Upsetting
Saturday, November 30, 2002
 
Celebrity DUI's and war mongering are all I see in the news. This isn't for me. I don't want to drown in this shit anymore.
I'm turning it off. I'm not tuning out, just connecting with positive forces. I have allowed them to win for too long. Not anymore.
Now it's my turn.

I will love them to death. I will smile them under the table. I refuse to become them.
 
Friday, November 29, 2002
 
American G.I. in the trendy Roppongi district of Tokyo: square head, square frame, square approach.
No chance with the long J girls and their wafer-thin cell phones.

The cost: $150, a throbbing, throat-scorching headache, and a tweak of the conscience.

And not even a handjob to show for it.
 
Thursday, November 28, 2002
  Happy Thanksgiving
I hope you had a nice Thanksgiving, which has traditionally been my favorite holiday.
Somehow or another, I ended up eating raw horse during my feast.
 
 
I wasn't alive when the bomb exploded over Hiroshima on Aug. 6, 1945, but I have been affected by the fallout.
You have, too, though you may not know it.

 
Wednesday, November 27, 2002
 
I'm through!

It's a TKO from Tokyo, and the hotel room has Internet access. Look out!

 
Thursday, November 21, 2002
  Current List of Designated Foreign Terrorist Organizations (as of October 2002)
Abu Nidal Organization (ANO)
Abu Sayyaf Group
Al-Aqsa Martyrs Brigade
Armed Islamic Group (GIA)
Asbat al-Ansar
Aum Shinrikyo
Basque Fatherland and Liberty (ETA)
Gama’a al-Islamiyya (Islamic Group)
HAMAS (Islamic Resistance Movement)
Harakat ul-Mujahidin (HUM)
Hizballah (Party of God)
Islamic Movement of Uzbekistan (IMU)
Jaish-e-Mohammed (JEM) (Army of Mohammed)
al-Jihad (Egyptian Islamic Jihad)
Kahane Chai (Kach)
Kurdistan Workers’ Party (PKK)
Lashkar-e Tayyiba (LT) (Army of the Righteous)
Liberation Tigers of Tamil Eelam (LTTE)
Mujahedin-e Khalq Organization (MEK)
National Liberation Army (ELN)
Palestinian Islamic Jihad (PIJ)
Palestine Liberation Front (PLF)
Popular Front for the Liberation of Palestine (PFLP)
PFLP-General Command (PFLP-GC)
al-Qa’ida
Real IRA
Revolutionary Armed Forces of Colombia (FARC)
Revolutionary Nuclei (formerly ELA)
Revolutionary Organization 17 November
Revolutionary People’s Liberation Army/Front (DHKP/C)
Salafist Group for Call and Combat (GSPC)
Shining Path (Sendero Luminoso, SL)
United Self-Defense Forces of Colombia (AUC)
Communist Party of the Philippines/New People's Army (CPP/NPA)
Jemaah Islamiya organization (JI)
 
 
If updates to this page are intermittent over the next couple of days, it is because I am here.

Be patient.

I will return.
 
Wednesday, November 20, 2002
 
As I prepare to leave the United States of America, I am enthused to read this.

Something tells me that the terrorists hell-bent on mayhem do not have anything personal against me.

I think they want to kill me because of my government.

In a way, then, my government would be responsible for my death.
 
 
PHOENIX

I feel like a celebrity as we get of the plane at Sky Harbor. Coming down the tunnel, saying thank-you to the ceramic flight attendants, it feels like what I imagine being born is like. And though I’m not expecting anyone to meet us in the airport, I can’t shake the idea that someone – who shouldn’t – knows where we are.
I don’t tell this to Allison, who’s relaxed substantially since the plane took off from Lindbergh Field. She’s cool, I know, and I think most people would’ve been a little rattled at the scene back in San Diego.

No one was on the flight with us, so when we walk into the terminal proper, there are but a few people milling around, waiting for the other passengers. A lot of people on the flight were singles, and I think Phoenix is a big stop for business travelers.
I don’t really like Arizona, Allison says. There’s nothing to it. And I can’t ever remember meeting anyone from here, you know? It’s like it’s a state, and I guess it functions, but it doesn’t seem like anyone really lives here. You drive around and you nobody’s on the streets. It’s weird.

