GOODBYE MR. PIZZA

The difficult part of loving this city is that there are people in power who don't love it at all.

LONG SLEEVE V-NECK

I bought a bunch of whimsical post cards from a store on Hollywood and Vermont.

They were an impulse buy.

Because my life centers around the constant thought of death I don't have many friends.

Or people I talk to regularly.

Or at all.

So I'm trying to figure out what to do with these cards.

If you'd like one, then email me your address.

I'll write something about myself on it.

Something fucked up.

Encouragement that you aren't as worthless as you originally thought yourself to be.

Then mail it to you with no expectation of a return correspondence.

And when you receive the post card,

you can totally just laugh,

or,

say, "oh my," to yourself

before throwing the thing in the trash.

DOOMED NIGGERS OF THE WORLD UNITE

For Big Dave:

I THOUGHT ABOUT DEATH AND PANTIES A LOT TODAY

Keep replaying this song in my mind:

SADNESS JUST KICKED IN

The series' protagonist is Stringfellow Hawke (Jan-Michael Vincent), a loner who lives in a cabin outside of Los Angeles, California in a remote mountain area that was based at Lake Hemet, accompanied only by his Bluetick Coonhound, "Tet", and the surrounding wildlife. Hawke is a recluse, spending most of his time alone with his priceless collection of paintings which he inherited from his grandfather (the art was a gift for his grandmother), and serenading eagles with his equally priceless Stradivarius cello. His only real friend and mentor is the older, eternally cheerful Dominic Santini (Ernest Borgnine) who raised Stringfellow and his brother St John (pronounced "sin-jin") after their parents died. Stringfellow's father and Dominic flew in World War II together.

 

Earlier, Hawke was a test pilot for Airwolf, an advanced supersonic helicopter with stealth capabilities and a formidable arsenal. Airwolf was built by the Firm, a division of the CIA (a play on the term "the Company", a nickname for the CIA). Airwolf was stolen by its twisted creator, Dr. Charles Henry Moffet (David Hemmings). Michael Coldsmith Briggs III (Alex Cord), the Firm's deputy director (codename Archangel), then asks Hawke to go to Libya to retrieve the helicopter. Archangel has a blind left eye and walks with a limp as a result of having been caught in the carnage Moffet unleashed when he stole Airwolf.

Fearing that Hawke would refuse the mission to recover Airwolf, the Firm confiscates his art collection and leaves Gabrielle (Hawke's pilot-episode love-interest, played by Belinda Bauer) behind to brief him for his mission. A week later, after an undercover operative is killed in the line of duty, Gabrielle is sent in undercover and Hawke is sent in sooner than originally planned. With Santini's assistance, Hawke finds and recovers Airwolf but chooses not to return it. Instead, he and Santini booby-trap Airwolf and hide it in a large natural cave in the remote "Valley of the Gods" (visually modeled on Monument Valley). Hawke calls this cave "the Lair". Hawke refuses to return Airwolf until the Firm can recover his brother, St John, who has been missing in action since Vietnam. To get access to Airwolf, Archangel offers Hawke protection from other government agencies who might try to recover Airwolf; in return, Hawke and Santini must fly missions of national importance for the Firm.

In the second season, to satisfy CBS executives who wanted to appeal to a wider female audience, the show introduced Caitlin O'Shannessy, played by Jean Bruce Scott. Caitlin is a feisty former Texas Highway Patrol helicopter pilot who eventually joins Airwolf's crew. In "Fallen Angel" Hawke confirms Caitlin's suspicions that he and Santini possess and operate a super helicopter as the three fly Airwolf into East Germany to recover Archangel.

PARTY HATS ARE FUCKING AWESOME AND BIRTHDAYS ARE FUCKING DUMB

I saw a homeless man today.

He was walking on Fairfax and Santa Monica.

Making motorboat noises with his mouth while aggressively thumb downing objects/people.

I felt a deep and serious kinship with the guy.

Wanted to grab a couple tall boys and climb Mount Lee with him.

Stare at the city.

Thumb down everything.

The small people I couldn't see.

(thumb down!)

The LAPD.

(thumb down!!!)

Traffic.

(thumb down!)

Chemtrails.

(thumb down!)

The entire westside.

(thumb down!)

Larchmont Village.

(thumb down!)

Potholes.

(thumb down!)

The Oaks Gourmet

(thumb down!!!)

Pretentiousness

(thumb down!)

The Sunset Strip

(thumb down!)

Plastic surgery

(thumb down!)

We could have lived forever up there.

Surviving on tall boy nutrition and the warmth of our disgust.

