Read This Fiction

My wife, Teesha Noelle Murphy, makes her fiction debut today as the featured author in Forty Ounce Bachelors. Her story, "A Shot With Henrietta," is a wild drunken romp that will melt your mind!

California and the Rat War

Earlier today, "Circus," the exterminator, asked me if it is really worth dealing with rats the size of cantaloupes in order to live in Topanga. "Yes," I said, "this place reminds me that I am in California."

"But California is everywhere," he replied. "Even in New Hampshire, there is California."

I decided not to get into some existential discussion with a man carrying a Manhattan Project sized amount of deadly rat poison and besides, did not really care what was in New Hampshire nor why I would go there to see California. "Is your name really Circus?" I asked.
"They used to call me Captain Kool-Aid in college," he said.

I saw a small type of semi-truck yesterday morning- I'm not sure what the specific model of the truck was, but it was about the size of a $29.99 U-haul. On the side of the truck was an advertisement for the company the truck belonged to, "California Water Damage." Below the company name was a large picture of a woman, looking quite preturbed on one end of a couch, and her man, looking equally preturbed on the other side. The couch was sinking down into a rising flood of water, one side teetering on total furniture extinction. The woman, although dressed in a pair of slacks and pink blouse, was wearing a snorkel and fins. She had a dialogue bubble coming out of her ear that read "Honey, are you still sleeping?"

I stared at this portrait for a good five minutes wondering what the fuck it could possibly mean. I gave up. This is exactly how I felt when Circus told me that they used to call him Captain Kool-Aid in college. I wondered if perhaps he took a lot of acid and turned himself into some type of one man circus, juggling electric bananas above everyone's heads, riding a unicycle up a woman's face, splitting apples with an axe and spitting out the seeds with the velocity of machine gun bullets. I liked him a little more.

"Yeah, I had a rodent clean-up yesterday. Had to clean up a bunch of rat shit," he told me. He rubbed the whiskers on his chin, and shook out his shaggy hair.

Circus sprayed my house with deodorizer that smelled like champagne raisins and explained that the pungent scent of decaying rats mummifying in my ceiling would dissipate over the next few days. "The heat really speeds up the process," he said, "but makes the whole place smell like shit."

When he had finished, I walked him outside. He saw some aphids on my rose bushes, raised his can of poison and said, "I can take care of those right now." I declined his offer.

I stood in the driveway and watched Circus struggle with the manual transmission on his beaten pickup truck, attempting to reverse up the sharp incline just outside my home. He looked around at the tall oak and eucalyptus trees in the canyon, his clutch burning up, his truck rumbling and sputtering, and rolled down his window. "California?" he yelled to me.
"California," I replied.
"New Hampshire," he said. "Fuck it."

I waved goodbye to him like a close but distant friend as he sped down the canyon. I looked back up at the trees, thought of the coastline a few miles down the highway, my feet dangling over the edge of a continent, the Bear Republic, pure naked freedom in a gold rush land, and took a deep breath. California, goddammit. I want to live like California is supposed to feel.

Rat War Day 6

Andy's legs began to buckle. I couldn't see his face because it was between two boards in my ceiling, seeing something that must have been horrendous. I know it must have been horrendous because his body went limp, his chin sliced open against a wooden plank, and he crumbled in a 210 pound mass of skin and bones at my feet. Then the rat shit began raining down. I slapped him a couple of times through his thick red beard. He said, "dude." I called an exterminator a few minutes later. Andy has seen enough. Poor kid. I hope he doesn't wind up in some veteran's hospital, his teeth yellowing, spitting at the nurses and scratching his scrotum underneath a thin gown.

He's starting to come around now, sipping a beer, shaking his head. "Dude," he repeats.
"What was it like up there?" I ask.
He finishes the rest of his beer and chucks it near a bag of recyclables, missing by about seven feet. "Rats," he says. "I hate rats."
I can hear the sound of another can of beer popping in the near distance. I put my arm around him and help him outside for some air. I hope the flies don't lay eggs in his chin. I wouldn't want to stick my head in there and take whatever was inside, out.