Yeah, I say, I’ve never been a big fan of it myself.
 
Tuesday, November 19, 2002
 
Violence everywhere in the world, shattering and shaping lives beyond comprehension.

Yesterday, a 22-year-old man wrapped himself in explosives and blew up himself and two other people in Israel, one day after someone else killed himself and six others on a bus in the same country.

Today, a man in the American state of Indiana killed three people where he worked and then shot himself to death after leading police on a chase in which he fired a sawed-off shotgun at police and roadside workers.

A couple of days ago, a car bomb exploded in the capital of Peru, killing nine people. That explosion happened days before the president of the United States of America was set to arrive in the South American country.

The president of the United States of America is the son of a former president of the United States of America. The former president also formerly headed the Central Intelligence Agency, and he was defeated in a bid for a second-term as president by a man from Arkansas. Following eight years of rule by the man from Arkansas, a lot of people did not like or respect the man, and a lot of people said bad things about his character.

Signs on the freeway urge prayer, and the Internal Revenue Service solicits donations for the wealthy ruling class of the United States of America. All you have to do is check a box, and your money will be sent to the rulers.

There is violence on the cover of Time Magazine. VALLEY OF DEATH, it yells, an American soldier somewhere in Afghanistan, in the apparent Valley of Death.
I wonder if he wants to be in the Valley of Death, leaning his back into red clay, probably freezing.
 
Monday, November 18, 2002
 
It turned out that “Iron Eyes” Cody was not a Cree Cherokee, after all, but a second-generation Italian from Louisiana.

You have those bastards at Bulova watches to thank for airing the first television commercial during a Dodgers game in 1941.

Peter Jennings interrupted "General Hospital" to inform viewers that Classic Coke was making a return after the fiasco of New Coke.

Gopher from “The Love Boat” went on to become a congressman, and got into some dirty business with some biotech stock.

Andy Rooney said in a commentary that Kurt Cobain had no right to kill himself and we had no reason to be upset that he did.
 
 
Unnamed government officials told The Media that Alleged terror mastermind Osama bin Laden is alive and a recently-issued audiotape is proof.

But someone who would know – and will also remain nameless – told me that they don’t really know if bin Laden is alive, and that the report in The Media is merely a ploy to scare the public into spying on their neighbors and ignoring their government.

It’s true. That's what I was told by someone way inside the corridors of power and secrecy.
 
 
you can't ever just answer the question, can you?

you always have to question everything. it's just a question. i'm just curious how people look at things.
 
  Bon Scott
I've never had a message for anyone in my entire life, except maybe to give out my room number.
 
Sunday, November 17, 2002
 
Then one day I woke up and I was 24, and though I was proud that Snoop and Dre and Cube were showing folks around the country how the West Coast do, I felt old. I didn’t have a trade, I wasn’t qualified to do anything, and I really wasn’t interested in working full-time. About all I could do was talk a good game.

I felt like a good dinner guest – on paper.
 
Saturday, November 16, 2002
  SAN DIEGO
Today it is warm. Again.
My pants are cotton. So is the white undershirt I am wearing. I believe there is some cotton in my socks, too. My shoes are black, like my pants.
If I took off the 50/50 short-sleeve thrift shirt I have buttoned over the undershirt, I would look like a waiter or bartender just off work. My jacket is black, too.

I don’t know anything about women’s clothes, and that’s not a good trait in a man.
Allison is wearing a dark-blue skirt, a white t-shirt that clings to her ribs, and a short dark jacket. I can’t see them but I know her toes are painted red. She smokes Nat Sherman’s. The kind in the brown box.

Some San Diego music is on the stereo system. I think it’s Black Heart Procession, but I’m not sure. It could be something else. Earlier they were playing some Greyboy stuff I liked.
Somebody spent a fair penny on this system.
 
