Thursday, October 30, 2008

Dear 6 Readers

Posting has been delayed here due to the fact notalot has happened.
Posts will follow when something interesting actually happens.

Until then, if you wish, you may browse archives (and feel free to comment) or follow my lame reblogging and lame original posts on my not-yet-blocked-at-work Tumblr.

Thank you.

Tuesday, October 14, 2008

Sunday, September 21, 2008

So, I see I'll be working until I'm 93, now.

Boy, all this financial trouble sure sounds bad. It's really a good thing I'll only be marginally affected--wait, what is that you say? Goldman Sachs?!?

Shit, you here that screaming whoooshing sound? Yeah, that's the sound of my 401K dropping into an abyss!


Well, let's hope the Sach sacks-up; because, if I have to live much more frugally, I'll be eating dirt and drinking my own pee.

Monday, September 15, 2008

Whiskey and Wage-release*

Drinking fist-fulls of Jameson and paying bills online is probably not the best of combinations, but it takes a bit of the pain out of it.

*"Wage-release" is the new hep way of saying, "paying bills."

Actually, it isn't, but I think it should be the new way. Please start blogging it this way, and linking back to this post: this might gain my some micro-cewebrity LOL.

(and, yes, I'm re-posting this to my Tumblr to expand my Internet-cred... Bah!)

Wednesday, September 10, 2008

Yeah, what he said.

Even if you're feeling negative, at least you feel something at all, right?

Or, we could go back to here.

Aw, just feeling a bit tipsy and moody, move along, nothing to see here...

Thursday, September 04, 2008

If the clothes make the man

I just walked by a large mirror in my apartment, and made the mistake of looking into it, at what I am wearing:

  • my old, large black lounging-around-not-leaving-the apartment glasses
  • a spring/summer black robe covered in cat hair (thank you, Lilly)
  • Guinness string sleepwear pants (again, with the cat hair)
  • no socks
  • blue slippers that are falling apart
  • and a white t-shirt with a hole in the collar, with picture of a green iguana crawling across a print of a pocket (bought over a decade ago in some Salvation Army Store)

Apparently, I have given up all hope.

Take a time-out, people!

Seriously: Chicagoist: Summer Gun Violence.

Chill, mutherfuckers, chill!

Wednesday, September 03, 2008

I Believe Elton John Said It Best,

When he sang, "The Bitch is Back"

That's right, ladies and gentleman! The one, the only, the evil, the thieving, the worst manager ever:


[I'll pause while you all catch up on those links to the past.]

--- hmm-hmm-hmmmhmm


As some of you may know, my part time job is closing at its current location near the end of October, and then it'll move a couple of store fronts down to a larger location.
The Company is going for a bit of an overlap process. While the Croatian Gyration Sensation takes over as Closing-the-Store Manager (she's a floor supervisor now), "they're" bringing in Boss Frantic to act as a Guide or some shit while our current cool Store Manager goes off somewhere for Larger Store Training.

Luckily, I only work a couple of nights a week and Sundays; so, maybe I'll not see her. In any event, the two months or so I may have to work with her will just be like living with a two month Bowel Obstruction: livable, a lot of pain in the ass and a horrific yellowy brown smell in the air, but livable.

With my luck, "they'll" bring back Evil Fannie, too.

I mean, really, all I need is an arrest for assault with a deadly weapon to completely make 2008 a total and official Crap Year.

Boss Frantic and Evil Fannie, I, begrudgingly*, dedicate the below video to you:

*begrudgingly because putting this (one of my favorite songs of all times) and their names in the same sentence is like taking one's favorite deserts and shoving it into a large pile of pig shit.
But, the words aptly sum up my feelings for both of them.


