CHACHI GONORRHEA

There's a scene in the movie Jackie Brown I keep thinking about.

Samuel L. Jackson and Robert Deniro are in a parked Volkswagon Bus having a discussion.

They are sitting in the front.  Sam's torso is turned, facing the driver's seat.  Bob keeping his vision straight.

The camera's perspective is from the back of the vehicle.

The location shown outside the windshield is a typical LA street, blurred.

Sam's demeanor is heated but composed, like he's been there before.

Bob is sort of aloof or just really stupid.  It's difficult to tell.

The topic at hand is a missing $510,000, money Deniro was supposed to bring back from a shady hand-off at a mall, money owed to Jackson.

Instead a nondescript shopping bag containing a dozen or so shitty paperbacks and $40,000 in bundled cash was brought.  The $40,000 on top obscuring the books underneath.

Deniro confesses to murdering Jackson's girlfriend in the mall parking lot after the exchange.  She was sarcastically teasing him, so he shot her twice, once in the stomach, once in the chest.

Her death isn't mourned.

Sam keeps asking, where the fuck is my money?

Bob shrugs his shoulders and mutters incoherently in response.

The tone is low-key considering the amount missing.

There is no soundtrack music playing but a latin influenced jazz song is faintly audible as background noise.

After being questioned like a child, Bob admits he encountered a mutual acquaintance during the exchange, a bail bondsman named Max Cherry.

Jackson makes a facial gesture like he just watched the final episode of Roseanne.

He loses his shit a little and starts yelling.

Deniro makes excuses but labels them reasons.  He doesn't seem affected by his mistake.

A gun not visible goes off.

Blood stains the inside of the windshield Bob was staring through.  He looks down towards his stomach.

Bob turns his head to make eye contact with Sam.

He contorts a surprised facial gesture, but there's a latent sadness in it.

Sam whispers, "What the fuck happened to you, man?  Your ass used to be beautiful."

The gun is raised, the barrel pressed to Bob's chest, another shot fired.

This is how I feel about America.

THE UNIVERSE HAS HIPS

Hey, who the fuck says there's nothing interesting on youtube anymore.



Also, I made the picture below.  Feel like I'm two-thirds away from being completely alt-lit.  Working on writing bad poetry about easily obtained pharmaceuticals now.  Please 'accept' me.

BITING RAZORS LIKE THE WAY YOUR MOTHER EATS COMPLIMENTS

I pray for the destruction of all things popular in an overpopulated society.

Because I care.

THE AFFABLE PISS CZAR OF YOUR DAYTIME MELODRAMA

on publishing:

I think the greatest motivation to never publish anything are the pictures where people hold a book written by an "'alt lit'" author in front of their face.

Some people take pictures with the book next to their face while drinking a cup of coffee.

The clever pictures are the ones where some other asinine object is used to obscure--you guessed it--a precious face, something quirky or mildly unnerving, like a butterfly net or a fruit.

Just seems mortifying to me.

A person using the physical manifestation of my hard work, a thing I've poured soul and creativity in to, being 'cute' and 'humorous', for a chance at momentary recognition.

Fuck that.

Truth be almost everyone in this reality practices pyrrhic compromise.

I don't get it.

in other news:

The image of a dildo riding a unicycle suddenly appeared in my mind today.  The plastic dick was the color of pink, like the old m.u.s.c.l.e. toys, had no legs, and swayed back and forth while keeping balance.

also:

Click this.

I'M A GOD DAMN DRAGON IN THE RAIN

I took the Myers-Brigg's test. 

Here's my score:

Introverted (I) 56.25% Extroverted (E) 43.75%
Intuitive (N) 58.33% Sensing (S) 41.67%
Thinking (T) 56.76% Feeling (F) 43.24%
Perceiving (P) 90% Judging (J) 10%

INTP - "Architect". Greatest precision in thought and language. Can readily discern contradictions and inconsistencies. The world exists primarily to be understood. 3.3% of total population.

Whatever the fuck that means.

