does not count. And I will repeat, DOES NOT count in case there was any confusion. And, I know it makes you sad that your ex-girlfriend doesn't acknowledge your existence, but don't worry. Call your mother. She's the only one that needs to be worried. No matter how much you attempt to convince her otherwise. Spend the last days of your life pouring over Dungeons and Dragons books and playing it too. Bring chips. Buy a TV and watch every single Doctor Who ever made. Throw out everything else. Drink until double vision, and then ride your bike as fast as you possibly can. Keep in mind, men and women are inherently different and completely the same all at the same time. We all want the same things. We just take completely different routes. Often with double vision. 



 Wednesday, September 16, 2009 

trained by mother

so well. I wake up in the morning, and it takes me all of two seconds to approach the fridge, get some beers, grab my book, and read the living fuck out of it. It doesn't even matter if it's good. I'm totally obsessed with books. It's delicious. It's the best diversion in the world.  What does that have to do with my mother? It's that guilt like I'm not being good because I'm not fucking anybody. I hear her voice in the back of my head telling me I'm doing something wrong. "Ma! I just want to sit here and read and work and get drunk for a little while!" The last time I checked, there's nothing wrong with it. I go to work, and I get completely filthy, and I don't want to clean up. I go to the store, buy a bunch of beer, get naked, and get drunk and read until four in the morning. I feel bad for the future library patrons that happen to read the same book with my greasy fingerprints and I feel bad for my mother for disappointing her so much.  But, I like it!!! Yes! Yes! Yes! This book I'm reading right now is so Anti-Anti-Semitic. And, my father in San Jose a practicing Jew, that's so confusing to me. I was raised a complete Atheist by both of my parents. It's probably the only thing that my parents had in common besides having the same son. Now, I'm bewildered. And, my guts hurt so bad. I get some relief, and my sheets stink. And, I know girls won't like that, and I should go wash them, but I like being pathetic scum. I had a dream last night, there was the imminent nuclear warm coming and girls wanting to fuck me, and I liked it because I'm trained to like it. It's the only feeling of self worth I've ever allowed myself throughout everything. There were sea creatures that could kill us all, and I lost everything. My backpack, and all the beer. My drug dealer wouldn't answer his phone, and somebody stold the wheels off my bike. I was upset back in Texas. There was nowhere to turn. Nobody to turn to. I had shunned everyone and was so sad. So sad, but the second I awoke, everything was right where I had left it .



 Friday, October 09, 2009 


I remain optomystical. These things, they make me remember the joys in life: not sleeping for four days, the warm feel of a five dollar machete handle as I lie in wake waiting for that oportune moment when they barge through the door and I decapitate them, thus proving to my ex-girlfriend that I'm not really scared, I'm just looking out for our safety.

Waking up in the kitchen, fully clothed clutching the machete wondering what day of the week it is and whether or not I've depleted the liquor store's supply of 211.

She won't share her drugs with me, her family hates me, and I don't really understand how much money they invest in helicopters in Hollywood. Supposedly, they're not really helicopters. It's "auditory" hallucinations due to no sleep and lots of drugs.

I eat stuff though, . . . sometimes. Snickers bars, and the rolls of mini donuts coated in chocolate.

I'm scared to go outside. I go to Rite Aid a lot. Just to look at girls. and buy Natural Ice and Halloween candy that I just eat myself.



 Monday, October 19, 2009 

For Whom the Bell Tolls

Most definitely, I would've given my life during the Civil War. If given the opportunity to fight for Anarchism using physical violence. It's a no-brainer. And I would've never had a vasectomy.

Intentional constsnt6 babies, and once they're the age of 8, you're picking up a gun and fighting alongside me.  La lucha nunca terminara. No matter how bad you want it to

Get your priorties in perspective. "We're going to kill a whole lot of motherfuckers."  Those would be my exact words. "in the goriest way possible.

With horses and shotguns.



Thursday, May 6, 2010 at 12:51pm

Constitutional Rights

If you're stupid enough to believe you have any, you deserve whatever you have coming to you. There's a huge difference in the way things supposedly work and the way they actually work. Idealism is nice, and if you're actively striving to make the world a better place to live in, I applaud you, but still all the same realize in the mean time, the world is not actually that way.