Friday, November 15, 2002
  Hillcrest, San Diego
After The Irish Shop, there’s the Cape Cod Clutter book shop, run by a reed of a sweet old lady who always has a Merit pinned to her lip, very Bette Davisly.
There’s also Nunu’s right there, which to their credit was one of the last bars in San Diego to cave into the no-smoking-anywhere laws. Nunu’s is also where I met John Goodman one summer when he was in town playing Falstaff at the Old Globe in the park. Not that he would remember me, but I was introduced to him, and seemed just like he looks on TV or in the movies: like someone you’d like to have a beer with. When I ran into him, he was one-and-one with a Budweiser and shot of tequila. My sometime irascible friend Brains swears that he saw Goodman in there and sent the big man over a shot of, I think, Jagermeister. According to Brains, whose interpretation of events greatly distorts in proportion to the amount of booze he’s filled himself with, Goodman did not even acknowledge the gesture, and Brains stormed furiously out of Nunu’s. To this day, he sneers when Goodman’s name comes up. By the way, Goodman is a very big man.
 
 
She said if I visited her in Mexico she would brush my teeth and rub my feet.

It’s called D.F., Mexico City is, which in Spanish sounds like DAY EFFAY. I think it stands for something like Federal District. It’s fast there, and choked with pollution.
Her letter mentioned that she’d try to send a ticket.

Here in the States, the people I work with watch “The Price Is Right” and the Jamie Foxx show on their breaks. Others bet the horse races at Saratoga via the Internet. I sit at my desk, wholly aware I will never be able to play the guitar solos on the first Smashing Pumpkins record.

Then again, such flamboyance doesn’t suit me.

Renata, I started to write, your letter …. My head swims with visions of you taking off your earrings for siesta. The still breeze in the small curtains.
 
Thursday, November 14, 2002
  Hillbilly Nation
SAN FRANCISCO (AP) - Nine Army linguists, including six trained to speak Arabic, have been dismissed from the military because they are gay.

The soldiers' dismissals come at a time when the military is facing a critical shortage of translators and interpreters for the war on terrorism.

Seven of the soldiers were discharged after telling superiors they are gay, and the two others got in trouble when they were caught together after curfew, said Steve Ralls, spokesman for the Servicemembers Legal Defense Network, a group that defends homosexuals in the military.

Six were specializing in Arabic, two were studying Korean and one was studying Mandarin Chinese. All were at the Defense Language Institute in Monterey, the military's primary language training center.

The government has aggressively recruited Arabic speakers since the Sept. 11 attacks ...
 
 
Erica called me a racist because I said the liquor store owner was nice for a Middle Eastern guy.

“You know what I mean,” I said. “I love everyone, it’s just that most Middle Eastern liquor store owners I’ve met have kinda been dicks. They’re combative.”

It’s a generalization, she said. Generalizations of any type are odious.

“It’s different than saying, ‘There aren’t many good, fat basketball players’?” I asked her.

Yes, Erica said. A person’s weight would be a condition that impacts their basketball ability.

“Then maybe owning liquor store would be a condition that causes Middle Eastern guys to be dicks?”

Nice try, she said.

“Or being a Middle Eastern man makes you a dick?” I joked.

You’re proving my point.

“I’m joking, but aren’t certain people predisposed to certain characteristics?”

They are, but it is the evolved person who realizes that predispositions and preconceptions are limiting and incomplete. Generalizations are based on samples – they’re not absolutely true, she said.
They feature exceptions, and by definition they don’t hold water.
 
  Pinklers Strike Again!
Believe it or not, two employees have had their food stolen from the refrigerator in the lunchroom during the past week. We expect that this will not recur. Please consider that, in some cases, such an action could potentially result in adverse health implications for the employee whose food was taken - don’t take risks with respect to another employee’s health and welfare. You may not know what you’re dealing with when you eat the food of another employee.

Besides, taking another employee’s food is strictly prohibited (and pretty unbelievable)!!!!

(Sorry to those of you who would never think of doing such a thing (almost everyone!) that you have to read a message about stolen food AGAIN!)
 
