Don't know what to tell you, my friend, but tonight all I felt was old, and it wasn't the makeup wrinkles on my face either.

Spot the understatement: I draw a great deal amount of satisfaction from acting.

I am full of omlette and pancake, and I realize how lame it is to end a bunch of entries in a row with the realization that I should be on the pillow rather than the keyboard, but it's been a L-O-N-G week.

Chelsea W. accidentally hit me in the face with a raquetball today in Economics...don't ask. It was funny. But she felt bad. Go look at her site, as she's going to change the layout here soon enough. Last chance for a peek at those charming apples.
After the post office, the world was Technicolor and golden oldies.

And now I get to take a nap.


I listen to a lot of rap and as a result I never want to just START a post.

I want someone to come out up front and go, Yea. Uh-huh. Ham-fisted Records. Brand new fo two-fousand-two. My hype-man, so to speak.

But here goes anyway.

Tonight was the first night of the show and it rocked pretty hard for a show where I skipped a couple of pages and a somewhat necessary prop wasn't there. Is something an epiphany if you have it every couple of months? 'Cause it's an epiphany every time the lights come up and lo and behold, there's an audience out there, they laugh, they clap, and oh yea, this is why I'm here. Not so much an epiphany as a reminder. But a hell of a fun one. Yee-haw.

Gots to go watch this makeup off.

I said "Brand new for two-fousand-two" for that lame-ass post?

Shut up, hype-man.

Bitch, next time you need someone to need someone to inform the crowd that you're the "TRUEST GANSTA ALIVE" or that yes, this is the REMIX, you best find somebody else. I'm informing Hype-Man Local 10993 that you ain't even keepin' it real.

I kept it real twice as much as usual last week to make up for this week. I swear.

Yea, whatever. Fuckin' whiteboy.

The Kind Of Like Spitting CD was the best 10 bucks I ever spent. Best 10 bucks that didn't result in a case of syphillis, anyway.


WHAT THE FUCK is what you'd say if you were me in the school parking lot at seven tonight at the key, you know, the ignition key that's supposed to IGNITE something in your car is igniting nothing but silence and your temper, and oh, the loudest cussword ever, one that shakes your windows and hurts your ears.

And then your hands, just sort of flailing around angrily, push the headlight knob in just out of habit. You can't push the headlight knob in unless the headlight knob has been pulled out. Out, meaning headlights on. Headlights on all day in the school parking lot 'cause it was dark this morning when you pulled in.

Suddenly the lack of ignition is making a lot more sense. Greg is good enough to give you a ride home, and on the way you discuss his plans for the future and he admires the fact that you're applying to NYU. Senior year is one of those bootleg windshield stickers with Calvin peeing on something and cackling evilly. Calvin is reality, he's pissing on your hopes. That's Senior Year. It's that, and the words "Shouldn't I be sleeping in and neglecting every motherfucking thing? How did I miss out on that?"

After dress rehearsal, I came home and finished my NYU online application. Clicked the "send" button not so much out of a sense of completeness and confidence but just a desire to get something fucking DONE. Now all I have to do is get a counselor recommendation from Mr. Scott and a teacher recommendation from Mrs. Idler and have my dad fill out a bunch of financial aid stuff and finish my twenty-five page portfolio (a excerpt from the play) and mail some forms they won't let you submit electronically, and as long as all this stuff is postmarked by Friday, well, then a council of elders on an island thousands of miles away decides my fate.

And I'm thinking, scraps of paper and directed electron streams, these are what my future is riding on? And then it occurs, naturally, life is people and moments and all that, but that fragility is resting on a thousand miniscule things, the air in your tires, the structural integrity of a latex condom, little gold bands, little chunks of lead, rubber stamps. In the end, a million tiny trinkets conspire to make you who you are, or aren't. It's enough to make you want to shut yourself off in an airtight room and not breathe too heavy for fear of upsetting the million conspiring trinkets.

Tonight, I laid on the cold concrete of the driveway after running, where my truck would be on any other day. If I hadn't left my stupid lights on, I thought, there would be ten tons of steel where instead I have this view of stars.

Not everything is tragedy and anticlimax, say the stars.

I know, I say, they're just more fun to write about.

You should go to bed, say the stars.

And you know, they're right. Not for the first time, either.

Trevor got his car back today.


People have fucked-up tastes in things, of that there is no doubt and even before the Internet we were relatively sure of it.

But only on the Internet can their fucked-up taste in things steer them your way without you even intending it.

Case in point: Sitemeter tells me that tonight someone found my site after searching on Google for those two magical words that always set young hearts aflutter:

rat dicks.

I sincerely hope, anonymous search-engine journeyman, that you found here what the rest of the world was remiss in providing you, that is to say, buckets and buckets of rodent cock-and-balls. And you haven't, I can't help feeling, that in some small way (almost as small as, oh, I don't know, a mouse's peeny) that I have failed.

Actual message left on our machine, 11:05 am today:
Uh, hello, Kay, this is Richard just wanted to let you know I'm looking forward to our dinner together tomorrow evening, uh, I think we made it for five o'clock, didn't we? Anyway, letting you know that I'm conforming our get-together, and really looking forward to it. Anybody that's five foot three a hundred and eight pounds got to have something going for them, heh. So anyway, god bless, you have a great day, and see you tomorrow evening at 'round five o'clock, okay? Buh-bye.

Unless Richard, who cannot dial a phone number correctly and titters creepily, and the guy who logs on in search of rat dick, unless these guys are the same person, that will be exactly two too many weird fucking people in the world.

Chelsea H's new banner is cool-lookin' and makes me jealous
real Super-size homo jackass is my new favorite insult