I'm bleeding tired tonight, but actually going to bed feels like surrendering to having to work tommorow. Something I don't want to have to do. If there's one thing I won't surrender to, it's work. I think we've proved that beyond the shadow of a doubt.

My friends have invented a name for the "me" that I am online, in my diary and on my blog and things. He's called Online Donald. It's not radically different or anything. I use big words in real life, Online Donald uses big words online. In real life I tell people how great Elvis Costello is and nobody cares, and Online Donald rhapsodizes to no effect about the genius of "My Aim Is True." It's just that Online Donald gets to appear all writerly and poetic, because until the blog, nobody out there in radioland knew what I looked like.

Now you do. Try to keep the marriage proposals to under 1,000 words, my Yahoo mail account is crowded as hell.

But until this, you had no idea. You could build your own me, so to speak. Think that maybe I lived up to the lofty aspirations of the writing, maybe I was just this funny and cool in real life. Everything out of my mouth was gold. Or maybe you figured I was a computer-addicted loser who finessed the online stuff because in real life he can't walk three feet without tripping, who has a psuedo-mullet because he's too lazy to get a haircut (tommorow, I promise.) You would've been right if you thought the second one. Here's a cookie.

If you look at this picture the right way, it looks like I have massive Popeye forearms. Then blink and look back, they're praying-mantis arms. If you stumble into the room drunk in the middle of the night and then stare through your gauzy state at the monitor, I look sort of like Steven Seagal. I promise. Go get some whiskey and we'll prove it.

The Beastie Boys said it best when they said, Girls/that's all I really want is girls. In a way, I miss middle school, and freshman year, maybe, too, because then all I had to do was notice a girl, develop a ridiculous infatuation with her, create every aspect of her personality to my specifications and not really ever talk to her, hoping against hope that something would happen so I could be really good and bitter when it never did. That was great. I always got what I wanted, because what I really wanted, I think, secretly, was to be alone and pissed off. Such a glamorous thing to be. No one actually wants their dreams fufilled, because if they are we don't have anything to write about. I think I've lost that ability, though, to construct these towering crushes. I can barely like a girl, now. I have subtle interest in plenty of women, 'cause damn, they seem to be everywhere and be cute as hell and have funny things to say. But I could really fetishize a girl back in the day, I'd build you a shrine in my head and you wouldn't even know it, votive candles and pictures of your smile and everything, you wouldn't even notice me and to me you'd be everything. Can't do that anymore. I've learned. It was dumb and I always ended up hurt without even having tried a damn thing. But now I can't even focus on one girl. They all seem like they'd be romantically disinterested anyway, except for this one. I appreciate her more than the world for reminding me that I can be liked, it's happened before and it'll probably happen again, but I can't work up the courage to really get to know her, for some reason.

Maybe it's more fun for me to shut out people who want to be with me so I can write thunderous paragraphs about being alone.

Dumb, dumb, dumb.

"There were a lot of things that I wouldn't have to do again. Like messing up my life just so I could write stupid little songs about it."

-Elvis Costello


If someone ever asks you what the best song ever is, you can say "Anne Arbour" by the Get Up Kids and not really be wrong.
My mouth is currently a big sweaty red cavern of pain. I was jumping back on stage after the show on Saturday night and managed, graceful fucking swan that I am, to knee myself in the face, leaving this painful little crater on the inside of my lip. Like a cold sore, only it hurts more. And now, for some reason I can't recall (although it probably stems from more klutzery) the tip of my tounge is all raw and taste-less. It's a scary place to be right now, my mouth, I didn't even mention the oral herpes or the wooden dentures.

I've always got some sort of unintentionally self-inflicted injury cramping my style, it's just one of the many benefits of being a complete boob. When I signed up for the "Clumsy Doof" model body at the gates of this mortal coil, they said, "You know you'll be walking around all the time with scars because of all the constant tripping over shit, right?" But I went ahead anyway. The other models available were "Wafer-Thin French Supermodel" and "Finely Tuned Trackstar," but this one seemed like it'd be lower upkeep. I was right. But there are other unintended consequences.