For example, if your boss doesn't like you for personal reasons, he or she CAN in fact, fire you. It has happened to me various times. Yeah sure, legally, they don't have the "right" to do that, but so fucking what?

You're walking down the street doing absolutely nothing illegal. A cop comes driving down the street, stops, and shakes you down. Did he legally have the "right" to do that? No, of course he didn't. Did he do it? Yeah. Did he get away with it? Hell yeah! Are the framers of the Constitution rolling over in their graves? No! They are sleeping peacefully, and besides, they would've done the same thing had they been in the cop's shoes because you look funny.

You get arrested for something you didn't do. The prosecutor digs up your blog, picks a few choice controversial pieces, and hands out Xeroxes to the members of the jury. Even though the blog entries had absolutely nothing to do with the crime you supposedly perpetrated, the jury are a bunch of sheep and they decide you must've done it because they were offended by your blog. You get a hefty sentence. Does this actually happen? I don't know. I invented the scenario. But shit like this happens all the time. I've witnessed it first hand, just not a blog in particular. I didn't want to be too specific. Speaking of specific:

Your landlord is beginning to get the impression that you're on drugs and/ or crazy. On top of that, you filed a formal complaint to the government complaining that you live in deplorable conditions and the landlord found out that you talltle-taled on him. He eventually found a reason to evict you, and although you spent months in court trying to fight it, they eventually evicted you. Where were your rights in this incident? not/ applicable i.e. nonexistent. Was this fair? No. Did you use your time and energy in a constructive manner? Hell No!!!!!!!!

Does anybody care? , . . . well yeah, a lot of people care, but just because they do, that doesn't change anything. And on top of that, half the time, they're just pretending to care anyway. And just because you go about your life as if the conditions were already idealistic, that doesn't make it so. Rather than getting stuck on the way things should be, focus on the way they actually are and work around it to make your life as happy and enjoyable as possible. Wow, that sounds preachy, huh? Let me rephrase that: IDEALLY, you should not get stuck on the way things should be, but on how they actually are.

I could go around in circles all day like this.

The bosses, judges, lawyers, and cops will always win, and in the mean time, you're just wasting your time. Just avoid them. Or if you really want to fight it, do it constructively. Don't insist on putting yourself in these situations where you're at their mercy. It's pointless.

Oh, I thought of a good example that has nothing to do with the legal system: sex.

Two people meet. They're attracted to each other. They like each other. Should they fuck each other? Hell yeah!, . . . ideally, . . . But more often than not, one blows the other off. Or in severe occasions, they reject each other simultaneously. Why did this happen? Because people are inherently lame.

Ideally, it should matter what's on the inside right? Well, that's what TV pretends to believe, but just for the sake of making a point, let's say everything lined up physically, mentally, emotionally. Everything was great! What happened? Pecking order bullshit! The rejected wasn't in a band, or didn't dress like a hipster or whatever stupid fucking trend was going on at the time, or didn't have a lot of money, or wasn't good on a skateboard, or didn't own a car, or didn't have a prestigious job, or didn't go around picking fist-fights with people or whatever failure in any category the blow-offer felt to be most important in establishing one's level in society's pecking order. In severe circumstances, it could even be a third party convincing one of them to blow off the other or even the opposite to hook up with someone they didn't even really like. Even though I'ld like to think I've never played a part in any of this nonsense, I have, and on every level. Except for the trendy thing though. Trendiness can be a major deal-breaker for me. Actually, I'm referring to a past Tomatoes. I no longer have the energy to care about what people think of my sexual partners.

Why does this happen? Because people suck. They care more about what other people care about than what they themselves actually care about. Popularity breeds popularity. 