Tuesday, September 02, 2008

Flashback: around 1987 or 1988

Clock radio

See that clock?
I got it for a birthday in 1984, maybe. That little GE fake wood panel box woke my lanky butt up through some of junior high, all of high school and college, and most of the time I've lived in Chicago.
I still got that little guy. I now listen to WLUW in the kitchen, just did tonight for a bit as a matter of fact.
Still works great, for the most part, except of a missing knob on the front and a SKREEGGRRRCCRUMMPA sound when you adjust the volume.

Love that little brown fucker!

Well, back in high school, I was that regular guy. Sort of lost, geeky and weird, but normal enough to kind of fit in with most of the cliques one encounters in high school.

But I always felt like I wasn't quite in the right spot. I had/have great friends from that time. Best friends, a regular crew of dudes and dudettes who I loved/love. They always had my back against the Shop Rats jerks and the Jock and Jane Preppy crowds.

Even back then I recognized and liked the fact I had such a diverse mix of friends. I could pass a joint with one crowd, and then my buddy would gain me entrance into a football/preppy party the next night. I'd polish up my writing skills with my Journalism buddies (J. Leatherman!) or sneak into Dillion's with my other friends for Alternative "dance" Nights or a gig with Delicious Moss, sneaking beers or blowing a joint in the parking lot across the street. Or many weekends, we'd lower cases of Bud Light or Old Mil that I had hidden in my closet out my bedroom window, and just cruise The Circuit, hang at The Barn, or party with friends at The Abandoned House.

All and all, not a bad high school experience compared to some.

But always a little left of center feeling.

Until, right around this time, I discovered the best radio. Sunday nights, from 6 p.m. to Midnight on the local college radio station 88.3 FM all "alternative" music or "progressive" music (that's what we called it at the time, or punk). It gave me at least an inkling of a direction.

Sunday night of course, I had to go to bed for school the next day. And my parents bedroom door was across the hall from my door (about four feet away), so I couldn't listen on my regular stereo.

And that's where the fine radio pictured above comes in.

I'd shut the main stereo off for the parents, and then snuggle up with the GE one. It sat on the mattress, leaning a bit against the wall, to the left of the pillow. And I would discover an entire world outside my little town.

Of course, being the 80s, cassette tapes were the rage. You could plug the into a car stereo and fly down country roads after midnight, slugging down beers, and screaming about how you hated this shitty town and you couldn't wait to get the hell out; maybe move to New York, write for Rolling Stone, meet artists and musicians, live in a graffiti scrawled walk up loft on the LES, puke on the subway, and fall in love with a model because anything was possible in New York City! You yearned to be one of the Slaves of New York! You were praying and dying for the Bright Lights, Big City! You wanted to see what the hell Lou Reed meant by all the colored girls going doot-de-doot-de-doot!


So you made a mixed tapes from the Sunday night shows. Hit record, let the tape record through the song, hit stop when the DJ spoke, rewind, hit record when the next song played, if it sucked, hit stop, rewind, play to a stopping point, hit pause, wait for the next song, hit record....repeat repeat repeat.

I think I still have most of those tapes except for one that had the songs "first time played at 88.3" from Nirvana's Bleach and others, eaten in my car stereo around 1997 at The Brickyard.

But on that first tape, ah that first tape, I am hearing some of the songs now in my head, was an amazing mix of punk, thrash, and hard reggae...thank you Mister DJ! And one of my favorite songs on that first one, I present to you below (it's the first 47 seconds of the video).

I'll see you in the cafeteria after fourth period:

Monday, September 01, 2008

"People are afraid to merge..."

But at least Clay and Sean attempted, halfway.
Or is that worse, to only attempt halfway?

"[Chicago] is a Vampire..."

"[Bloc Party] is playing at the Whiskey tonight..."

"Don't you wish you could go back?"
"Go back where?
"I don't know, just back."

All he knew, at that moment, was that he was a 37 year old man, sitting on a stoop, drinking his 3rd beer, and it was dark out. The stoop light stopped working when the neighbors moved in a couple of years ago, and it never started working again after they left. Not after they left, or the Squatters for a few weeks after them left. The bulb is in the socket, but no electricity seems to enter.
In between brick walls, staring out into the street, he watched black boys on bicycles circling the block.
Over and over and over again.