Rat War

I am in the middle of a rat war. So far, there have been two casualties. One rat hobbled out of the hole underneath my house 3 days ago, groaning and twitching from poison and lay down in the leaves, perhaps to die where it was born, carefree in nature. I dropped a thirty pound boulder on its head. The second died a poison death in which I can only imagine his stomach and intestines must have popped open, the insides dripping down the 2 x 4's inside of my wall. Its hot death scent of excreted bowels and rotting skin has attracted an army of flies. I have killed, as of 8pm 7/5/11, approximately 53 winged enemies. Still, I can see no end in sight. A third rat has begun scratching, pulling, shitting, and gnawing at the wooden boards above my small hallway. A few feet away, the chirping squeals of it's two children remind me that enemies never die; they are just reborn. I've called in reinforcements. A man called "Andy." He has two young children at home. He drinks High Life during his work, building things for people, or tearing them down. Tomorrow evening, we plan to lift up a few of the wooden boards, to establish visual contact with the intruders and prepare a necessary attack. I have given my comrade strict instructions to keep his mouth closed. We are preparing for the worst-- An army of giant canyon rats whose gnawing addictions know no boundaries, where even my ear lobes and nostrils are not safe from their jaws. Like some strange rodent brimstone armageddon, I fear rat shit is about to fall from the sky. Babylon lives inside my home. It must fall.

Notes from a Moleskine

-french dream 11/7/06

prostitutes in parking lot off at 8
two women kissing in the mud
a japanese couple shot with bb guns bleed
large yellow cadillac driving thin streets demolishes bicycles and cafe tables.




-7/3/11
I can't believe I haven't turned this into a 200,000 word detective/erotica novel.

Notes from a Moleskin

So tired
with my eyes closed
of everything being decided
by someone else

Topanga 2009

Notes from a Moleskine

Now that the Lakers season is over, I've decided to sort of "revamp" my blog situation...Sure, I'll still comment on the Lakeshow and all of its drama, but for the most part, I've decided to introduce a blog more compatible with small cellular phones and even smaller attention spans... "Notes from a Moleskine" If you are not familiar with what a Moleskine is, just look at the picture- it's a noteboook. Over the years, I have been conjuring up some choice lines, stories, and poems mostly between drunk time and sleepy time, which make for some interesting sentences and observations. I hope you all dig what my brain has been exploding all over the universe for the past ten years. Here we go...


Where is a hammer when I need one? There are outfits to be punished and restaurants emitting strange smells. These shops and people should have a redesigned storefront of broken glass and teeth. On insurance applications, my occupation would read "Social Carpenter."

The LES, Manhattan September 2007

Right now, I am looking through a hole in my wooden fence. It is about the size of a quarter dollar. It happens that, through the hole, down the canyon, the rear light reflector of my neighbor's car is in the exact space as the hole. It is daytime. It looks like a tiny neon-red fire is burning. Maybe it is the sun to some smaller universe-- one universe that I am omniscient within. I want to keep looking. I want to see what happens when it is gone.

Lebron is Sensitive

Last night, the Cleveland Cavaliers shocked the world by beating the shit out of the Miami Heat. Great. But what is even more satisfying is that Lebron James refused to be introduced before the game, electing to stay in the locker room, remain focused, and not let the cathedral of "boos" get him down. My question is this- You can't take being booed, Lebron? Seriously? How on earth are you ever going to win a championship if something like being booed during a pregame introduction rattles your nerves?

I honestly don't understand his logic. Everyone hates him except for people in Miami. Everyone thinks he is a self-centered egomaniac. But isn't he? All this little stunt does is put the spotlight back on him- it doesn't "avoid the bullshit," it creates bullshit . Nice work. You lost to the league's worst team...even with a triple-double.

In other news, I had the absolute joy of catching this Ron Artest performance the other night on the George Lopez show. Every time I see something like this, I wonder if procreation is worth it. If my child came home listening to this nonsense on his Ipod, a little piece of me would die. I'm not even sure what is happening here. Ron Artest auctions his championship ring to raise awareness for mental health, then records a rap song featuring has-been Latino emcees called "Go Loco." Which is it? Go crazy or don't go crazy? I know I'm going crazy knowing that people actually spent money on this. Here is something better to spend your money on...or this. Ya'll come back now, ya hear?

Thursday Night Poetry Jam

Tonight, I'd like to feature a couple "Pomes" by James Joyce- Ireland's greatest literary master on Ireland's greatest American holiday. Joyce is a writer that can be horrifyingly frustrating to some, and deeply rewarding to others. I personally find his poetry to be easier to tackle, than say, Ulysses, which I continuously tell myself I am going to finish "this week ." Regardless, lets get the pints flowing and the words rolling.