But I didn't make an approach because I figured the ol' thumb down would be given.

And, fuck, I couldn't bear disapproval like that.

GUYS NAMED TREVOR

Here's the Hunt vs Struve fight I wrote about a while back.  It's currently free but could be pulled at any time.



Hunt is fighting the former heavyweight champion, Junior Dos Santos, this Saturday.  Junior has arguably the best boxing skills in all of UFC.  Mark on the other hand has Samoan bonefists and moves like a middle weight.

In other words, someone gonna lose a jaw again, bruh.

Also, apologies in advance for the horrible commentating.  Kenny Florian is a retired fighter who really isn't that terrible.  Jon "The Walking Dildo" Anik, however, is the worst sports announcer of all fucking time.

I've heard better from a blind mute commentating a high school Ping-Pong game.

MY OCTOPUS WAND KNOWS THE LOTTERY SCORE

SPAM IS ALWAYS IN SEASON

The idea to create as many paper mache penises as possible is strong in my mind.

I want to fill my apartment with them.

All colors, shapes and lengths.

I've also been thinking about shaving away the hair from my body.

Leave it piled on the bedroom carpet.

Then walk out the door.

No goodbyes.

Stare at the sun for hours while deciding something.

After I decide something walk west towards the Pacific.

Stow away on a freight boat.

Living in a giant metal rectangle for a long period of time seems comforting.

Hobos are always on vacation.

Why not me.

I need a vacation, too.

Really looking forward to accomplishing several things, like:

• drinking recycled urine
• eating small portions of meat from a can
• breathing the unclean air surrounding my body

Hopefully, I'll arrive somewhere like Africa.

Because a violent meeting with a lion sounds promising to me.

During the encounter I'll maintain eye contact.

And make that repetitive noise people do when they call their domesticated cat.

(The noise which sounds like the word piss without the i, on loop.)

While doing this I'll focus on the space of emptiness separating each short sound.

And completely forget everything prior to that moment.

It's okay if I shit myself in the end.

GOSSIP GIRL IS THE PONY BOY OF THE AMERICAN APPAREL GENERATION

When women go beyond objects I get really sad and depressed.

I like their asses, eyes, feet, hips, lips, tits, pussies.

The way they move, the softness of their skin, their varying shades of hair.

But as soon as a woman talks I realize how trite and vapid she is.

And I can never view her as an object again.

I mean, it's impossible to appreciate glorious hips when they're attached to a larger being that tweets, votes, watches television, has shallow opinions, thinks Sonny Moore is a genius and Jim Gaffigan is 'amazing' and fits one of five female based stereotypes.

The moral is I try to keep my distance so the beauty can remain.

WINE HIGH

While driving through Beverly Hills today I passed a Prius pulled over by a female cop. 

The driver was biting his fingernails, placing one in his mouth, nibbling, then exchanging it for the next in line, while nervously looking at the rear view mirror.

The officer was using the seat of her bicycle to write a ticket.

BALL GAGS AND FANNY PACKS

Things I've overheard which caused me to imagine a guillotine slamming down on my neck endlessly as if I were watching a video clip of my own execution on repeat.

• "Yeah, uh, do you have... uh, do you have any flowers that say, 'I like you,' you know, not 'I love you,' but, 'I like you'?  I just don't want to go there..."

•  "My name is Oz, that's spelled O-Z."

• "Can't believe the 'Great Gatsby' movie was that bad."

MCGRIDDLE LIFE CRISIS

One of my fans sent me this picture:

STEVEN SEGAL IS THE FAIRY GODMOTHER OF YOUR FATHER'S SECRET SISSY BOY FANTASY

It's around that time of year when I get extremely depressed.

The depression typically builds to a 3-day intense shitty feeling. 

I liken it to how a person would feel after watching a Michael Bay marathon.

Every thought is negative and/or suicidal.

I notice things, things I would normally ignore.

People with circles of friends, having barbeques in their backyard, talking excitedly to each other about bullshit.

Actually feeling excitement over nothing, just hanging out with people, being excited.

Excitement.

I don't even comprehend excitement.

I understand a dead giraffe floating in the pacific ocean more.

People with populated phone books.

What the fuck is that about. 

All that talking.

With other people.

I don't get it.

The more I talk with human beings the stronger I recognize I'm alone.

There are no mutual thoughts to share.

People who watch television shows.

Television shows.

Movies.

All kinds of horse shit.

Goals.

Accomplishments.

Celebrations.

Job promotions.

Family relations.

Pursuing sex partners.

Weddings.

Funerals.

Quiches.

A world of illusions I can't sympathize with.

Death is the only thing I understand and I don't understand it all.