 
Two women and a guy who looks nothing like me are at the table, pouring the bottles into red cups. I nod and move into them. One of the women stays as the other two fan out, giving me space to do my work.

Vodka, gin, rum, tequila. Thin, pretty bottles. Resolute.
I hold the bottom of my jacket with my left hand as I lean over and grab a green bottle of merlot. I straighten back up and put some of the wine into one of the red cups. I fill it more than half way, but not quite ¾.
There is another bottle I don’t recognize. It could be whiskey, or maybe scotch. Hoping it’s whiskey, I grab it and pour about three fingers into a red cup for myself.
I feel a hand on my shoulder and realize I was concentrating a little too hard on measuring the amount of liquid into the cup. I nod left and see the woman who remained at the table moving her mouth.

Your girlfriend is beautiful, she says. But you have to leave. Both of you.

I place the red cup to my lips. Thankfully, whiskey.

Pardon me? We just got here.

I’m trying to help you, she says. They are coming for you. Both of you. They will be here very soon. I heard them talking on the phone. You need to go.

Coming for me? For us? She isn’t even my girlfriend, I say.
It doesn’t matter. You need to go, she said with an added dose of something just short of urgency. Trust me, you don’t want to be here when they get here.

But?

No, she says. Get your friend and go. Now.
Okay. Thanks for the tip.
You’re welcome.
 
Wednesday, November 13, 2002
 
Our cute little toxicologist with the affection for "American Beauty" is going to the big house for the rest of her life.
 
  A Girl's Voice
I would like to apologize for carelessly spilling the jalapeño water and the fleeing like the cowardly little girl that I am.
 
 
A voice from the White Mountains of Afghanistan called to me:

"We don't hate individual Americans, like yourself," it said. "The problem is the policy of the American government.

"It is against Muslims."

 
 
You’ll sleep when you’re dead. That’s what you think.

These are brown leather pants you’re wearing, and it’s only 9 p.m. So what if it’s Tuesday, work can wait.
This is The Big City. You need to go get it. After all, isn’t this what you wanted? This is what you wanted, right?

This is what you wanted.

Instead of climbing the bleached stairs to the El, you unfold your arms and walk toward the street, lift your right arm for a cab. Your left arm in the pocket of the brown leather pants, you clench your elbow and bring your upper arm – is it the bicep or tricep? biceps or triceps? you can’t remember from the gym – close to keep your left boob warm.

You are going out.

Out.
 
Tuesday, November 12, 2002
 
Fat Mike of NOFX has a new Web site.

And in other news from the punk front, the new Transplants record is compelling. You haven't heard anything like it.
 
 
Can I watch your dog when you go away?

No, you can’t because I don’t want your jakey boyfriend to come home off a bender and kick my dog and cause me to put to my hands around his neck. The skin under my nails and the hickey bruises on his throat would paint me in a corner.

I don’t need that.
 
 
She told me:

Joe, your heart is used goods. I saw it when you were 18 and I was 33. You can't be resuscitated.

I'm breathing, aren't I?

Barely, and only for one person.

You mean ...

Yes, I can't give you CPR.

Not like before? Then I'll die.

She said, Impossible. You're already been given too many chances.

But ...

Joe, you know only soft-minded people use ellipsis, the dot dot dot.

You're right.
I quit.
 
Monday, November 11, 2002
  Bill Moyers on Election 2002
Way back in the 1950's when I first tasted politics and journalism, Republicans briefly controlled the White House and Congress. With the exception of Joseph McCarthy and his vicious ilk, they were a reasonable lot, presided over by that giant war hero, Dwight Eisenhower, who was conservative by temperament and moderate in the use of power.

That brand of Republican is gone. And for the first time in the memory of anyone alive, the entire federal government — the Congress, the Executive, the Judiciary — is united behind a right-wing agenda for which George W. Bush believes he now has a mandate.

That mandate includes the power of the state to force pregnant women to give up control over their own lives.

It includes using the taxing power to transfer wealth from working people to the rich.