Nightpiece

Gaunt in gloom,

The pale stars their torches,

Enshrouded, wave.

Ghostfires from heaven's far verges faint illume,

Arches on soaring arches,

Night's sindark nave.

Seraphim,

The lost hosts awaken

To service till

In moonless gloom each lapses muted, dim,

Raised when she has and shaken

Her thurible.

And long and loud,

To night's nave upsoaring,

A starknell tolls

As the bleak incense surges, cloud on cloud,

Voidward from the adoring

Waste of souls.

Trieste, 1915

A Memory of the Players in a Mirror at Midnight

They mouth love's language. Gnash

The thirteen teeth

You lean jaws grin with. Lash

Your itch and quailing, nude greed of the flesh.

Love's breath in you is stale, worded or sung,

As sour as cat's breath,

Harsh of tongue.

This grey that stares

Lies not, stark skin and bone.

Leave greasy lips their kissing. None

Will choose her what you see to mouth upon.

Dire hunger holds his hour.

Pluck forth your heart, saltblood, a fruit of tears.

Pluck and devour!

Zurich, 1917

James Joyce- what a madman.

Here's two originals- I thought I'd keep the St. Patricks Day theme rolling with a couple poems that at least mention alcohol.

California Atlantis

this picture of you
is like your ghost
drinking beer on my sofa
during times of youthful idiocy

in your head are thoughts of california
the kind of california thoughts that only someone
who will never return there must think

your eyes believe the walls are different now that you have gone
the dead skin cells of your body
have disintegrated
and all that is left are memories
that will someday be forgotten

california is the new atlantis
buried underneath the water
and you can no longer swim

Armageddon Drinking Games

“never have we ever
seen locust”
we both drink to that
inside
our imagination
they are gigantic
milk chocolate brown
cockroaches
with buzzing wings of strobe-light psychosis
that weigh upwards of two lbs.
and strike the eyeballs of humans

in a field of california poppies
we are in love
fucking
with dirt under our fingernails
and skin shoved in our mouths
and blood surging through our genitals

i am covering your face with my mouth
in case the wrath of God takes place
during these moments of perfect excess

i would hate to see your face
covered with locust
gnawing at your sins
and your blood thick lips
sucked thin

That's it for the Jam tonight...Gotta get to work and feed the hungry drunken masses more drunken mass. Cheers, my brothers and sisters.

Zoom

I'm currently in the process of adapting my new novel "Two More Seconds in the Electric Wilderness," a story about a photographer and lightning, into a screenplay. Lots of things have been going through my head. For example, is the title "Two More Seconds in the Electric Wilderness" too long for a film? Is it going to be shortened to something like "Electric?" I was wondering why "Push by Sapphire" became "Precious." I mean, is there that big of a difference between "Push" and "Precious?" I wonder how many people would have said, "I don't really feel like seeing 'Push.' 'Precious,' on the other hand, sounds intriguing." Personally, I would have rather watched "Apocalypse Now" for the 400th time anyways.

Some other things have crossed my mind as well. If you are a writer, or know someone who is, then you may know how we don't like to reuse words, unless we are doing it to create a literary style and tempo. I couldn't help but wonder how many times the words "zoom" and "super fast" came up in all six "Fast and Furious" screenplays. I think if I was in charge of titles, I would have changed "Fast and Furious" to "Zoom." I'd much rather see "Zoom" than "Fast and Furious." At least "Zoom" sounds like it could be a Michelangelo Antonioni film, whereas "Fast and Furious" sounds like it stars Peter North.

Maybe I should just forget about the title "Two More Seconds in the Electric Wilderness" and rename my screenplay "Zoom." That way, if I'm ever in a pitch meeting and they don't like the idea about a photographer and lightning, I can just change it to a story about lightning fast cars and a hot photographer chick who likes them. It's a win win. Hooray for Hollywood.

Turkey Tastes Good

I have been slacking on this blog for about a week now. But I have an excuse. Depression. It happens to me every now and again, and it is further augmented by events like, for example, losing to the Miami Heat and Lebron James for the second time this year. It is difficult being a manic depressive Lakers fan. But then, low and behold, I am pulled out of the darkness of myself with commercials like this which allow me to focus on more important things.