He watched Mexican families walking slowly down the sidewalks, dragging folding chairs and toddler 3-wheelers, going home from a day and evening at the park.
He watched gangs of roving teenagers, all dressed the same in white t-shirts and jeans, roaming the streets, pissing on the lawn in front of him, passing joints, and starting fights.
He watched the police cruisers drving both ways on the one way street. Twerping the siren, and making the blue lights dance in the heavy hot night air.
No one greeted him, and only one out of, like,twenty replied if he greeted first.

He watched.
He watched.
He watched.

And felt nearly nothing.

Maybe a little fear, when the boys grouped up in front of him, asking for a cigarette.
Maybe a little anger, when he heard how all these kids talked to each other. Their voices sounded like violence, even when speaking "sweet nothings" that "hey girl!" they run across on the corner.
Maybe a little nostalgia, when the mind wanders to different times, different places.
Maybe a little regret, when watching the glowing ember flicked down the stairs into the darkness, onto the thin film of sewage on the concrete from the last big rain.
Maybe a little sad yearning, when he sees the couples walking under the streetlights and whispering leaves.
Maybe a little boredom at the way this whole thing turned out.

"The billboard said, 'Disappear Here.'"

Because I am sober and awake during the day,

I've started hanging out over here. I mean, screw it, I'm there Forty Hours A Week with so little to do.
Until I get Dooced, that is; then, who knows?

Wednesday, August 06, 2008

Wednesday, July 30, 2008

"Supposedly she drank blood, but, yeah, she was a great kisser."

Ran into some people on Facebook, saw some OLD pics, and fell victim to a hit and run of nostalgia.
So, I randomly picked an old post and cracked myself up.

Thursday, July 24, 2008

I Dropped Acid With Billie Piper...

on top of the Sears Tower, and then we totally did it. Twice.

Today, I had fun at work. Mind you, I didn't do any work, but had fun here. As you can see from my timestamps, I spent most of the day online, posting a Yin-yang of comments (some good, some bad). Those Gawker Commenters crack me up!

Eh, whattaya gonna do?

(Billie Piper is lovely, and when I found this syrupy video, I had to include it!)


(Billie: call me!)

Thursday, July 17, 2008

Not Dead, Just Passed Out

Summer 2008:

Gas prices through the stratosphere.
Over $1000 in car repairs.
Annoyances galore at The Bank.
More hours at The Part-time job, sucking all my energy and annihilated my "social life." However, that job is like a Love Fest Laugh Fest compared to The Bank.
Grandpa M. died.
Grandma M. wants to die, like, NOW!
Still counting myself among The Poors.
Currently sweating my balls off as I type.
The last two women I, finally, convinced myself into asking out turned out to be both engaged, one with a kid.
My adult-onset mystery allergy is flaring up more.

But other than that, life is a Pink Cotton Candy Bra on a Porn Star!

Really, it ain't all that bad, I just needed to type some of that off my chest. I'm just bored, not down. Not falling back into that whole 2004 Madness; thank God.

I guess I shouldn't complain about work, I should be thrilled with the chaos of my job, and the fact I am burrowed away in The Gopher Hole most of the week. If I could just trade Biggie J. for another coworker, I'd be set!
Part of the problem with the job at The Bank is I've borderline "worked myself out of a job." Compared to my predecessor, I'm like fucking Flash Gordon. He went the extra mile to call around and hassle local vendors into selling at a lower price (true, he took bribes from them, and I wouldn't, but that's besides the point), but rest of the job he SUCKED AT! (and I'll not go into the duties of my job unless asked for they are not exciting. At. All.) Basically, what would take him 3 weeks to accomplish, I finish in 3 days maximum. Upside: makes my coworkers and boss happy! Downside: a whole hell of a lot of downtime!