Sunday, May 9, 2010 at 7:44pm


I eventually reverse prank called my drunk friends in Texas. The theme was to be as unentertaining as possible. My tactic was an enriching in-depth monotone monologue concerning the different aspects of the internal components of a starter motor on an ' 89 Honda Civic with approximately 121,594 miles. It was wildly fascinating bellowing on and on about everything from the brushes and the bushing houses right down to the armature and commutator. As I was moving right along into the spiral splines, pinion stop, and overrunning clutch, I was humiliatingly defeated by a devious trick on their parts by perpetually passing the phone amongst each other and mumbling incoherently something about how much they "missed me" and "loved me". The only thing I could come up with as a riposte (I have no idea if I used that word right) was to denounce their existences on the face of the planet and the animosity-charged suggestion that they all "go fuck themselves". Hurt and ashamed, I slammed the phone down (figuratively) and curled myself in a corner of the room with my tail between my legs, (both also figuratively) and smoked five cigarettes in a row.

Although I feel a huge blow to my ego at the end of this, I am still slightly glowing at the petty level of success achieved seeing as how they have to as yet called me back and the amazing recounting of such an unexciting incident chock full of extraneous adjectives and big words half of which I'm not even really sure if I've used correctly.

So, my pride still remains smugly sitting aplomb upon my weary reputation yadda yadda yadda Western medicine yadda yadda smoke some more cigarettes yadda the light saturated prisms of outward reflection in the end are really reflecting only the opaque black thus being said are within itself, constantly immortal. BIGTIME YADDA!

P.S. the definition of congenital is "existing at or dating from birth" despite what you may've thought previously such and so on, . . . 



Sunday, May 30, 2010 at 10:49am

Chopercabras' Spring Fling!

About to go to Chopercabras' Spring Fling. If you don't already know about this. I gotta tell you it's one the biggest highlights of the year in the LA area bike world! It is so fucking fun! This is my first one that I'll be attending "sober". The dress-up theme this time is video games. Starting promptly at noon, there are a bunch of bike activities purposefully designed to make you hurt yourself (tall bike joust, mini-bike demolition derby, etc.) This is probably the funnest part.Paul gets very creative and each time, he comes out with new bicycle contraptions. Then, there's a bike ride around the Valley, then return to Atomic Cycles for free BBQ, and hang out until the evening. It's so fun. People hang out and drink beer and smoke weed. Last year, I ate mushrooms! It was great!

So, here's the info:

starts at noon with the masochistic stunts, then bike ride, then hang out and eat and drink and smoke and whatever else. I have not personally talked to Paul, so don't know the exact specifics besides the video game part. I'm just assuming a lot of the stuff because that's how it usually happens more or less. There are always surprises though, so watch out! And, be careful! You might end up having a really, really good time!

Atomic Cycles; 17322 Saticoy; Van Nuys, CA 91406



Saturday, July 3, 2010 at 11:11pm

So, I was about to start licking the wounds, . . .

after four days no methadone. All on top, everything seems great, It will be no big deal, just hang out, hang out with your friends. But, sick as a motherfucker. The plan was to be all macho and shit. cold cut slice a daily methadone thing whatever. Lay around, don't even drink. NOTHING CAN FUCK WITH ME!!!!!!!!!!! But, still, I was walking around Elysian Park with Sam feeling like I was tripping my brains out. I was literally coated with sweat wearing a sweater after watching Paraguay watching its ass getting handing to it on a platter shaking like a leaf. I went to the F Haus and Fucking John offered me a beer. Well, that wasn't the plan. I was going to wait for Tookie's birthday (This Thursday at Shatto Lanes 8 pm; call me if you can chip in for her birthday present DAD-GO-FAG-15)) Anyways, it was one of the best beers I've ever had in my life. Instantly, everything felt good. They don't call it a mood-altering substance for nothing. Before beer: "I wanna die I wanna die I wanna die I wanna Die. Why am I alive? Why am I here? I want to leave! I'm done!" After two sips of beer, involuntary pep talk to any one who would listen: "Listen: LIFE!!!!! It's fucking great!!!!!!!!! We are going to have so much fun!!!!!!!!" I am so fucking thrilled waiting to see how much fun life is going to be!!!!!!!! And, yeah, it's true, I feel religiously about LA. I will never leave! I love it here! I'm'nna go get a job! 20 dollars an hour minimum! I feel so good!

Echo Park Cribbage Club: Tues, 7-10 pm, by the Lady of the Lake

G Rated Prank Call Show: Wed. 3-6 pm

Tookie's birthday party: Thurs. 8 pm. Shato Lanes. K-town.

I love y'all! 

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