Feel like I should try to change the world now.  I mean, I am supposed to be a kick-ass architect

Maybe I can build something rad and universally beneficial.  Like a port-a-potty that constantly smells like hot, fresh eggos.

Yeah.

Here's a picture of me being an architect in a parking lot after a rave:

The link to take the test if you want to be apprised of your metaphysical super powers:

 http://similarminds.com/jung.html

SWALLOW THE TURDS LIKE SWORDS

XENU DOESN'T WANT ME FOR A SUNBEAM

People have been sending treasures to my home.  Some of which I traded hash cookies for in return.

A sense of displacement occurs whenever I receive a gift.  I sort of panic a little and my mind thinks, "you're a piece of shit who deserves nothing."  Then I try to convince myself to accept nothing and be content.

I am content with nothing.  Seriously.  But I do appreciate gifts. 

It's difficult for me to just accept blind gifts though.  I feel better about accepting something if I give something to the person first, which is a monumental step for me. 

No shit.

Back in 2008, I did this thing on my blog where I gave away copies of books written by internet writers.  Each month a new author.  The only requirement for getting a book was to email me.

What I didn't tell people was that I was on unemployment, not paying rent and showering in cold water because I couldn't afford to pay the delinquent gas bill.

My depressed logic for doing the giveaway centered around the idea that other people felt deep loneliness, like I did, and maybe words in books would alleviate the feeling momentarily, which was an exponentially better use of the money than spending it on myself.

Most of the authors were appreciative of what I was doing.  A couple acted like selfish douche nozzles but those two always act like that: 'unsuprising'.

Those who received the free books were really appreciative too.

A lot of people, authors and book winners, wanted to send a small thank you, usually a book, back to me.  I immediately shot everyone down without stating a reason, which I think made people think I was a dick.

I wasn't being a dick.  Just felt severe hatred towards myself and the idea of receiving anything from anyone felt psychologically crushing. 

Try to imagine a 90 lb japanese girl swallowing 45 lbs of semen in one protracted gulp.  That's how I felt.

I'm sorry for potentially hurting people's feelings.

My blunder.

Anyways, like I said, accepting gifts is a huge change for me, even if I am exchanging hash cookies for those gifts.

Recently I received some art from Sam Pink and Tony Arnold, and wish beads with a hand-written instructional from Rachel-Noel, aka Raye.  Raye also sent some cookies and candied applies she made but those things are fucking long gone.

No body no crime sort of gone.

Thank you Sam, Tony and Raye for sending packages to my apartment.

Here is a picture of the treasures:

Totally down to exchange more things for things.  Email me if you feel like it.

EMBRACE THE BASEBALL BAT

Has a PSA ever worked, even once?

OBSEQUIOUS MIDGET WITH THICK FINGERS AND SMALL TITS

PLAYING DODGEBALL WITH TIN FOIL CHILDREN

A lot of people don't know I have a small part in the "Shoplifting from American Apparel" movie.  No clue if the footage made the final cut.  I don't think it matters.

Would totally 'bet the farm' that I'm the only obese human being in the entire movie.

Just a hunch.

I was really high on opiates and hadn't slept in a few days when the filming took place.

A t-shirt was provided as gratitude for helping out.

I only wear the shirt 'ironically'.  But I don't believe in contrived irony so I guess you could say I wear the shirt sarcastically.

Just discovered there's a premiere and reading next month for SFAA.

Here's a blurb describing the event:

Each screening will include prize giveaways, special guests, and a Q&A with zen teacher and actor Brad Warner and director Pirooz Kalayeh.

Guests confirmed for the LA screening: Brad Warner, Pirooz Kalayeh, Steve Roggenbuck, Mira Gonzalez, Alfred Rutherford, Andrew Crighton, James Roehl.

Guys, there will be prizes AND Roggenbuck!!!!

I just piss shat myself from excitement.

Almost certain I will be in attendance, high on psychoactive drugs, talking a lot of shit.

Should be fun.

NO MUTUAL EXPERIENCES TO SHARE

When I'm at a reading I think about suicide a lot.  No exaggeration.  I get this overwhelming feeling to escape or die.  Here's a picture of me avoiding a reading in Chicago last year around October.  

