Katie the pirate says her ass sometimes looks good.

And I say, Katie, that's just a gal-darn shame, because you know what? My ass ALWAYS looks good. And I do mean always. Go to sleep, wake up, roll over, still looks good. Cover my eyes like you'd do playing peek-a-boo with an infant and say "Oh no, where's DC's ass? Where's DC's ass" then pop out and say "there it is!" and it still looks good. Even in death, I imagine I might still have dumps like a truck. This is just one good-lookin' ass.

The problem is, it doesn't always look good on me.

I'll be driving around town, when I'll see it walking down the street, a couple of superfine ladies on each arm...well, cheek...looking so nice that for a second I'm too busy admiring it to realize that it's mine, and that THAT'S why the bench seat in the truck is so harsh on me today.

I'll walk into my room and wonder when I got such swanky bachelor decor, only to realize that my ass has completely redecorated on one of its out-of-body sojourns. How do I know this? Because my room is full of hipsters in denim jackets two sizes too small for them, waify Russian models, and trendy techno musicians with names like Orbit and Penumbra and DJ Nunkicker. And at the center of it all, there's my ass, looking just comfy as hell in a bean bag chair, talking to some architecht or performance artist.

"Hi ass."

Can I do somethin' for you, man?

"Uhmm-- can I have my wallet? I was gonna go buy some gum."

Yea, that's cool. Sergei! Hand this man his wallet.

Sergei the architect reaches into one of the pockets in trendy wrinkled jeans I'd never buy my ass, and withdraws my wallet, which is looking worse for wear.

Oh, snap, hey, I forgot, I sorta spilled martini on it last night. Things got a little wild down at the lounge, y'understand. Hope you don't mind.

"No, hey, it's cool. So, see you tonight, I guess?"

But he's already gone back to discussing The Stooges with Sergei and I leave, only to hear, over my shoulder Hey everybody, who's down for some naked hot-tubbing? followed by what can only be the trademark whoops and hollers of a bunch of hip artists and models who've just been entreated to engage in wet-n'-wild hot tub shenanigans by some guy's disembodied ass. And I die, a little.

Then it'll be the middle of the night and I'll be sleeping, assless, as is becoming more and more common, and my phone will ring. I'll wake up, still assless, and answer it.


Hey man it's your ass.

"Yea...Jesus, what time is it."

Hey yea I don't really know but I'm kinda in a bad part of town and I don't really got a ride home so you think you could, uh, you know, maybe swing by and get me?

And I'll sigh and say yes in a tone that's supposed to come off as scolding but I think it just comes out more desperate. And then I'll get into the truck, and drive down to wherever his reckless partying has taken him this time, and he'll climb in like nothing happened. And I'll half-heartedly chastise him and I don't think he's even listening. What I really want to ask is if maybe I could sit on him and things could be the way they were, if only for a second. Before bed he'll utter some boilerplate about how he's going to change this time, really, and I don't believe it, but I want to.

Because seriously. That is one fine-looking ass.


When I was little, I don't remember what grade, but there was going to be a talent show at school. This was elementary school, I know that. In middle school I woulda been WAY too cool for that kind of thing, and by too cool I mean too busy playing collectible card games about wizards in basements with this kid and a bunch of Asians. I wanted to be in the talent show, because my parents had somehow convinced me that I was special and worthy of attention. I told my mom as such.

"You know," she said, in her most placating maternal tone, "you can't read in the talent show."

I don't remember what my answer to that was. In a lot of ways I think I'm still answering.

She also told me to try my best in everything. Which is why the bottom of every post says "DC Pierson dishonored his family," because quite often, these posts are examples of what happens when you don't try your best.

But anyway, now I know what I would do. I just discovered a new talent I never knew I possessed. If I could hop in my time machine and go back to that fateful day in that fateful grade, the one I can't quite remember specifically, and get up on that stage, all the kids would say, "Holy shit, you're tall!"

And I'd say "Shut up and sit down, I'm about to be talented here, you little snots."

And they'd sit back down on that cafeteria tile that always smelled like chocalate milk, as I cued the drum roll. Oh, I forgot to mention that. I brought my drummer back in time with me too. My personal drummer Tito. Tito, blog audience. Blog audience, Tito. Anyway, Tito would give me a good snare roll and he'd do a rim shot and the crowd would gasp as I deftly began to wiggle my ears.

Grades K through five would rip up in applause. The cafeteria ladies would weep. They would all be astounded at this nearly-full-grown eighteen year old who'd travelled anywhere between eight and twelve years back in time to share with them the gift of a couple of well-wiggled ears, and his personal drummer, who smells like Pomade and cigars. Then some bratty red-faced fat kid in the front would stand up, and would quell the torrent of applause with this declaration: "So what? I could do that too!"

The kid didn't bring a drummer so he doesn't get a dramatic snare-roll like mine, but he tries anyway. And so yea, his ears wiggle, but he's only doing it by moving his jaw around. And I'd tell him just that, and the whole school would laugh and point at the kid who dared challenge the master ear-oscillator. Then I'd take everyone out for ice cream, and then I'd have to take Tito back home to the present so he could catch Sabado Gigante.

Because we'd put a ripple in the space-time continuum, some of the girls in the audience who were forth graders would be my age now. And they'd walk up and remark, "Hey, weren't you that guy who did that ear thing and then we all had ice cream?" and I'd say, why yes, it seems like such a long time ago. And they'd ask, "why are you wearing the same clothes."