It includes giving corporations a free hand to eviscerate the environment and control the regulatory agencies meant to hold them accountable.

And it includes secrecy on a scale you cannot imagine. Above all, it means judges with a political agenda appointed for life. If you liked the Supreme Court that put George W. Bush in the White House, you will swoon over what's coming.

And if you like God in government, get ready for the Rapture. These folks don't even mind you referring to the GOP as the party of God. Why else would the new House Majority Leader say that the Almighty is using him to promote 'a Biblical worldview' in American politics?

So it is a heady time in Washington — a heady time for piety, profits, and military power, all joined at the hip by ideology and money.

Don't forget the money. It came pouring into this election, to both parties, from corporate America and others who expect the payback. Republicans outraised democrats by $184 million dollars. And came up with the big prize — monopoly control of the American government, and the power of the state to turn their ideology into the law of the land. Quite a bargain at any price.

That's it for this week.

For NOW, I'm Bill Moyers.


 
 
The decal of the cartoon kid pissing, the one you see on the back of so many vehicles, finally targeted me. On Saturday, I saw the boy and his dickhead grin lobbing an arc of piss not on CHEVROLET or BIN LADEN or LA MIGRA but on CITY BOYS.

I could fairly say that I am a CITY BOY.

Which, according to a report making headlines today, is better than being a limp hayseed.
 
 
Say what you want about its bland superficiality and one-dimensional stereotype, Southern California has done more for the world than a lot of other places.

Consider that Los Angeles spawned X, Jane’s Addiction and a group that said muthafuck the police.

Before the frat guys co-opted their music, Sublime was playing house parties in Long Beach. Even before Sublime, the D-O double G was representin’ the LBC.

The Lakers – despite their Minnesota roots – and Black Flag are Southern California.

Tony Hawk (Carlsbad) and skateboarding, Tony Gwynn (Long Beach) and his sweet swing, and the irrepressible Gwen Stefani (Anaheim) each put Southern California on the map in their own way.

Forget Hollywood and the movies because they’re just bullshit.

I’m talking about the Zoot Suit Riots and the uprisings in Watts and at Florence and Normandie.

The real.
 
Sunday, November 10, 2002
 
When you live in The City, you learn to take the good with the bad.

Parking is difficult, but you never have to drive far.

Women are cold and crafty, but at the same time they’re good-looking and they smoke.

There’s a good movie playing every ten minutes, but the price of admission is about twice minimum wage.

You accept things as the facts they are.

It’s the price you pay to live in The City.
 
Saturday, November 09, 2002
 
It will work in practice, yes. But will it work in theory?
 
  Carl Hiaasen
Bin Laden is seldom mentioned publicly by anyone at the White House. These days it's Saddam Hussein this, Saddam Hussein that.

Bush himself wastes no opportunity to denounce the Iraqi dictator by name. Saddam is evil. Saddam is ruthless. Saddam is nuts.

No argument there. But it wasn't Hussein who conceived the Sept. 11 attack on America. It wasn't Hussein's training camps that produced the suicide hijackers, or funded and directed the operation.

Yet to hear the president tell it, Hussein is the most dangerous and imminent menace facing the United States -- and the world community in general. This is a different tune from the one that Bush was singing a year ago, but we're assured that the situation in Iraq has taken a nasty turn, and that an all-out war might be the only option.
 
Friday, November 08, 2002
 
Uncle Joey from “Full House,” it turns out, was not the guy Alanis Morissette was singing about in that famous song.

It was me. Women have always found me enigmatic and aloof, and often they've gotten quite pissed at me.
In fact, I wasn’t petrified of silence, like Alanis’d thought. I actually was at home in the quiet, at peace in the silence. It drove her crazy.

I told this to Ramona a couple of days after the Sept. 11 terrorist attacks, and she didn’t seem to not believe me. I described how Alanis would always show up at my apartment while I was in the middle of dinner, but that it wasn’t as dramatic as in the song. I was usually just eating take-out Thai food when she’d come in and scream, “I hate to bug you in the middle of dinner.”