First off, how is it possible that Kobe Bryant is a better actor than a hired professional actor? I mean, the onion tears alone are worthy of some type of Actor's Studio review. Second, let's talk about the "suspension of disbelief" not at work here. Why on earth would Kobe Bryant ever trade his job with anyone on the planet? He literally has the best job ever. He takes a helicopter to work. He makes hundred's of millions of dollars. People love and fear him. Meanwhile, a "chef" for Turkish Airlines sounds a bit depressing. I'm assuming there isn't a kitchen onboard the Airbus, so I'm thinking the guy is stuck somewhere between LAX and Istanbul in a stuffy kitchen with flimsy vegetables and stinking shrimp preparing sub-par meals for faceless customers. He never gets a thank you, makes shit money, and goes home to Downey or a densely populated, slightly harsh, Turkish urban neighborhood. Can you even get drunk in Turkey?- because I know a few chefs and they need their booze- just like jockeys. I'm not saying there is anything wrong with Downey or Turkey, but, let's face it, Kobe will never visit, nor dwell in either area.

All in all, this Kobe commercial gets a D in my Film Studies 101 class. I know it's difficult to find anyone on the basketball court to upstage Kobe, but if actors can't even pull it off on a soundstage, then I want to know when The King's Speech 2 starring Kobe Bryant, with Lebron James playing the Queen, is coming out.

Thursday Night Poetry Jam

Tonight I'd like to feature one of my favorite poets, Richard Brautigan, in an effort to get my mind off the unstoppable Charlotte Bobcats who maul their way into Staples tomorrow night to rip the flesh off of our beloved Los Angeles Lakers. The 'juggernauts" must go down.

With that off my chest, we can get started with the poetry madness. If you have never heard of Richard Brautigan, now you have- I highly recommend you turn off your brain for a few minutes and possibly a few weeks and enter his world- ne plus ultra!


A Boat

by Richard Brautigan

O beautiful
was the werewolf
in his evil forest.
We took him
to the carnival
and he started
crying
when he saw
the Ferris wheel.
Electric
green and red tears
flowed down
his furry cheeks.
He looked
like a boat
out on the dark
water.


The View from the Dog Tower

by Richard Brautigan


"... three German shepherd puppies wandered away from their home up near the County line."

— North Country Journal
Serving Northern Santa Cruz County


I have been thinking about this little item that I read in the North County Journal for a couple of months now. It contains the boundaries of a small tragedy. I know we are surrounded by so much blossoming horror in the world (Vietnam, starvation, rioting, living in hopeless fear, etc.) that three puppies wandering off isn't very much, but I worry about it and see this simple event as the possible telescope for a larger agony.

"...three German shepherd puppies wandered away from their home up near the County line." It sounds like something from a Bob Dylan song.

Perhaps they vanished playing, barking and chasing each other, into the woods where lost they are to this very day, cringing around like scraps of dogs, looking for any small thing to eat, intellectually unable to comprehend what has happened to them because their brains are welded to their stomachs.

Their voices are used now only to cry out in fear and hunger, and all their playing days are over, those days of careless pleasure that led them into the terrible woods.

I fear that these poor lost dogs may be the shadow of a future journey if we don't watch out.






If I had to say there is one writer who has had a profound influence on my mind, it would have to be Brautigan. Sometimes I write poetry, and I read it to myself using his voice instead of mine. Everything seems to come out better.




My friend, R.B.

by justin j murphy

i’m sorry that he killed himself
with a magnum

i would have stayed with him in his home
near the water
in San Francisco
and told him
he was brilliant

maybe
we would have shared
a bottle of whiskey
instead of him
drinking it alone
and loading that gun

we could have had fun
talking about Japanese women
and absurd telephone conversations
-maybe enough fun
to keep him alive




This poem was written for Richard who took his own life in 1984. I never knew him personally, but as with all writers that one reads and loves, a spiritual connection is realized, something that transcends time and physics and places us all side by side. Without ever knowing him, I miss him. The world he wrote about and lived through is gone today, but, through him, there is always a way back into it.



infinity

by justin j murphy

a strange twisted oval
what a waste of time





messages from bolinas, 1979

by justin j murphy


this notion of writing messages
and traveling to distant oceans
and dropping them into the hyperactive current
expecting them to one day appear
on an english speaking coast
is the equivalent of hoping to death
that the crusades be erased from history

so many messages have been suffocated
between the rounded glass of wine and scotch bottles

messages that may have breathed easier
amplified in front of a standing group of people
in amsterdam perhaps