To which I naturally wouldn't respond. I'd just press my finger to their lips, as if to say, Shh, let me take care of questions of temporal distortion and masterful ear manipulation. You just make sure your parents aren't home this afternoon.
The world is its most photogenic when viewed by the man with no camera.

Today we were in the scene shop seventh hour, and I went out on stage just for a second. There, at center stage, was a single music stand, and a trombone, standing naked in the lights. I'm not a big trombone fetishist or anything, but for some reason it was fantastic. One of those things, like girls or laughter or The Beatles, to which clunky words do no justice.

Stupid broken camera on this stupid gorgeous cloudy day.
Spent all night writing epic verse about elephants. Don't ask. Then I read the Bleat and ate Special K with Red Berries and now at two AM I'm going to sleep.

It's a good thing my friends are such good writers.

There were no more elephants in the Bronx Zoo,
The creatures were nowhere to be found
At the Albany Zoo, they’d gone missing there, too
There was just a big hole in the ground.


Filled up the other tank tonight.

The truck has two gas tanks, sixteen gallons each. I filled up one the other night, for roughly what most small countries spend on defense in a year. Figured I'd better fill up the other one, before the price of unleaded goes from "Buttfuck" to "Total Unlubed Ass-Blast From The Philidelpia 76ers." I remember a month ago, where it was merely "Sort Of Unsatisfying Bang With No Call The Next Day." Those were the days. Hamburgers cost a nickel and ten cents got you into the movie-house where you could watch flickery filmstrips about trains almost running over fair maidens all day. And if a man had a handlebar moustache and one of those bikes with the one huge wheel, well, he was doing alright. I miss that.

Trevor's dog Pepper goes under the knife tommorrow. I have known Pepper just about as long as I've known Trevor, that is to say, eight years. And he wasn't a puppy back then, either. This is an old dog. But you'd be hard-pressed to find a better one.

Anyway, the important thing isn't how long I've known Pepper. The important thing is, Pepper has known me just as long. You see, every day for a summer or two back in elementary school, T-murder and I would adjourn to his house after a summer theater program we did. And like all growing boys must, we'd eat. His mom makes a fine peanut butter and jelly sammich. I ate like I did, and still, for the most part, do everything: with great abandon, and great sloppiness. Pepper didn't take long to learn this, and had me all staked out before long. Whatever crumbs didn't lodge themselves in the crevasses of my enormous shirts were all his.

Now, on the rare occassions I eat at their house, he's there, hovering. Waiting for me to return to my old habits. I've grown a couple feet and lost a couple pounds, but he knows my scent at that fundemental canine level, and dammit, the scent means tasty morsels of whatever the people are eating.

And tommorrow, the wonderful dog that appreciated my fat middle-school ass probably more than anyone is getting surgery to remove some boils, and he may not make it out. But I think he will. That schnauzer's got moxie.

Pepper, you's a warrior.

I think one thing you could get every nation to agree on is that dogs ought to be granted immortality. All of them going to heaven isn't good enough.


Oh shit, dawg.

Imagine the smartest person you know.

Then imagine that person could snap your neck with a flick of their wrist. And wrote poetry. And was Mexican, and bald.

Then imagine they just got a blog.

And you'd have Guillermo. But you wouldn't know what the hell to do with him.

Mr. Meyer, my Humanities teacher, is just ridiculously cool. Case in point, we're doing a synthesis project, where we have to pick one thinker, one artist, and one activist and tie them all together. He broadened the parameters of "activist," though (it's not his assignment) because all the suggestions tended to be Left-leaning. So now it's anyone who takes ideas and actually puts them into practice (businessmen and such), rather than getting petitions signed and formulating clever slogans. When asked why, he said, and I quote:

Well, the Right doesn't really HAVE activists. They all have jobs. They're busy during the day.

And in that moment I knew he was the best teacher that ever there was.

Incredibly productive evening tonight. I toasted a turkey sammich, then I ate it. I turned on the TV and watched it. I opened The Fountainhead, then read it. Some of it, anyway. I've hit the Vague section of the book. People entering rooms and speaking to each other and one asks, "What do you mean?" and the other says, "Oh, you know exactly what I mean!" and then one of them gives a look of cold resignation and Ayn Rand tells me that, that was the greatest defeat of all, or something. Then somebody gets raped, and it's somehow okay. I mean, I get it. I like Rand. But Jesus, when you only have like one or two points you'd think it would take you less than seven hundred pages to, you know, make 'em.

The entire cast of The Simpsons was on Inside The Actor's Studio tonight. Fantabolous. Harry Shearer gave the best answer I've ever heard to one of James Lipton's trademark questions. The Question: "If Heaven exists, what would you like to hear God say when you get there?" Shearer replied:

The show starts in half an hour.

Almost makes you want to go to Heaven, that does. Because that is pretty much the best feeling in the world. Half an hour before the show means there's all kinds of crises to be resolved and there probably aren't enough programs, and it's the sort of thing that makes you think back to Health class and learning about how there are two types of stress: good stress and bad stress. And half an hour before curtain, well, that's the best stress. That night's show is a story that has yet to be written. And the fact that the velvet hasn't yet parted means you get to do it at least one more time.

Auditions for the musical are this week. Think I mentioned that before. I'm excited.