But I'm trying to not be negative this year.

Which is something I try to do every year.

(lol)

Keep thinking about this quote from Anderson "The Spider" Silva:

"No one will hit you harder than life itself.  It doesn't matter how you hit back.  It's about how much you can take, and keep fighting... how much you can suffer and keep moving forward.  That's how you win."

Also keep thinking about a nude Roseanne Barr standing in a lit hallway holding an open pizza box with my disappointed face surrounded by cheesy crust where the pizza is supposed to be.

SMILING ADDENDUM TO A MEDIOCRE SUICIDE

This clip accurately conveys the first year of my relationship with Gena.

MORE THAN WORDS

Here's a piece of Hollywood Daddy history nobody will give a shit about.

I had two girlfriends as a child/teenager.

The first was named Jodie and she looked like an 8-year-old boy from the seventies.  We dated for a week in the 5th grade.

I took her to a pizza place and mostly ignored her by playing video games because I was terrified of girls.  My awkwardness was out of control.

My great uncle even pulled me aside to tell me I was fucking up.

To just go talk to her and have fun.

She never spoke to me again after that date.

The next girlfriend was in the 8th grade.

Her name was Gina.

She was a redhead who was adopted by an upper-middle-class cream cheese couple.

I lived in a house in the white hood with my mother who was never home and a 6'5" 325lb biker who refused to let me eat food.

I slept on the hardwood floor of my bedroom with a blanket and a 13inch color television.

The biker's favorite past time was sitting in the living room in our only chair with the lights off while staring at an unlit fireplace.

Erica lived in a giant house in the hills.

It had 7 bedrooms.

2 of which went unused.

I couldn't even bicycle or walk there.

That's how far up on the hill it was.

Strategically placed to ward off the unwanted poor.

Her parents hated me.

Which is funny because I was too terrified to do anything.

She even confided her desire to be fingered, fucked and kissed.

But I was always thinking about death and self-loathing.

And there was no fucking way I could commit any of those actions.

We did kiss once.

But it was awkward.

Standing on a street corner, waiting for her parents to pick her up, she turned and looked me in the eyes, and said, "kiss me".

Which caused me to imagine a laughing reaper holding a scythe behind his head.

I couldn't act.

So she leaned over and kissed me.

The reaper laughed harder.

I can't even remember what she tasted like.

Or the softness of her lips.

But I can remember that motherfucker's teeth.

A few days later she called to tell me she was going back to her ex-boyfriend.

An older kid in her neighborhood who knew how to fuck.

Well, at least knew enough for a 17-year-old.

And that she was real sorry.

And that we would always have our song.

And every time I listen to that song I think of the reaper's laughter.

The position of his blade.

His posture.

And the only lips I kissed but have no recollection of.

AT SOME POINT IN HISTORY IT WAS CUSTOMARY TO SPIT ON THE GROUND THEN RUN AWAY AFTER ENCOUNTERING A PERSON WITH GINGER COLORED HAIR

I keep imagining my face as a discarded toilet brush floating in a sidewalk puddle. 

And people walk around me while saying things like, "ew," or "oh my," or "why the fuck does that toilet brush have a beard."

And my only thought is to flip over so I can drown to death or at least obscure my eyes in the murk.

But since I'm armless I just watch the disgusted faces of people with my toilet brush face.

Hoping someone will smash a boot down on me.

But they never do.

This goes on for ever.

Like a never-ending end.

IT'S OKAY TO TURN TO YOUR MOTHER AND SAY "I WANT TO FUCK YOU" IF YOUR MOM IS RELATIVELY ATTRACTIVE OR YOU'RE JUST HORNY

Noah Cicero has a new book coming out from Lazy Fascist some time in the future.  It's named "Go to work and do your job. Care for your children. Pay your bills. Obey the law. Buy products."

There's been some "contest" to create a cover for the book.  People have been submitting their versions.

Earlier today I was at an Aaron Brothers looking for a frame for a Shepard Fairy poster.  I don't normally like Shep but this particular poster is very LA.

I was standing there, trying to amuse myself, because, hanging out at a frame shop is a mild form of torture, when I noticed the sexually frustrated energy of the middle-class white people in my presence.

So painfully impatient.  Like every small event was much more important than what it really was.

I could almost feel the heat off their neglected loins.

Kept thinking "damn, fools, get laid or get in a fight."

Then I thought of an image of a giant pussy with a smaller pussy inside of it.

Then I thought of how I could apply that image to the book cover contest.

Here's my entry:

HUMILIATION IS THE BACK DOOR TO VALUE

A reoccurring thought I've been having is "why do I even talk to people."