But, at least I spend downtime moments here and there with The Banks interests in the forefront of my mind. HA!

Alright, enough bitching and moaning (and navel-gazing: Shut Up, Spav1!) for now, my computer is running sluggish in this heat.


Wednesday, June 25, 2008

The next TV swear word is for him

I know I'm late to the honoring.

George Carlin cracked me up as a kid (my friend had a couple of his stand-ups on records).

Below, I place two of my favorite routines.

God Bless You George!

And my favorite stuff:

Tuesday, June 10, 2008

Hardcore Donahue

I don't remember what age I was, but I grew up on Phil Donahue. After school, I'd watch it and learn various stuff that's still probably imbedded in my psyche. Even at that young age, I always thought he was one of the best in this genre, he seemed genuine and fair on all subjects. And he he did it in this episode, though the crap day time shows in this genre today would probably go out of their way to put the kids down; however, fuck it, the kids are alright.

I must have missed this episode. I am glad I watched it tonight.

"...soon even hardcore will be mainstream, and you'll have to do something else."

I don't watch or follow baseball

BUT: after seeing this picture of a Cubs fan (on left), I may start cutting work and lurking on Addison and Clark in hopes of meeting this woman...and praying to all the living Gods, she drinks enough during and after the game to fall in lust with me!

Sweet Perfection!

Friday, June 06, 2008

The Truth?

Sometimes, I think this lie, told to me with all the good intentions and love of family and friends, may be the root of my problems.

You're a good boy. You're a smart boy. There's someone out there for you. Just work hard and it'll all work out. You're funny. People are all good at heart. Etc, etc, etc.

I've always said as a youth and college kid, "just tell me, good or bad, just tell me exactly what happened."

Or something like that.

Monday, May 26, 2008

Finally! I already knew of which they speak!

Beer Tabs in a Mug

Most times, while mentally plodding stumbling skimming through articles in The New Yorker, I have only a vague idea what the author is describing or talking about. Politics bore or annoy me; music reviews rarely interest me or are "so last week"; and ballet and plays are really meant to be seen then read about in depth, I think. Generally, I get through most of the magazine with collar flipped up and head down against the rain of information and the wind of confusion coming down on me from on high (mid-town?), hoping something resembling something close to knowledge or inspiration seeps up threw my brain shoes and absorbs into my grey blanket of a brain to be squeezed out at another time (be it in conversation or in virtual conversation here at My Cube HA!).

And with the people I'm surrounded by at The Bank, these moments are few and far between, if ever, like finding a four leaf clover in your pocket or getting complete satisfaction from a posh wank* in front of pr0n.

But today!
Ah, today. A bright, shiny Memorial Day Monday, I've metaphorically found that four leaf clover in my pajama bottom's pocket (after an unsatisfying non-posh wank; alas, we can't have it all, can we?).

For I read this article today.
And, from personal experience and personal experimentation, I could have nearly wrote the blessed thing myself!

Ah, The Hangover.
The Devil who shows its red-eyed skull after a Night of Dancing with Amber Angels. This hideous Demon of dehydration and enzymes and toxins and embattled livers has locked its claws onto my head, clubbed its tail into my stomach, and shat smoky-sulphur fire and litter box smell into my mouth many times. Our battles are neither political nor religious; or, maybe both at once!

Weapons and shields listed and offered for battle in the article range from the Ritualistic to the Scientific. Some range from the most familiar to the most foreign of items and relics. My hands have grasp a few in Loyal Belief while my mind reels in horror from some suggested and offered.

Like all Human Battles through the Ages, the siege and defense against the Gorgon Hangover is an Individual War. As an Army of Drinkers, Quaffers, and Chuggers, we begin the evening together. We toast one another, we challenge each other to contests of shots, we go rounds and rounds in the Spirit of Camaraderie; but in The End, we fight the (De)Hydra Hangover alone on the battlefield.

