New First-born Child's Name: Supertyphoon.

"Supertyphoon, take off your galoshes!"

"What have I told you about playing ball in the house, Supertyphoon?"

Aw yea.

Link via Sgt. Stryker's Daily Briefing


Start spreadin' the news...

So I got an e-mail saying, Welcome to the NYU Class of 2007.

And basically what that means is that I'll be spending the next year, maybe four, in the center of the universe.

The Big Apple.


Tha 2-1-2.

I couldn't be more excited if you hit me with one of those Excitement Sticks they have at the store now. But you know what this means...it means I have to eke out every bit of enjoyment possible from my humble little hometown. Savor every moonlight cruise down Pecos. Every dead-end evening at Del Taco. Every Fourbanger show. Every pastel sunset over the mountains I've grown up under. Everything. Because in nine months and change, it'll be skyscrapers and A-trains.

Except, of course, for Christmas, spring break, and summer.

The future just got considerably more interesting.

I want to be a part of it...


If there's one thing the world needs more of, it's giant evil brains with a grudge bent on world domination. There'd be no more teen pregnancy. No drugs. No crime. Just brains yellin' at ya.

I sympathize with Krang. Really, I do. Meddlesome mutant amphibians are always fuckin' up my plans too.
Well you call me a genius when I write down all my fears
When I'm locked in my room all day trying to sound like it's been years
And when I exaggerate to make the meaning count
Will you count on me
Will you count me out?

- Kind Of Like Spitting, "Yes, You're Busted"

Today, I wrote the words: "Your father is the bear that killed me."

And I said the words: "That makes your ballet look like crap."

And an Asian kid hit me with his leather jacket.

And a girl meant to give me a playful shove and ended up knocking me clear out of my chair.

And my hot English teacher said she and my hot English teacher from last year just can't stop talking about a monologue I performed at an open-mic night last week, one about how I'm God's gift to women.

And the only reason to write, ever, is so pretty girls will say nice things about whatever it is you've written.

And for proof, just ask the authors of the Bible, and look at how many hot girls are Catholic.


Top down
Chrome spinnin'

Neptunes-produced songs aren't just a genre. They're a reason to live.

Chick was crazy
gave her crazy space
Was it the whip appeal
or my baby-face?

Link via Reason: Hit and Run


Van Gogh knew what time it was.

If anyone asks you who knew what time it was, you tell 'em, Vinny Van Gogh, that's who.

Just through a quick Google search, it becomes immediately clear that the guy painted about a million self portraits, and everyone of them seems to have the same expression. An expression that says: What the hell-- I'm STILL Van Gogh?

Well, one of them he has an expression that says, I'm STILL Van Gogh, and now I only have one ear. Just fantastic.

But you can say this much for him: At least he knew how he felt about himself. If I painted myself a thousand times everyone of them would be a snowflake of self-perception: utterly unique, changing with my mood or the weather or the last thing a girl said to me.

Sometimes they'd be manly rustic wood-carvings depicting me bare-knuckle boxing Abraham Lincoln, and winning. Then using his hat to strike a match to light my cigar.

Sometimes I'd be in Edward Hopper's "Nighthawks," in between the redhead and the guy in the fedora, saying to the guy behind the counter, "A piece of pie and some whisky, Sam."

Under normal circumstances, he'd insist they don't serve alcohol, but I'm a regular, and he can see by that look in my eye that this is a pie-and-whisky kind of evening.

Sometimes it'd be one of those Degas paintings with plenty of ballerinas, and granted, I wouldn't be in it, but they'd all be discussing me in hushed, reverent tones usually reserved for religious icons. If you could hear them this would be the most generous self-portrait imaginable.

And in French, too. Mmmmm.

Sometimes it's the dogs playing poker, and I'm the dog who's winning, drinking to evade the realization that all the red, blue, and white chips in the world won't change the fact that I'm a dog, and I can't go to the bathroom unless someone lets me out of the house.

Sometimes I'm the object of wild speculation and burning jealousy...

Sometimes I'm at the other end of this barrel, and French isn't so cool anymore...

and sometimes, images speak for themselves.

And then sometimes I'm back at the diner, and Sam is saying, "At least Van Gogh was consistent."

"Consistently nuts, maybe," I say. Seems the only thing constant is the redhead's refusal to make eye contact. So here I am again, alone with whisky, pie, and muddled-self perception.

It's that kind of evening.

Everyone's favorite Canadian answers my question:

I'm going to take this as tacit support for Allan Rock's candidacy in the Liberal leadership. He comes by the surname honestly, as most Canadians know--he hung out with John and Yoko back when he was humble student politician "Al Rock". Too bad the gun-registering Minister of Injustice didn't pursue that whole Bagism thing instead of joining the Liberals.

Wow. No one who supports destructive gun-control policies could be the head of The Rock Harders. If there was such a party, their leader would doubtlessly coast into the parliament building on a jetski, although since there'd be no water, it would have to be pulled by a team of supermodels. Once there, he would declare it Guitar Solo Day.

Canadian politics are bitchin'.


ASU sent me a letter.

Not a letter saying, "You're in," but a letter saying, "We're thinking about it."

Come on, ASU. You're the town bicycle of universities. The Rizzo. The Jezebel. We all know you'll spread for anything with a pulse, educationally speaking, so let's not play these games. Save me the money and the time we'd spend on dinner and a movie and skip right to where we both know this is going. Don't play coy and chaste with me, sister. I know I'm in, you know I'm in.

So let me in.

NYU, USC, UCLA, they can afford to play hard-to-get. They're the minister's daughters: I have to charm my way in, impress their folks, bring them flowers, whisper sweet nothings in their virginal ears. They have something worth waiting for.

ASU? You have that inverse supply-and-demand curve that every other slut on the block does. The less you have to give, you think the more you have to give it.

So give it. And maybe I'll call you tomorrow.
Question to the Madpony girls: How hard is it being smart, funny, hot, good at HTML, Oklahoman, and (probably) idolized by thousands of dirty old men? Because I'm considering changing careers.

Question to Colby Cosh: Is one of Canada's political parties really called "The Alliance?" That is fuckin' sweet!

Okay, so it wasn't really a question so much as it was a statement of fucking-sweetness. Because even if they were in favor of mandatory kitten-drownings, I think I'd just have to vote for "The Alliance" every time. Unless they were up against a party called the RockHarders. In which case, you know, no contest.

I swear to Jeebus I'm bipolar.

I mean, seriously. When it comes to self-perception, I'm either the scum of the earth or the point around which it revolves. There is no in-between.

When I put everything off 'till the last minute and probably screw up my future and my sleeping schedule to boot, which do I think I am?

And when I write forty pages of script in twenty four hours and a good portion of them are worthwile, and the manager of my favorite local band e-mails me to say, yes, we'd love to have you interview us and play a show at your school, which do I think I am?

Two guesses.



A boy, his dog, and a tree full of monkeys "smack dab in the middle of the Cherokee Nation in Oklahoma."

That's the tagline from a book my brother's reading, "Summer of The Monkeys," which is sitting next to the keyboard. But the more I think about it, the more it reminds me of me. Without the dog, the monkeys, or Oklahoma.

Boy? Check.

Chelsea W. is just the best. She e-mailed me to find out why I'm not in school today and to say she misses me. Baby, I am a victim of my own procrastination. Thank you for asking.