There's a big drawerful of college brochures and applications I've been neglecting for the past six months to a year. Their tortured moaning is starting to get louder and louder; they beg to be filled out and sent in. The papery bastards are in league with guidance counselors and teachers and everyone who won't let me forget that I'm standing on a quickly eroding cliff overhanging a void called "The Future" and I can't ignore the void much longer. But I keep trying. I've got a lot of distractions. The more numerous the looming responsibilities, the more feverently I play computer pinball and read blogs and do plays and take naps.

Talked to Kim my ex-girlfriend tonight online. Seems like the first time she's logged on in ever, she was confused by the whole blog phenomenon. So am I, really. It shows.


Thursday is this Chelsea's eighteenth birthday. To mark the occasion, here's a cheapskate's idea of a good present.

Chelsea W: an 18th birfday Blog Tribute in Words and Pictures

18 is an important milestone. This probably spells the end of her days deflowering two or three freshman boys at a time. Am I kidding? Is she really a devout Christian girl who thinks that teenage relationships are too immediately physical? Has she ever even touched a boy? I could tell you, but that would really ruin the whole indecipherable enigma thing she’s got going on.

These are the facts as we know them:

- She doesn’t eat meat, not so much because she likes animals (in fact, she’s head of the campus-wide “Fuck The Stupid Animals” initiative) but because it screws with her stomach.

- She just made Urban Dance Troop yesterday because she is more street, more urban, more real than any girl in school, far and away. Some say she founded the Crips. Others are not so sure.

- She plays a mean guitar. I’ve never seen her actually hold one, but that’s just how good she is. You just believe it. She also plays the flute. Hell, she could probably play the glockenspiel, if anyone knew what that was.

- She harbors this horrible burning crush on Rivers Cuomo, lead singer of Weezer. And why not? Don’t all girls want a man they could probably beat at arm wrestling? (They’d better, I’m damn near counting on it.)

- She’s the President of Ceramics Club. Anyone who is not amazed by this fact is not familiar with the bloody intrigue surrounding the world of pottery. In this vicious land, power is kept and held through force. If you have to smash a pinch-pot over a lackey’s skull just to demonstrate your power, you do it. If you have to hold your rival’s head to the pottery wheel and turn the thing on “high,” you do that, too, if you intend to keep your hands on the tiller of Ceramics Club, and Chelsea does. Which is why her enemies are known to end up at the bottom of local reservoirs with big fat sacks of clay tied to their ankles. By any means necessary, that’s her motto. Sometimes you just gotta kill a guy is her other one.

- She lays the mack on so thick you can barely see through it when she’s done. Case in point: this boy she calls “J-Lo.” She’s got him wrapped around her finger, and that finger is shoved in a big ol’ slice of You’re-My-Bitch-Berry Pie. She is in touch with her inner pimp, and that inner pimp don’t take “no” for an answer, unless you wanna get slapped. You wanna get slapped? HUH?

- She’s my favorite person I’ve met all year and she brightens up my days like you wouldn’t believe.

Happy birthday, pal.
There's a good good chance that if you're seeing this blog right now, it's because you clicked a link on Tony Pierce's busblog. It's obvious, then, that you are a websurfer of discriminating tastes. Maybe you plan to stay a while, kick off your shoes, soak up some fine bloggery (bloggage? bloggitude?). Fine. There are some things you should know:

- I have an illegitimate son named Home Run Pie

- Legendary economist Thorstein Veblen lives in my attic, and he only comes out at night, to fuck everyone's mother. (Literally, everyone. I recommend locking yours up if she doesn't want to get her world rocked by the Veblenator)

- I'm a cuddler, I like to be held, metaphorically speaking

- I know way too many Chelseas for my own good and they all have blogs

- If you like high school girls or cute little kids, I'm constantly surrounded by both and their pictures occasionally end up here, so stick around (you sick freak)

- I once shot a man in Reno, just to watch him die

- I'm a cuddler, I like to be held, physically speaking

- I'll stick around and make breakfast, I promise...just stay with me tonight, oh baby, oh girl

What I'm really trying to say is:

can you love this man?

Thanks for the link, Tony.


