people without teeth look funny.
that's what i say.

i can't believe i'm listening to The Cult's "Love" from like 1910. damman.

i'm going to miss the gratuitous butt crack shots from random strangers when i start working in san hosay. damman.

i'm very angry about sidewalk waverers. the people who, when you try to pass them, speed up and move toward you thereby making it more difficult to pass them by.
i've had to take charge and push them down several flights of stairs before.
where is the happy-go-lucky flashing nurse when you need her? i love nurse. she's awesome. also completely bonkers.
funny that her name is jessica. she seems more, nurse. and she seems like a little kid, which i can dig on.
nurse rules.
more on sidewalk waverers in our later broadcast.
back to your crying game.

i have jamba juice orange mango zoom and you don't.
so rue me.
sue me.
beat me.
seat me.

cockamammie mamman.

scooby doo made $56 million this weekend.

what an embarassment. i feel ashamed to be a human.

fuck steamboat willie.
i prefer steambath surge.

i went to dj shadow last tuesday. it was so fucking good, i nearly poon farmed.
seriously, amazing how well it was put together.
and so glad it was homemade, like chester mcfeester.
on sunday.
in heat.
for your love and hold you tight.
hotline hotline
did i ever talk about me talking my way into david cross on tuesday, june 4? after my interview, when i was already feeling hyped from the kick ass interview.
way cool jr.
i went to the winston smith opening last thursday night at 111 minna...smith being the fellow who makes all those awesome art collages, and we bought two prints, one as a gift for another fine couple who have made out acquaintance.
thursday also included a meeting at the space down in potrero to set up for the garage mahal party june 22, of which, i'm opening dj. yammer.
and, there was also the item of hooking up with the long lost mr. rolls at the event involving winston smith. fun fun fun in the city.
gracious me, i'm alive and dead and ready to kill small children with my deadbeat eyes.
and gravy.
speaking of,,,, 60s counterculture activist and woodstock host wavy gravy was kicking it live at the winston smith gathering. as i mentioned to all my colleagues in the USSR, he looks like a giant cabbage patch doll.
yes'm.
funny funny. crazy little thing called love.
and there was that other fine gentleman wearing the top hat and donning a cape...
(did i mention right now i'm listening to the inauspicious sounds of Axiom Ambient, from 1994? oldie but a goodie. i went through my cds yesterday and found i had some that were gasping for air....all i know is, these are the soul cages.)
i have one week left and i'm already steeped in bullshit due to tim pratt procrastination, so i'll have to make this short and sugary.
nomskull.
noam chomsky fucked elephantitus licker stickers.
the gentleman wearing the cape, we first encountered him last day of the dead in the mission, preaching to the faithful some sort of scary story. i like that guy. he's very intriguing. i'll have to run into him again somewhere. seems like it is my destiny.
it is your destiny.
still need to see spider-man and star wars and minority report is coming up soon too. i need love.
scratch, i still need to see that. i'm more behind than a whaler going up the stairs.
i'm more behind than that Ride song.
instead of making love, we play head games.
stinketh, i do.
stinketh, you should.
moaning and groaning and whining and pouting, it's a wonder you get any work done amidst all your hometown suffering.

i saw black hawk down last night.
shot really well...story...eh....i was like 'enough fucking war'
but then we watched the making of and all the soldiers were english or australian. it was odd...ewan mcgregor trying to do an american accent...simply awful....unbelievable how bad he was.
but like they were all brits....playing elite american soldiers. it was strange.
penman told me it's easier for foreigners to adopt a southern drawl because it requires the least amount of concentration.
penman is sending his parents tickets for a cruise from australia to here as a gift.
shoveler.
sam totally did not understand my email about chwing the same cud. i think i got it wrong but oh well. at least i'm still an american.


feckless and still smoking jackets.

oh man, on june 6..after a smooth cocktail party at mr. ted.'s house, where they always serve the finest mojitos and i met a neato former music editor to pygmies in heat, i went to lingba in potretro hill for a last minute spin and lo and behold, therein was the burbon.
i met these crazy israeli girls..they were pretty hardcore. hard and core.
the girl's name was Esti, short for Esther, which is a book of the bible and a fine fresh scent, much like irish spring.
did you know guinness beer has been brewed since 1759 in dublin.
it's amazing what you learn these days from reading the bathroom walls.
urinating and educating never felt so good.
that could be a catchphrase, if phrases still existed.
which they to don't.
so fuck you you transitive verb.