Seriously evaluating a decision to cease communication with all but 2 or 3 human beings.

Feel deep sadness over this article.

Loving a city that is predominately owned by people who don't is a shitty kind of hurt.

Just asked my magic 8-ball if "l'll live to see another year."

Its response: "..."

BE QUIET WHILE I SHARE YOU

A Hero

Three times I had the lust to kill,
To clutch a throat so young and fair,
And squeeze with all my might until
No breath of being lingered there.
Three times I drove the demon out,
Though on my brow was evil sweat. . . .
And yet I know beyond a doubt
He'll get me yet, he'll get me yet.

I know I'm mad, I ought to tell
The doctors, let them care for me,
Confine me in a padded cell
And never, never set me free;
But Oh how cruel that would be!
For I am young - and comely too . . .
Yet dim my demon I can see,
And there is but one thing to do.

Three times I beat the foul fiend back;
The fourth, I know he will prevail,
And so I'll seek the railway track
And lay my head upon the rail,
And sight the dark and distant train,
And hear its thunder louder roll,
Coming to crush my cursed brain . . .
Oh God, have mercy on my soul!

--Robert W. Service

THERE WAS A TIME WHEN THE RIDERS OF AMERICAN-MADE MOTORCYCLES WERE RESPECTABLE OUTLAWS INSTEAD OF PRIVILEGED CAUCASIANS LIVING A PART-TIME FANTASY IN LEATHER CHAPS.

I have a reoccurring dream.  It varies slightly. 

I'm somewhere inconsequential: a street corner, walking out of a garage, leaning against a parked car. 

What I'm doing isn't important.  And, to be honest, I rarely remember that part of the dream.  But I'm doing something. 

Then a faceless man appears with a gun: a .45, 9mm, sawed-off shotgun.

I always think, "fuck, that's a gun.  run!"

(which is odd because when I've had guns pointed towards me in concrete life I haven't moved, just stood there, feeling afraid while wearing a hateful facial expression.)

But the weapon fires a round into my head before I can react.

I never hear the report.

Time slows down and a surge of air slowly pushes over my face followed by a delayed, intense pressure against my neck. 

Sort of like when I'm standing on the corner of Hollywood and Western, day dreaming about naked amputees being choke fucked by hands that aren't mine, not paying attention, and a speeding bus passes by, inches away.

 I look up to the sky; it's blue, always blue, not a cloud or a bird or the sun--just blue.

The panic sets in.

And I realize I'm going to die.

I keep saying to myself, "I'm dying."

"I'm dying."

"I'm dying."

"...I'm dying."

I sort of accept it.  It's not like I can do anything else.

Then a growing blackness closes around me until eventually I'm a suffocating consciousness.

"I'm dead."

A heaviness inside my mind.

"I used to exist."

Going in a permanent hibernation.

"I don't want to die."

Then I suddenly wake, without lungs, dry gasping, clawing at nothingness.

There's a moment of disorientation, a different plane of reality, not here or there, right before the oxygen violently rushes back in.

During this time is when I feel alive.

Genuine.

Without ego, negativity, dissatisfaction, reluctance--everything.

Just free.

SOFT TITTIES ON A WOODEN ROLLERCOASTER

Hey, I'm going to tell you something, it might turn your brain to liquid shit, like, the revelation may be that powerful for you: the shitty job you work, and when I say shitty, I mean whatever job it is you do right now, high or low paying, blue collar or white collar, it doesn't matter, all jobs are shitty when you work to benefit another human being, that job, yeah, that job, the one weighing on your chest, the one causing you stress and anxiety, the one you wake up thinking about, then go to sleep thinking about, that shitty fucking job, really isn't important, actually, I should clarify; you aren't that important, like, you could totally not go to work tomorrow, or the next day, or miss 2 days each week, be late all the time, leave early, take 2 hour lunches, whatever, it doesn't matter, the job doesn't need you, it'll miss you, for sure, it will miss you, but it doesn't need you... I know, I know, that's not what the job keeps telling you, but, to be honest, your job is a fat chick with no friends/an insecure guy with mommy issues who can't stomach the idea of sharing with other people, in other words, your job is insecure, but, trust me on this, you aren't important, everything will still progress, whatever it is you do, that bullshit will continue without you--it's your duty as a human being to subvert the work day, to enjoy yourself, maybe take a long lunch and finger fuck a girl at the park, or, see how many pints of beer you can slam before 10am, or just not show up, don't call, don't email, no prior warning, just sleep in, maybe dream about a giant lawn mower running over the faces of everyone you know.

HEART STOMA