“these words are sacrificed to anonymity for split seconds of truth”

says one of the writers
as he licks his lips
and smears ink between his fingers

the sea rejects the glass messages like a virus

is it not obvious that the sea is only an extension of human blood?
in which case
all entertaining substances
must be metabolized
thrust out
like a san dimas waterslide
into a cesspool
of human dna

regardless
a bottle landed at my feet today
on the edge of california

uncorking the bottle with my teeth
thinking of brine
i painstakingly extracted the notes
that were nothing more
than the ramblings
of an author
and his friends
drunk in bolinas
in 1979

their script bears the greasy mark of infamous evenings
their mortal wagers
perpetually unpaid
and the women they spoke so lasciviously about
no longer lending them a bed

instead
the ocean is the tomb of their forgotten musings of semi-youth
and i am the grave robber





Richard Brautigan died in Bolinas, CA, an absolutely gorgeous coastal town north of San Francisco. His life, as well as his words, have inspired me on more than one occasion to write. If I had actually found a bottle of Brautigan's words on the edge of California, I highly doubt I would have referred to them as "ramblings." Hope you all enjoyed...have a drink for R.B.

Unbreakable

I can't even imagine a single person on earth who wants to smell like Lamar Odom or Khloe Kardashian. I watch this commercial and I think to myself, "there are so many other people that seem like they would smell better." Jon Hamm, aka Don Draper, comes to mind. I would have said Scarlett Johansson, but I found out last night at an Academy Awards soiree that she's a bit of a "sweat monster." Natalie Portman maybe? Although, every time I think of her, I am reminded of that absolutely retarded thing she does in her bedroom in Garden State. That looks like it smells.

In Lamar's defense, he does look a little shy about being shirtless with Khloe riding him like a horse. He can't make eye contact with the camera, he keeps covering his chest- do you think during the shoot he was imagining Kobe shaking his head "no," then not passing the rock to him when he's wide open for a game winner? I would be. I do lots of things imagining Kobe looking at me. Like right now, I'm typing and I'm thinking "if Kobe were watching me right now, he would be so impressed by my finger speed that I might land a job as his personal emailer." If I couple my job as Kobe's personal emailer, with mine as a professional flu spreader (see below), then land some incredible real estate deals when the market is soaring (see Jerry Buss), I could possibly be in a position to own the Lakers in 20-25 years. All this incredible good fortune because Lamar and Khloe had the foresight to start my career with a horrible fragrance.

Which brings me to the fragrance...any ideas what it smells like? I feel like it might smell like bacon, or a steak burrito wrapped in tin foil. I love Lamar, and am actually kinda into the Kardashian sisters and their wild farting antics. But fuck, I just don't want either rubbing their stink into my neck.

Thursday Night Poetry Jam

For now, I am in a small Lakeshow paradise. I watched most of the game last night through heavy goggles created by Sierra Nevada, shots of Fernet, and a pile of nachos in Silver Lake in a pink Mexican restaurant. Between Kobe fadeaways, I raved about the use of enchilada sauce in the nacho recipe- I highly recommend this little addition for superior nacho flavor. Needless to say, this morning was a little slow going. My brain just recently began to work.

I was going to take some time to discuss Khloe Kardashian, since I recently began following her on twitter. What a fucking mistake. Did you know she saw Monica in concert last night? I know! I don't care either!

Being that I am a little "under the weather," I've decided to start a new weekly blog called "Thursday Night Poetry Jam." I will post a poem, say a few words, then stare at the words for three hours before I go off to my job as a late night bartender. Feel free to stop by, watch me pour a beer, and talk shit.




jesse colin young

if only the dirt outside my window

would sprout youngbloods songs

I have thrown millions of seeds in the rain

across the brittle hard dirt
waiting for blossoms to shine through my ears
and change the weather in my mind

from gray to orange

I want to hear jesse colin young’s voice

surging up through the stems

and blasting out with the petals
a song about sunlight or getting together

a rose

would be more beautiful

if it wore his mustache

it is a mustache that makes me think

of making love at woodstock in 1969
inside the stream

this melodic mustache

made me locate point reyes station
and watch it carefully
on a satellite map
dreaming of living there with the driftwood
out on the edge of california
with animals and coastline
smoking dope with a friend

drawing pictures in the smoke
while he performs songs from the
dirt outside my window