“You’re not, I’m watching Monday Night Football.”

She’d then storm out – even though the TV wasn’t even on.

“How was she?” Ramona asked.
We were sitting in an apartment in Bankers Hill. It was that gloaming time, after day, before night. People were opening their mail with gloves on.

I thought of the times Alanis and I’d coupled. We were only together for about eight months.

“You know,” I told Ramona. “She was like you’d think she’d be. A weird combination of assertiveness and submission. Like those people who are so insecure that they’re hell-bent on acting as if they’re in total control.”

Ramona said, “Eww, yuck.”

“I know, she really made sex an overly self-conscious thing,” I said. “She would say a lot of fluffy things like ‘Do you desire me, Joseph,’ using my whole name and that. ‘I would like you to take me, Joseph. I need to receive you.’”

Ramona started laughing.
“Oh, Joseph,” she said. “You’re such a cad with this kissing and telling.”

“Hey, you asked. It’s not my m.o.”

The she asked me about the theater. Did Alanis do what she alluded to in the song?
Go down.

“Once, and rather clumsily,” I said. “But it’s kind of an awkward deal, so I give her credit for trying.”
 
Thursday, November 07, 2002
 
Just a reminder that tomorrow is the deadline for STAR and Employee Choice Award nominations. Ballots and Award Pamphlets are available in HR or the kitchen or lunchroom. If you are not at corporate and did not receive your ballot and pamphlet last week, just let me know and I'll get them to you. You may submit your nominations via email if you like. Thanks to those of you who have submitted your nominations! The anticipation is growing . . .
 
 
Unfortunately, we've had to cancel tomorrow's Book Fair due to the increased chance of rain. It has been re-scheduled, so mark your calendars for Monday, Dec. 2nd. We'll hope for a nice day so you can do some holiday shopping at very reasonable prices.
 
  Keith Richards
I wonder about the songs I've written: I really like the ones I did when I was on (heroin). I wouldn't have written "Coming Down Again" without that. I'm this millionaire rock star, but I'm in the gutter with these other sniveling people. It kept me in touch with the street, at the lowest level.
 
 
Hello ____ !

For anyone who's interested, the advertising section of the Intranet now features a list of the advertisers ____ Ad Sales has contacted and is pursuing. The main purpose of this simple list is to hopefully generate some cross-pollination within the company (someone from ____ who suddenly realizes, "Hey, my brother-in-law's wife's aunt is the CEO of that company!"). Mostly, however, it's there to communicate to everyone who we're going after.

You can sort or filter by category, sub-category, parent company, brand, or ad agency.

Please let me know if you have any questions or close friends/relatives in high marketing positions somewhere.

Thanks!

Oh, one more thing: the list is for internal viewing only, please.


 
 
I’m trembling because I just saw a headline that read back-to-the-basics Bobby Brown was arrested in Atlanta. I didn’t even open the link, but I’m confident this will be a case of mistaken identity and Bobby’s good name will remain untarnished.

God, I want to party with Whitney and him.
 
 
Tony Pierce has absolutely outdone himself with his latest photo essay. What a punk motherfucker!

Just click on the picture, sit back and breathe slowly.

Pardon the profanity.
 
Wednesday, November 06, 2002
 
Morocco
Mexico
Monaco
Macedonia

Greece
Gabon
Ghana
Germany

Michigan
Oklahoma
Iowa
Rhode Island
 
  AP
Bush's approval ratings, which shot up after the Sept. 11 terrorist attacks, have hovered in the high 60s, despite a sputtering economy, corporate accounting scandals involving some of his biggest campaign donors and public anxiety about his talk of war with Iraq.
 
Tuesday, November 05, 2002
 
She called me the leper messiah, but told me I didn’t know it. That sort of shit is big stuff when you’re only 18 years old. At the time I didn’t have the appropriate reference, but she was most definitely a total blam-blam.

Sarah … shit, I can’t remember her last name. But I know it was Sarah with an H, and I knew that she lived in Ardmore.