I felt like I wasn't a worthwhile human being during this picture because the people who allowed me to stay at their apartment freely were really excited about the reading.  They organized it and shit.  I spent about 5 whole minutes in the art gallery where the event was taking place before my mind started to lose its calm.  I then spent an hour and a half outside in the cold night, mostly watching the faces of the people inside through the front windows.  I couldn't identify with anyone's facial expression. I don't think my face has ever expressed anything similar, ever.  Watching the people through the glass partition was exhausting, not like physically, but emotionally.  I lit up a strong, pungent cigar.  People kept waving their hands in the air or covering their nose as they walked through my radius of influence.  Gena was with me.  I felt bad because she's small and has a vagina, meaning she has no natural protection from the chill of a midwest autumn night.  I sat down on a small cement step on the sidewalk and felt hopeless about life.  Gena left to seek warmth inside.  A short man with an excited body language stopped to inspect all the people on the other side of the glass window.  He asked, "what's going on in there?"  I said, "a reading."  The man asked, "who's reading?"  I said, "no fucking clue but you should check out a guy named Sam Pink.  He's from Chicago."  The man made a facial gesture like he was lying about his penis size to a stripper and then said, "yeah, I've heard of him before.  He's a really great writer."  I just stared back without saying anything.  The short man walked off thinking "that hairy dude totally believed me," but I didn't.  A larger, more crushing feeling of hopelessness descended on my soul.  I texted Sam Pink to tell him this guy said he knew who he was, that he was a 'great writer'.  No immediate response though.  I spent a few minutes watching the drunk people of Chicago walk in and out of several bars across the street, during this observation period I tried to alleviate all feelings from my psyche, which didn't work.  Instead my demeanor became agitated.  A black couple stopped to look at the reading and just stood dumbfounded, mouths open.  Like, it was a natural but synchronized act.  They started walking again.  As they passed where I was sitting I said, "fucking white people," in a low, sarcastic tone.  The couple began laughing and the laughter became louder as their distance grew.  I looked at my feet and stared for a moderate amount of time trying to not think about anything.  A trolley filled with drunk people drinking alcoholic beverages approached the street.  I felt like I was dreaming.  A few seconds later the trolley was gone so I stared at my feet again.  An image of unending sadness played through my mindspace.  Suddenly, I wanted to run, I didn't care where, just away.  Then my phone made a noise.  I opened the phone to see a response from a previous text I had sent.  It read, "sam pink: nigga, i'm a poet."

NO CANDY FOR A BOY NAMED LONELY

My first Halloween in Hollywood was the day I moved here. So I didn't really celebrate. Nobody told me about the parade. You know the one where over 500,000 people march down the street and close down all traffic. That night it took me 1.5 hours to go 1.5 blocks.

The next Halloween in Hollywood I walked down the boulevard. I could sense the eminent danger all around and decided to take my girl and friend to a bar. I had to pay the door man $40 because I was the only person legally old enough to enter. A few days later I read that we missed some gun fire by about 30 minutes.

The next year I can't really remember how I celebrated. I think I was at a rave or something.

This year I'm sitting at home feeling alone. The constant hum of a helicopter has been background noise for about two and a half hours now. Earlier I got in to an argument with a meth head who demanded I click his car in through the security gate of my apartment building. Leaving the door open in my neighborhood isn't wise, I guess.

 I just read 3 people were shot down the street around 10 pm, aged 14, 17 and 25. The 17-year-old absorbed a bullet in the chest. He's in critical condition.

The LAPD are wearing riot gear while cracking heads open on a street named Hollywood right now. This is truly their holiday.

Fights keep erupting.

I think people have this complete misconception of where I live, like during the day it's some magical place of sun light and movie stars, that if you just wander around with a smile then eventually you'll meet Brad Pitt or some other shit soul, and at night, like it's an everything goes party destination, like you can totally just snort cocaine openly and drink until you feel the need to rape.

People are dumb. Hollywood is one of the grittiest places i've lived.

You won't survive here. You're not strong enough. Stay the fuck away.

Trust me.