Playing In My Head All Day: "Born To Lose," Bouncing Souls

Now Playing: "Cool For One Night," Hot Rod Circuit

There's no play going on for a week and change, so I'm napping up every afternoon like it ain't no thang. I woke up tonight and went to work, only to feel my head and realize what it was I had wanted to do this afternoon. Oh, haircut, right. It's really getting desperate. If I let it grow out a little more it'd be kind of emo-y, and if I cut it off I'll look like me, but right now it's in this horrible terrible in-between place. Is there some kind of sign I can wear saying, "No, I don't really look like this, I'm just too fucking lazy to get a haircut?" But the thing is, I really DO look like this. Ewww.

Ryne Sandberg came into the store tonight. Weird that I should shrug off bagging groceries for the guy some people consider to be the greatest 2nd baseman to ever step on the field, but it wasn't too surprising. His kid just graduated MP last year. Baseball greats live all over the hills of Ahwautukee; my brother has 6th grade English with Curt Schilling's daughter. So I really can't afford to get all worked up just 'cause some would-be hall-of-famer wants to buy groceries. Now, maybe if the Babe's skeleton had come in and bought a bottle of gin, some cigars and a Maxim, that would've turned my head.

AZ Cardinal players come into Fry's all the time, too, but we don't bag their groceries. It's against store policy. We make them do it themselves, and spit bitterly upon them, because they're a buncha bums. (They won this weekend, but we'll say it was a fluke and leave the easy Cardinals joke where it lies.)

I'm always throwing out things I want to name my firstborn child, things like Hot Gay Sex and Sodomy. But tonight I'm sure I've settled on the proper name, after seeing what some customer purchased this evening. My first child shall be known as Home Run Pie.

Fucking right leg still hurts like a bitch.

Ben has a blog now. Go there and read his rant about capital-F Feminism. I'm sure he's in a Womens' Studies class for the fine tail. He's not a player, he just fucks a lot. Ben holds the record for Most Piercing Eyes I've Ever Seen On A Human Being. Seriously. Don't look directly into them, or you'll see your soul reflected and go nuts. Just avert your eyes and nod and smile.

I actually wrote today in fourth hour, actually wrote play. I have no idea where I'm going half the time and sometimes actually writing out a plot only makes it worse, and most everything that comes out sounds terrifically lame, and it's not in the least bit funny. But I wrote.

Theatre Company is going to start challenging other clubs to softball games, publicly because it's a good way to create inter-club solidarity or some such, but privately because it'll be a lot of fun to talk smack and have rivalries and beat the pants of choir kids. It don't take too much effort to beat those pants off, though. Them's some big pants. I actually singled a couple of times when we played Monday night, after realizing I haven't swung a bat with the intent of hitting a ball in god-knows-how-long. Usually when I swing a bat, it's trying to squeeze rent out of some shivering orphans, or smashing cell phones and computers to demonstrate my contempt for technology and my desire to throw off the chains of Corporate America, man. Tommorow night is more softball. Perhaps I'll bring Home Run Pie, if he finishes his homework and I feel he's made enough sneakers to justify letting him out of the cellar.

Further on down the trail, amigos.

I just had the sudden urge to hang out at a pub. I don't even drink, and we don't even have pubs. But I had this desperate momentary longing to hang out at a dank pit with a "footy" game playing in the background. Is that healthy?

Chelsea says my features are just "perfect"...perfectly funny, that is. Says I look like a turtle. I says shut up.

Actual playwrighting getting done today. Promise.


Whatup, DC's right leg.

How's it goin', pally.

Listen, right leg, I'm gonna dispense with the pleasantries and get right down to brass tacks, if you don't mind.

Not at all. I respect a man who gets right to the point. It's an honor to be attached to your torso.

Yea, well, you certainly don't act like it.

How do you mean?

Why do you have to interfere with my honest efforts to get thin and sexy as hell?

I'm afraid I still don't follow.

Oh, I think you do. I've tried to run five nights a week, and for almost three months now I've been successful.

And for that I commend you. I'd like to think I have something to do with your consistency, although the left leg surely shares at least forty percent of the credit.

I think its share is higher than that, if we can be perfectly honest. Good ol' left leg hasn't been bothering me with unexplainable pains ever since I started running.

They can be explained.

I should hope so.

I'm your dominant leg. While standing, you lean on me a large percentage of the time, and during these periods, I undergo greater wear-and-tear than the left leg. Also, you use me for driving, kicking the occasional soccer ball or skull of a vanquished foe.