She didn’t really let me hook it up, but she did let me get close enough to teach me a few things. These were things that were reinforced over the next couple of years by girls – some of whom were actually women – who thought I was “cute” and “smart” but still a “boy.” They were:

1) The single most important thing you can do to a woman is make her laugh. Period, that’s it. If she’s laughing, you’re on your way.

2) Women like guys – and that means boys and men – who are intelligent, that don’t all day talk about baseball or some other sport. Of course, guys know that it is actually okay to talk about baseball all day – National League baseball, of course – but it’s best to pick your spots. And I’ve found that intelligence (or knowledge) is best acquired in one of the following two ways: reading and traveling. Do both of these, and you can’t help but give yourself more game. Also, if you live Back East anytime before the age of 25, say you’re from California – and, yes, you do surf.

3) Find the right balance between emoting and not being a pussy.

4) Love your mother.

So I found my sense of humor, somewhat sarcastic yet self-deprecating, and I read any book I could get my hands on. Everything from Tom Clancy to Genet and Camus, Erica Jong and James Joyce and James Dickey. Sonnets, soliloquies and sweeping epics. Descartes, Dostoyevsky, Dexter; Ehrenreich, Engells and Eudora Welty. Baldwin, Bronte, Bashevis Singer.

You get the idea.

I read a lot.

And, of course, I loved my mom like I’d never love another.
 
 
Tonight's big shoot was cancelled because of something to do with the mayor, but I still love Gore Vidal.
 
 
Tonight we’re taping a segment for a local television show, and I’m the host. I have to introduce the show about a terrific local jazz artist, and I’m listening to Paranoid and working on a few things.

"Hello, I’m Joe Smith. Thank you for joining me for tonight’s feature on local tenor saxophonist Joe Marillo."

I say this as I walk along the street, toward the camera.

"I should begin by telling you that on the inside I am a really rotten person, that I have several homicidal impulses each day. For someone who never asked for or expected anything, I strangely feel let down by the human race.

But I'm in love, so that doesn't really matter.

Before we sit down with Joe, I would also like to let you know that the only professional team I follow is the Lakers. I like Shaq more than Kobe, though my game is more similar to Kobe’s. Actually, it’s a lot like Kobe’s, to be honest with you. However, more than Shaq or Kobe, my favorite Laker is Robert Horry.

We had the opportunity to sit down with Joe Marillo at a downtown jazz club the other night, and it got me thinking about how Billy Zoom is my guitar hero."

I'm trying to decide on the rest of it.
 
Monday, November 04, 2002
 
As dear as Ozzy and Black Sabbath have been to my heart over the years, the man's megalomaniacal and super-avaricious wife has driven the family off my radar altogether.
 
 
I felt so good when I woke up this morning that I thought about taking up pot smoking. I want to continue to smile, and I have to learn to not let the world’s ills become mine.

I need to isolate myself and my people because no one else is going to look out for us, but pot will help me keep a positive frame of mind when I do meet strangers.

Little things like people taking two parking spots or not acknowledging me when I hold the door for them won’t seem so bad in a hydroponic haze. Larger, real-life issues like corporate terrorism and religious fanaticism will merely become matters out of my hands.

I will be a little cotton-mouthed, to be sure, but when I do speak my words will be much more universally optimistic. My thoughts will be with all my brothers and sisters, and I’ll exercise faith in mankind.

Maybe I’ll even make my way to God.
 
Sunday, November 03, 2002
  How She Does
This from The Misanthropic Bitch:

Pro-life men are pissy-pants, wannabe mama's boys who can't cope with the reality that some future abused children were given the gift of mercy that they were cruelly denied. The worst are the ones who somehow found a sex partner, and when that rotten wench smartly got rid of the evidence, made it their crusade to punish every cunt.

Pro-life women are purse-lipped puritans who are angry that some members of the fairer sex escaped the inevitableness of life in a converted Greyhound bus with eight moppets under foot. The worst are the ones who married the pro-life men who have made it their crusade to punish every cunt.

