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