True. But that doesn't explain all the pain, now does it? If anything, it should make you stronger, all this extra use.

Are you a physician?

No, but neither are you. You're a limb composed of bone, flesh, and sinew.

Bone, flesh, sinew and anger. Anger at the mistreatment I receive as the dominant leg. Anger expressed through occasional nagging pains when you run on me.

Alright, alright. What do you want?

First, Wedensday is No-Right-Leg day. If you want to hop around on lefty or get someone to wheel you around, that's fine, just don't use me for anything.

No deal.


They're can't be a second term when I won't agree to the first.

Can I finish? Second, on the days that you do use me, I want to be outfitted with some kind of golden stocking.


Is it wrong to want to look good?

Is there something you want to tell me, right leg?

I just did. Wednesday is No-Right-Leg-Day, and all the other days are Look-At-Right-Leg's-Pretty-Gold-Stocking Days.

No. Look, it's in your interest not to interfere with this running thing. I've gotten a little thinner since we started, that's good. There's not a single muscle on my body, though. I thought I spotted one the other day, but it was just some dirt I forgot to wash off. But if we run and get dead sexy, then we won't have to walk around as often, because we'll have women lining up to bring us beverages and sandwiches and things. You like sandwiches, don't you?

No. I like rest. And pretty anklets.

I'm going to pretend I didn't hear that.

YOU like sandwiches. And all other manners of food. I think that may be the real problem here. How did you get yourself motivated to run tonight?

I was hungry, and I figured after I ran I could have a bowl of Cocoa Puffs and go to sleep.

Exactly. You don't want to committ fully to this fitness thing, and so long as you don't, neither do I.

Baby steps, righty, baby steps. I like cereal. And cookies. And anything you can put between two slices of bread. I'm not running so I can become Hercules, I'm running so I can enjoy life's finer things, like Wendy's ninety-nine cent double stacks, without becoming a complete tub and being unable to enjoy life's other finer things, like the occasional girl finding me semi-attractive, you know, if she squints or something.

You'll never learn, will you? Laziness always gets the best of you.

Not laziness. Just misplaced effort. I wasn't lazy writing this interview with you. But these were all lines that could've ended up in the play.

If the play was about somebody's surly right leg. Is it?

No. It's about...clones.


Oh, shut up. Wake up lefty and carry me to the kitchen so I can get down on those promised Cocoa Puffs.

You win this round.

And so long as I control you, I'l wind every round. Now hop to it.

Interview format shamelessly stolen from Tony Pierce, Blog-god among men, pimp of the nation, who we should all aspire to be more like. Well, I do. Obviously. But he said really nice things in my comments section. That's like Randy Johnson telling you you've got a heck of a throwing arm. Thanks, Tony.
I actually brought the play in today on disk to work on in fourth hour. I fully intended to do some good quality work. I put the disk in this aged machine, and it starts wheezing and coughing like a guy with one lung who's just run the Boston Marathon. I try to open the file, no luck. More wheezing.

How come whoever is in the driver's seat of this crazy universe keeps giving me so many reasons to procrastinate?

On the plus side, Chelsea was going to do an internship thing, like I was, but now she's in Advanced Studies. Her project (mine is the play): She's going to write and record a five-song EP. Isn't that awesome?

The answer: Yes, that is awesome. I have Humanities I should be doing. Peace.
To the woman whose big black SUV I barely tapped at a stop sign this morning: I'm sorry. But you kept driving, so I did too. I feel guilty, if that helps. Even if there was no visible damage.

I hate having an overactive conscience.
In case you're wondering, eleven pages and fifteen pages are pretty much the exact same thing. Ask anyone. And if they say otherwise, I find a good pistol-whipping gets just about anyone to agree with just about anything. Except guys with no nervous system. They are notoriously unswayed by physical violence. Which is why killing them is pretty much par for the course.

It's not easy to be a reasonable man in an unreasonable world filled with punchable faces and breakable kneecaps. But I'm tryin'. Lord, I am tryin'.

Alecia (pictured above getting licked by Tim) has a blog now. But she didn't tell me where or what it is before she logged off. Sniff.