last sunday was PANDS, which, unless you're piggie and schimmie, you won't understand what that means. so screw all you nonbelievers.
but man, were those red pants sensational.
almost as sensational as those pictures i saw of young chelsea being a bit drunk in london town. where the bridges are falling down.
unlike michael douglas.

we've all got brass tacks to fill.
dennis came up this weekend.
fire in the hole.
he enjoyed america.
friday kinda sucked for the talk of the town was so not its name. shady and lame.
yucko degrasso.
munodo
saturday was fun in the city, roaming rhyming stealing and healing.
then it was on to the bbq at the toad/canned ass household saturday night.
rocking it was.
that nurse sure is a spitfire.
and she wears a slip for natural wear.
she's a fine woman.
and a lady.
nothing more than feeling.s
three times a mady.
budgetary cuts force me to interfere with you.

and you have a nice scanner!

your patron saint of jack-inthe-box

basic shame candlestick

what does it say about me when i'm more upset about the death of former ratt guitarist robbin crosby than i am about the death of dee dee ramone.

ok, upset is a strong word. affected might be better.

last night i felt like i was in a bret easton ellis novel.

this week has been fucking crazy, crazy, crazy.

i met esti from tel aviv, israel, after spinning at lingba on thursday night..that following a healthy conversation exchange with that fellow who used to work with ted, who was a music editor.

tuesday was the interview, frenzied that it was, along with me deciding to hit david cross show after all, and talking my fucking way into the show.
yeaaah.
grandma.

wednesday, seems like i didn't rock it....hmmmm, and monday....it's been so warm all week.
there were those cool birds chilling in the sun at the park on our lunch.
there was the healthy cranky exchange with jerome at the other park after the B's hittation stop on columbus.
specs yeap. grandma chicken.
toooooooooo.

i'm so annoyed with this headline in usa today: eventually eminem must overcome self-absorption...
or here's another one....reporters must overcome celebrity-absorption....get over it...why are you so obsessed about what these artists do and how they operate? isn't that part of the joy? the mystery? the weird darkness that most of us don't dare confront?
it's a "live through you" kinda vibe with that.
so what, you've got to feed on that, and to say it so matter of factly, like "this is the way" seems once again to be a "lockstep" point of view.
and i say fuck that shit.
bullshit.

oh yeah, and the forgetfullness of the cat litter.
i can never remember what is the favorable brand of kitty litter to get.
maybe it's the too long of amount of time between purchases. dammit.!
shorsighted bullshit ass.

paste your face in disgrace, leather and lace, mace, taste, case bass
yeah, you know how we do.

SPECS adler museum bar is the bomb. you've got to go. you've got to go.you've got to go.
go go go go go go

fuckle.

background music now kicking it: Billie Holiday

just what i love to hear, financial discussions early in the morning.
yes, on the bart this morning (my 8:25 was nowhere to be found, btw, so i had to wait for the late-ass train for five whole minutes...see i count on that train being on time to get me to my work on time. of course, i'm always running late, but that's another story...) and these loud women are interrupting the silent sanctity of the 20-minute ride to SF by loudly talking about some sort of financial mumbo jumbo.
yah yah yah, who really gives a fuck, dumbo?
bitches man, bitches.

then, i get off the train (second off the train by the way, which is a feat in itself seeing as how everybody powerwalks/jogs to the escalator so they dont' have to get caught up in the human traffic pileup that always occurs ----- too much goddamn cream cheese yet again, but Prague is the only place that gets my bagel toasted the way i want it----) and i hear somebody singing. a woman.

i walk a few more steps toward Montgomery from the BART steps and look to my left toward Market and that's when I see her -- this tiny Asian woman, probably late 40s, with oddly colored hair for someone like her (a cross between dyed orange and red and black), singing some sort of nursery rhyme type melody. really loudly. of course, this being San Francisco, the most people got bent out of shape about it was getting a look of slight alarm on their face, like "what the fuck is that?" but people just walked on by, letting her sing loudly and also dance around in place. quite hilarious, i must say. and i do say.
yes'm.
grant me a wish and tell me a story.
i don't need to be jealous about shit because i'm doing what i want and enjoying it. so fuck fuck fuck.
press the button, hit the switch, this orange juice makes my butt itch.

here? near? Peer? queer? beer? leer? fear? tear?
that's not a generalization, that's a stereotype.

type me a riddle.

basically, i'm alive with envy. and green with syrup.

i'll find a way to infiltrate. talk to penners.
more weaving later.

tP