Old Stuff

I wrote all of this about a decade ago, in my early twenties. Some of it may have been partially borrowed.

Going over everything I wrote back then, all I can say is: wow, what a shit phase of shittery I went through. The shit I’m not publishing here is so horribly shit that I don’t know what to say to the few people who read it besides: I’m sorry. My politics (and views on human sexuality) have changed since then.


Absence-of-Pain Junkie

Americans are probably the most pain-conscious people on the face of this earth fnord. For years we have had it drilled into us — in print, on radio, over television, in everyday conversation — that any hint of pain is to be banished… unless it’s sexual; but that’s rarely real pain, unless your mistress hasn’t been properly trained. No civilized nation makes war on its own citizens.

I’m currently on medication for depression — a quadracyclic — and I’m taking three meds for the side-effects. I was so spaced from it all that I fell down some city steps and broke my leg. No prob, ‘cuz I’ve got codiene for that. The insurance won’t cover most of this, so I have a lot of bills, what a pain in the ass that is. Drinking seems to cover that, though. Suicide is always possible. Of couse, my wife bitches about mixing alcohol with the meds. She gives me pain, I give it right back. She uses Valium, marajuana, and scotch to get rid of it. The only good anti-depressant is suicide. My son, I don’t know what his problem is; he said aspirin causes cancer in lab rats. That boy needs to be taught a lesson; maybe I should give him a reason to take some aspirin, show him how harmless it really is. Team spirit means mob mentality.


There is a “Wall of Laxatives” at a convenience store near my house. Whenever I shop there, I have to run home.


Everytime I see her, something happens to me. I get this fuzzy feeling in my stomache, my mouth goes dry, and I just can’t help but think that, deep down inside of me, I’m actually Bobcat Goldthwaite.


Mass mudia outwardly proclaims our individuality while inwardly seeking to channel our self-expression into consumption and techmulogical mutopianism. Even the lone rebel, the fringe subculture, the “shock” tactics, are part of this control system. The visual-emutional emphasis attracts our gaze, which is then muvertly analyzed through statistical patterns and channeled into celebratory rituals. I am the brand name.


The fusion of psychological, administrative and mass media magic continues to be deeply unsettling. It pollutes our future by trapping us in cynical existentialism and the nano-second moment. Embracing technology grows to be the solution. Thats all well and good, but what do you think of Aly’s hair? Psychological and administrative magic moulds our estranged subjectivity while mass media magic creates the shared contexts that define social meaning-making. Learn to tolerate ambiguity, to unify the intellect with emotions, and to live in the gaps if necessary.


Every attempt at understanding that which is beyond this life is explained through metaphors of that which is in this life. Maybe that is all just masturbation; an illusion of some great insight. Perhaps, instead of understanding the divine, we are mearly understanding that which we use as a metaphor.


Every one has a polyester soul.


The sad mind drowns on sacred ground water.




This chair is comFORTable! My ass has never felt better. Why, if the brand name of its manufacturer were printed on it, I would heartily recommend that company’s products!

What we need is more brand name recognition, in all fields of production, so that we may all sit around comfortably and discuss their products.


my dick is twice as long as my attention span


Q: How punk is “fuck”?
A: How fucked is punk?


I am William Hayley! … oh, wait; I have no idea who that is.


I don’t know why CDs are so popular; you can’t even rewind them.


teenage rebellion makes good profit margins


Everything that matters is either food, mate, or threat. Therefore, man’s natural state is hungry, horny, and paranoid. Anything else is the result of a long day filled with eating, fucking, and killing, or an even longer day without such.

This means that the most popular internet site should be “Hot Teen Sluts Discussing the Conspiracy to Poison Our Water Supply”.

And don’t forget to order your pizza from the Cloak-n-Dagger Surveillance Store and Pizzeria. I heard their delivery girls are stacked and armed.


Dead Letters

The dead have been crushed, ground up by their life into a fine white powder. It covers my hands accusingly, as if they were blaming me for the slaughter, as if to say that their blood was on my hands.

Their blood.

I may never understand my fascination with this vital substance, this fluid of the heart, born from the marrow of bones. But my ignorance of my condition doesn’t bother me anymore. It’s all academic anyway. What effect will it have upon the world or my psyche to be able to formulate the cause into words and concepts that can be classified and expounded upon by psychology students. Even if the words were there, the understanding wouldn’t be. The zen that can be communicated is not the true zen.

And that’s why they had to die. At the risk of sounding like a Bulwer-Lytton content entry, this is the story of why communication is evil, and why the letters had to die.

And the reason is simple, so obvious that no one will grasp the deep significance of the motivation and what it means to all of humanity.

I killed the letters because my teacher asked me to. Because the leader of this ad-hoc tribe of students requested that the letters be sacrificed to the Gods of Academia.

The ritual was just as simple. He held the weapon out to me and said, “Could you erase the chalk board while I grade these papers?”

[Final grade in Creative Writing 101: C-]


Saturday Night in South Side

So I wake up and realize I have nothing to do today. I am so bored.

So I decide to go out and hang around South Side. I am so unimaginative.

So I get to the BeeHive and I’m surprised to see it has expanded yet again. I am so out-of-touch.

So I notice that South Side is busiest on Saturday Night when all the stores are closed. I am so confused.

So I’m sitting in a laundromat reading zines and flicking cigarette ash on the floor. I am so grunge.

So I’m walking along Carson and find this automatic toilet. I decide to write a review of it but I don’t have twenty-five cents. I am so starving-artist.

So I hold it in until I find a cemetary with a tree. I am so goth-punk.

So I walk for hours to get home. My legs hurt, my jeans have chaffed my crotch, and my blood is pounding in my ears. I am so tired.


Causation is a human abstraction used to describe how nature works. But nature has a history of not bending to man’s abstractions.


The Moment When the Commonplace Becomes Extraordinary: When an advertiser figures out how to market it.

The Moment When the Extraordinary Becomes Commonplace: When all the advertisers begin marketing it.


The Moment When the Commonplace Becomes Extraordinary: When Rick Sebak makes an historic special about it.

The Moment When the Extraordinary Becomes Commonplace: When someone makes an historic special about Rick Sebak.


My Sunglasses Match The Cocaine Tray

I, like many others who hit the blog roll, recently watched Mynx’s “I’m So L.A.” The first time I watched it, I was in love. The chick was hot; the guy was unobtrusive. The lyrics spoke to my deepest disdain for the Culture of Ignorance which claims so many ever-changing forms in its quest to satiate the instinct to learn with shiny baubles, gathering places, and jargon. Fashion, Hip, Trendy, Cool, Now. I know someone who knows someone who knows today’s It girl. Tomorrow, I’ll need to know someone else; I’ll need to find a new gathering spot where said person can be found; and I’ll have to dress for said place! Nay, this dress will not do! Someone else wore it yesterday! It’s not Now! It’s not Retro! It must go! Show me something new! Distract me from my hollow existence! Don’t let me see that my dreams are meaningless, that what I truly desire has been lost in a puff of whatever drug is In this year!

Then, Winamp looped the track and, suddenly, I was bored. That was my life, but I was stuck in the nineties: grunge, coffee, the local garage band, zines, the Bee-Hive.

It’s sad to know that your existence is meaningless and empty. It’s even worse to know that you suck at building a meaningless and empty existence.

I know someone who knows someone who knows Scott Baio.


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