Pro-choice activists will raise a stink and ask pro-lifers why they would want a child to be born to and reared by someone so unwilling to undertake the task -- Haha! I've got them now with my superior reasoning skills -- but there's absolutely no logic to be had in an ensuing argument.

Fine, pro-lifers will ask, what would you say if I told you about a boy who was so despised by his peers and parents that he wet his bed and killed the neighborhood pets? Would you say that he should have been aborted? Well, then, how would you react to knowing you just aborted Jeffrey Dahmer? What, you'd be fine with that? Oh.

Abortion never hurt anyone other than the medically involved. Reproduction hurts us each time a 14-year-old shorty waves a gun in our faces and demands our cars. Reproduction hurts us each time property taxes increase because additional teachers are needed to staff the rising number of special education classes. Reproduction hurts us each time anyone does anything that has a negative impact on society.

Abortion could have nipped that in the bud, but some people seem to forget that America's most precious resource ultimately turns into America's most precious resource for prison work farms, juvenile detention centers, frat houses, drug rehab and death row.

They're only innocent and unkillable for so long.
 
Saturday, November 02, 2002
 
The band is coming together. The neighbor kid and I wrote our first song today, and it's called "I Know A Man in Philadelphia."
It's not very good, but it's a start. It's three chords and not much else. The lyrics are rambling and quasi-humorous.

Our next song is going to be an epic about how Dubble Bubble gum loses its flavor in 38 seconds AND makes your mouth smell like pot.
 
Friday, November 01, 2002
 
MACON, Ga. – We all know that the Devil went down to Georgia, looking for a soul to steal. We also have learned that he was in bind, he was way behind, and he was willing to make a deal. And, sure enough, on a hot day some time ago in the Peach State, he came across a young man sawing on a fiddle and playing it hot.
The Devil jumped up on a hickory stump and said:
“Boy, lemme tell you what.”

The boy, who was called Johnny, set down his fiddle to listen to what the Devil had to say. A bit surprised, a bit irritated by the interruption, Johnny eyed the figure before him dressed in an old Hawks T-shirt and a pair of faded jeans.
“I guess you didn’t know it, but I’m a fiddle player, too,” the Devil said, his arrow-tipped tail swishing excitedly beneath his dungarees. “And if you’d care to take a dare, I’ll make a bet with you.”

And the Devil proceeded to challenge young Johnny to a fiddle-off. That is, if Johnny proved to be a better player than the Prince of Darkness, he would get a fiddle made of solid gold. However, if the Devil turned out to be more adept at the instrument, if his spiked fingers picked and bowed in a manner far superior than that of the upstart, he would leave with the young man’s soul.

Now, Johnny wasn’t the sharpest tool in the shed, but he was no dim bulb either. He knew he had fiddle skills nonpareil, but he also knew that he probably shouldn’t throw his soul on the table like a greaser drag-racing for a pink slip.
He also thought the Devil might want something a little more than his soul.
He suspected the old bastard might want in his pants.

A question arises, though, perhaps more perplexing than that young Johnny faced.
Why the, er, hell was the Devil in a bind, and why was he way behind? Why was he willing to make such a seemingly one-sided deal?

The Devil, of all people, in a bind.
I don't buy it.
 
 
I've stopped reading the news.
 
 
Good Morning Everyone,

Happy Halloween!!

If you would please note, the carpets have been cleaned for the fourth time in two months. At this point, I don’t know if the cleaning is doing more harm than good. However, I’d ask everyone’s assistance in ensuring that we try to keep our carpets as clean as possible.

Our worst enemy in the battle for “Carpet Preservation”, are those pesky little coffee spots. In order to reduce the amount of spots, I’d like to suggest that we do not fill our coffee cups to the rim while at the “Ole Java Hole”. Of course, this needs no explanation, as we all know what happens when we fill our cups to full!! I’d further recommend that if you’re utilizing a cup that has a lid, Please use it.

I’m sure that many of our employees also have great ideas that would help our cause in “Carpet Preservation”, and I’d certainly love to hear them.

As always, I sincerely appreciate everyone’s cooperation!
 
Formerly GOD'S LONELY MAN

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