We, alone, scream into the streaming dagger sunlight, "Corpsman! Corpsman! Corpsman!"

Drink deep from the stream, eat full from the wheat golden grain fields, ingest concentrated spheres of vitamins, flush thy wounded bladder, and sleep the sleep of Rip Van Winkle that night, my Liquid Legions. That is my only humble advice. That is all I can give you now, even after two lifetimes of Spiriting Slaughter and Nigh-Death Tippling.

Go forth and live!
You walk alone, you walk with me.

*I'd link credit to Artificial Industries author, A., for his coining the term "posh wank"; however, A.I. site doesn't want to load for me.

Wednesday, May 14, 2008


or teach me.

The Dresden Dolls - "Sing" Music Video

Sometimes I feel nostalgia for love from both the past and the future.
Sometimes I feel if everyone heard this song, they's get it, whatever "it" is.
Sometimes I feel like everyone is laughably rushing about, grabbing this or grabbing that; and it all turns to sand in thier grasp.
Falls to Earth and fades away.
Sometimes I think, "if I could just cut the top of my head off, tip it over like a teapot, dump the wet grey blanket out, plop the moldy brain out onto a large blank white canvas, spread it around with my shoe, it would look beautiful; this way, I could express everything I needed to show tell whisper and shout. Then I could sleep silently, and dream of something to come."
But skull remains intact, and the secret suffocates under a wet grey blanket. Moistly breathing, coughing spit, choking for a full inhalation of life.
Sometimes I want to sing.
Sometimes I want to hide under the couch.
Sometimes I feel totally indifferent apathetic bored, inescapably so.
Sometimes, but rarely, I don't think at all; and, really, this is probably when I am Singing and don't even realize it.

Thursday, May 08, 2008

A Dead Blog is worse than a Boring Blog

We're just going to pretend that line is true tonight even though the reverse probably rings more True*.

I'm bored and, ironically, sober on a Thirsty Thursday. Haven't had a drink tonight (read: to lazy to stop at the store for drinks).
And tired.
Biggie J. called off today at The Bank, "my back is bothering me," is what the voice mail said; actually, it said, "my bbaghk ith buthrin me" because the guy speaks like his mouth is filled solid with wet gauze. So the day went fairly fast and smooth doing his job and mine. And everything got accomplished correctly and on time; thus, again pointing out to me that really, we don't need him HA! Of course, if they did let him go, I wouldn't be able to cruise online or go grocery shopping on the clock, so I guess we'll keep him around.

Really I'm going crazy. Sort of. When I'm not staring off into space, half awake, my mind is filled with what could be described as the music played here. Just mildly raging with anger contempt static noise violent scratching sonic jabs. I berate myself for allowing myself to have ended up at this moment of my life.

Where did it all go sour?

I should be drifting in an Amber Ocean tonight, but I am dry on land. Twisting in the mental breezes, getting slapped in the face with needled fern leaves and rough palm branches. Sand in my eyes, grinding my pupils. Stranded on an Island of my own Making.


Where did the ship get off course? Fuck?! Did I ever really leave the dock?

Ah well. It, technically, being Friday now, hope everyone has drink on me, then ;-)

*we were wrong, a dead blog is more interesting than a boring blog. Apologies.

Monday, April 21, 2008

My Cube Went to Chicagoist...

and all I got was this AWESOME T-shirt!!!

Hell Yeah.
Finally, all those years of watching porn created a sort of Method Acting/Writing which paid off; I became the man in the story.

And then I did a little dance, again.

(I'll now be telling the ladies I am a professional blogger; I mean, a t-shirt is a form of payment, no?)

(that's right; I am a dork)

Monday, March 31, 2008

March(ing) with the black flag up

March 2008: WTF?

I'll let Henry speak for me for a couple of minutes.

It's been a soggy month in My Cube.

Car broke down for a week, walked to work.