Red Bull Energy Drink tastes like Mountain Dew if it had been developed in the Soviet Union. Or Sweet Tarts and pee.

But a case of it appeared in front of my house underneath an old t-shirt, so who am I to argue.

I told myself I would write have fifteen pages of this damn play I've committed to doing written by tonight. I have six that I wrote a week and a half ago, and I haven't touched the thing in any productive way since. You'd think somebody who waxes poetic about being a writer so often would occasionally do some, you know, writing, especially when it came down to the wire like this. But no. I'm reading bloggage about Iraq and looking at my purdy pictures and talking to Lil' Chelsea and writing here, anything to avoid actually doing this work. And in a minute, I'm going to be doing it, and eventually I'll get in a groove and funny things will start happening and I'll be enjoying myself, and I'll wonder why I hesitated so long, like I always do. I know it. And yet here I am.

Just went in to work at ten, because it seemed like the right thing to do and when I work on Sundays that's usually when I'm scheduled, only to find out I'm not supposed to come in 'till twelve. So here I am, 10:04. I could be sleeping right now, easy. It's like giving a condemned man his last meal and walking him to the chamber, he's coming to terms with his life as he walks, so he's finally at peace when he reaches the door. But when it's opened, there's a bunch of prison workers fiddling around with the machinery. We're sorry, they say, could you come back in a couple of hours, maybe?

So I'm being over-dramatic. But I'm not particularly fond of my job, and I like to get it over with as quickly as possible.

Back to bed, I think.

Here, you can be anything

Anything that scares you

I think that scares you

- Jimmy Eat World, "Just Watch The Fireworks"

Nothing gold can stay. And it turns out things that are yellow are the same way. Boats, for instance.

This play has been a longer haul than some, since it was cast last May, with a few rehearsals over the summer, and five weeks of rehearsal during the year. I poured over the script in a hotel room in New York, I crammed lines on the plane back home, because the first rehearsal was going to be the day after I got back. Then the show went with me to San Diego, and in a way, it hasn't left.

It won't, I think, ever. We're done, in the technical sense. The set came down tonight (it was simple, it didn't take long.) Our costumes have been hung back up or taken home, makeup's put away, the props are back in the cage. The little world we built has been broken down to its component parts, and scattered. We'll see pieces of it, later, in other shows, rendered unrecognizable by a new coat of paint or a different hat. The only place the show still lives is in us. If anyone were to say to me, "A beautiful boy," my response would inevitably be "Seven pounds, six ounces."

People have favorite shows and best shows that they've done, because sometimes the highest-quality show wasn't the most fun to do, and sometimes the most entertaining show for the cast looks like a pile of cat shit to an audience. Now, for me, and lots of people, I'm willing to bet, this is both. We made something special. We took this story about a brave little boy and we gave it to every person in the audience, they took it and they're going to keep it. That's fantastic. Something we made, all of us stupid little teenagers preoccupied with sex and rumors and punk rock, something we made is going to last. Most people never get to say that. We get to. We are incredibly lucky.

To these people, you have made my life for the past few months unbelievably good. It's not a healthy condition to know that you can count on three hours of joy five days a week, and it's a bitch of a withdrawl to leave that. But it's over now. We'll talk about it like a war we were in, something we were lucky to live through, shrouded in mystery and mysticism and that way memory has of skewing everything. It's been real. Thank you.

Something I wrote in my Creative Writing journal on Thursday:

Where I'd want to be all the time is where I already am half the time: The theatre. It's not the rigging that makes it special, or half-finished plywood worlds, taken apart and reassembled based on the demands of a script. It's not the rows of seats, or the velvet curtain, or the vaulted stage ceiling that seems less and less tall every year I return to it, it's the people. Friends, laughter and gentle mockery and in-jokes and spontaneous singeing, stuff termed "gay" by outsiders because they've never known what it is to be completely at ease, without limits or fear of judgement. Sleep is a small price to pay for admission into this world, this world that branches out and becomes so many others when the lights hit it. Late nights are nothing when they are spent here with this most amazing group of people.

We have a terrible habit of milling around after rehearsals, shows, there's no rush to leave. We're all just trying not to go back home, because your house is full of sleeping people and homework and a cold dinner, but your home is here, with all of us.

"Stop. New drawing."