I decided to stop seeing someone, still have to break it officially (the hardest phone call, well besides informing/being informed someone died). It wasn't really a relationship, per se, but it still sucks. I only sort of know what happened, I know how it started, I sort of know why I let it continue, but after coming back from Hawaii (stepping aside from the situation), it's like my head cleared. I did not want this. It isn't fair to either of us. It shouldn't have started. I should have broke it immediately when, upon the first or second meeting, she asked,

"Can I fuck you with a strap-on?"
"Um, no."

Mis-counted the meds, so I went halfsies for a couple of weeks. The silver-lining of which is now I know for sure, I need them. The Blue-haired Demons came back, clawing at the door and salivating for my blood. They never breached the barricades; but, damn, they made their presence known. The couch and sleep protected me from God-knows-what, and I drowned any who peeked their heads in my room at night with chilling amber. Then cowered under the covers for warmth.

But, their stench still filled My Cube's air. And now Chavo speaks for me:

And then, I get an email from my parents. They're breaking their Florida stay a month short and coming home. My Grandpa is (has been) dying. As of today, about two weeks to live. Now, the sad thing is, I'm more upset for my dad than the actual upcoming death of my grandpa. See, he and I differ on many values, but, shit, he is my grandpa, so I feel like hell not feeling....well, much.

But a re-fill of the Happy Pills kicked in just in time for my Wingman's visit from overseas. Ah, this is what I need. A couple of drunken nights out with a good friend (who needs to move his ass back here. For fuck's sake, drag that wife of yours back here by the hair!!! (just kidding Doctor!!!)). It was great as usual to see him, meet his friends, meet my friends, etc etc etc. [pics, hopefully, coming soon]

And then there's been work (mainly The Bank): I AM SO BORED.

[I'll update and add to this post later. I'm tired of typing now]

Tuesday, March 18, 2008

Mac: remembers Journalism 101 (vaguely)

Finally, all that slacking off at The Bank paid off (well, not exactly $paid$ off, but fun in any event). As you all (3 people) know, I spend about 99% of my work day here and here, passing time and attempting to be clever or something.

Progress made:

I got a caption used here.

And a photo used here. (okay, not my photo...she took the photo, but my Flickr stream was used, so that counts, right?).

In other news, my good friend Fresh is coming to town next week!!! That's right, I used 3 !!!'s because he's worth it. My main Wing man is flying in from across the pond for a little American Tour. Excellent!

We, of course, will be going out for a pint or two. Please join us, better yet, buy us rounds. And help me convince the mingy bastard he and his wife need to move to Chicago, eh?

Feeling like an abandoned house

Abandoned house
Originally uploaded by Mac(3).

Worn out
brown and white
left alone
grown over
has potential
looking for an owner
has a cat
empty inside
no trespassers wanted
but wants occupants
roof flaking away
beaten-down under the sun
better to be torn down, make room for new
boarded up
lost on the plain
for rent
for sale
off the beaten path

Saturday, March 01, 2008

Tuesday, February 05, 2008

The Waiting Game

I'm bored, and my eyes are bugging out.
"What," you may ask, "the hell are you doing? Drunk and insomnia?"

No, I've decided to stay up all night.

"Know thyself" it is written, and I do.
I know if I fell asleep at my normal time I would pull a total coma through the blaring alarms (yes, alarms, there are 3 set for every morning), and miss my cab, miss my flight and put my travel plans into complete disarray!

The last few hours trickle by filled with:

  • Padding through the apartment (tsch tsch should have cleaned more)
  • Petting Little Lilly (who is already breaking my heart at the thought of not being around her *sob*)
  • Drinking a pot of coffee
  • Worrying over the fact I only have one Camel Light remaining; considering walking to the twenty-four hour gas station up the street, but changing mind as I not in the mood to deal with the Cabbie/ Crack ho clientel there at this hour.
  • Staring, walking away, coming back and staring longer at my suitcase. Do I have everything?
  • Listening to classical music on the radio because I've learned over the past years classical music seems to stimulate something in my mind that keeps me awake (awake, not necessarily coherent).
  • Fiddling with and putting away or rearranging various knick-knacks and papers laying around the apartment.
  • Considering taking the rest of the garbage out (pfft, that's not going to happen).
  • Wasting time making lame comments here and, of course, here.
  • F.W.B? No, too late.
  • Blowing my nose, it's so dry in here.
  • Staring out the kitchen window at the empty street, slush, and fog.
  • Plucking dead leaves from my straggly, scrawny tomato plant. It did flower once. Um, one tiny yellow flower. I want a baby tomato, dammnit!
  • Zone-out on the various clocks throughout the apartment.
  • Let the Blogger "New Post" screen burn itself into my retinas, flaring my rods and cones, for minutes at a time without typing. My Cube somehow turned into My Blank Shit. Guest bloggers may be needed. HA!
  • Scroll through this.
  • Pour another coffee.
  • Look at last, lonely cigarette on microwave, "Resist, resist, man!"
  • Try to think of a paid online job to do during my full-time Bank job since I have such the large amount of down time there. And really, doesn't I Have 3 Jobs ring well with My Cube Has 3 Sides?
  • *sigh*
  • I want chocolate.

Okay, I'm boring myself.

See you all later!

Monday, February 04, 2008

Mai Tai(me)s in five hours

Yep, the count down is in the single digits.

Around Four a.m. or so, I should be lugging a suitcase through the snow and into a cab which will then swishhhhh me to O'Hare. At that point, in the wind and sleet and shouts of, "you can't park here..move along!" on some curb outside Terminal Two, I will smoke my final cigarette before I find myself trapped in the airport, airplane, Houston "Fuck you" GWB International, and another plane.

But then...then... I'll step out into the bright morning light. The whisper of salt air and waves of palm trees will great me as I strike a Camel Light (to avid protests of parents) in the land of this The Island of this Man!

That's right, after about twenty years, I will have returned to Hawaii (Doubtful, though, I'll sing and dance, especially with the eleven hour Nicotine Fit ravaging me at this point)

I remember seeing The Don in that exact setting you may have watched above.

I remember meeting a hard Rock Cafe waitress my Grandpa S. and I completely thought was a native Polynesian, and then we all laughed hard when she confessed to being from Wisconsin.

I remember my Uncle M. sneaking me my first Mai Tai at a loua (sp) at the Hilton.

I remember my dad and I taking a drive alone on Maui; we stopped at a smoking volcano and felt the heat from the red glow; we looked out at long plains which ended in mountains; we arrived at our destination, a gallery showing John Lennon's paintings and stood less than 6 feet away from Yoko Ono herself (the gallery owner told us she doesn't like to be approached).

I remember playing on a beach of black stone, running under a small white waterfall.

I remember the one hour van tour that ended up taking a winding, edge of cliff death 6 hours; and the driver taught my two cousins and I that "cuz" is Hawaiian for "dude" because in the end we are all really cousins in some way.

I remember finding the coolest cassette/t-shirt punk store around the corner from the Hard Rock Cafe, and buying a white Dead Kennedys T-shirt (with the Holidays in Cambodia Man icon) I still have it.

I remember standing near a bus stop and watching a leathery tanned man picking up a handful of cast-aside cigerette butts from the ground, then rolling his own out of the left over tobacco.

I remember Moo-moos made me and my cousins giggle (hee hee dresses for FAT people).

So who knows what memories I'll compile this year. Hopefully, loads of photos will follow soon. Some laughs and a tan would be nice. My parents got tickets for the Pro Bowl, so that'll be cool!

Until then, friends, Aloha and Mahalo!

Wednesday, January 09, 2008

I ain't got shit to say...

But R.D. has a story to tell!

Hopefully, it never turns out like that whole "toothbrush/Polaroid Spring Break" urban myth!!!