(like a tree in a meadow wind she will bend to take you in makes no difference where you been that's the way she feels about you that's the way she feels about you - J C Y)

Although this poem lacks any type of classical, intellectual formula, I always dug it. I wrote it about five years ago during a time when I was super into The Youngbloods and smoking a healthy amount of grass. I was also trying to create poetry that didn't necessarily tell a story, but painted a picture more or less, of an emotion- that feeling you get when everything aligns in the universe, and the sun sets, and you smile, or conversely, when the world is falling apart, it is cold, and you are frowning. In this case, it's just pure california folk rock love. I love you JCY...

Are You Fucking Kidding Me?

Ordinarily this blog is devoted to all things Lakers that generally don't happen on the court (see "KoPau" etc.). But tonight, after losing to the worst team in the NBA and one of the worst NBA teams of all time, and going for their third straight loss for the third time this season, I have no other option but to vent. I'll make this blog short and sweet...Please Mitch and Phil, do something. At first, I was completely against a trade involving Andrew Bynum. After tonight, why the hell are we hanging on to him?- Terrible performance tonight against players six inches shorter and 80 pounds lighter. Next, can someone hit a shot? I know who can. Carmelo Anthony. Can we throw Ron Artest into that trade for the hell of it? Tonight Bynum and Ron Ron combined for a whopping 9 points. Maybe Denver will hook up a draft pick that can stop dribble penetration and/or block a shot and/or average 9 points a game. I can't even write any more about this. I am physically ill. I need to drink vodka. I feel bad about wearing my Magic Johnson jersey right now. I can't believe Lebron is gonna be in LA this week talking shit to everyone about the demise of the Lakeshow...and he's gonna get away with it...because he's too big and shit. I've seen the Lakers go through a lot of ups and downs in my life, but right now, I am embarrassed to be a Laker fan. Defending champs don't go down like this. That was what the Jacksonless 2004 Lakers were for.

The $125,000 Flu

Yesterday, the Lakers once again were manhandled by a sub-par team in what was yet another embarrassing ass-whooping. But it's not the team's lack of focus against pretty much every team they have played against so far this year that I would like to discuss, nor am I going to bring up the fact that "The Show" has lost 9 of the last 11 against the juggernauts known as the "Charlotte Bobcats." What is really on my mind is Kobe Bryant's flu. If you are as obsessed with the Lakers as I am, you know by now that Kobe gets the flu every year around this time. He always plays through it, sometimes effectively, sometimes ineffectively, as was the case last night. I sat in bed next to my fiancee, who is dying of the flu herself, and watched Kobe sweat and run and jump for thirty minutes wondering how on earth a human could possibly do all of that while deathly ill. I had the same "flu" last week and was only a few hours away from slamming my head between the door and doorjamb of my bedroom, just to feel something else than the pain that was tormenting my entire body, including the soles of my feet. Teesha, my fiancee, cowering underneath the covers, inhaling gallons of Thera-flu watched in amazement as well, until finally she said, "Isn't that a little self-centered of him? Doesn't that put the whole team at risk?" I had never thought about Kobe's flu in relation to the rest of the NBA until that moment. But, after careful consideration, it seemed to me that not only does it put the entire Lakers players and staff at risk of becoming bed-ridden, but it also puts everyone on the court at risk of spending a week or so watching "I Love Lucy" reruns. Which brings me to my point. If it is legal for a player to play with the flu, then why don't we hire someone like, say me, to catch the flu before critical playoff matchups, play three minutes a game sneezing as much as possible on Manu, Dirk, CP3, Durant, and whoever else plans on dismantling our team, and watch as players check themselves out of the game, vomiting on the sidelines, tears in their eyes, fatigued, dehydrated, and crawling towards a bed and Ricky's sweet Cuban voice screaming "Luuuuccccyyyy!" I wouldn't even charge that much- $25,000 per virus, with a bonus for every series we win. It's kind of like when the St. Louis Browns hired that "little person" to play for them so he could get walked every time he was at the plate. I smell a "five-peat." ...and a new six figure salary.

Bedazzled Mama Allen

Last night, Ray Allen became the NBA's all-time leader in 3-pointers made, beating out Reggie "Spike Lee Joint" Miller for the crown. But I don't give a shit. Is it strange that both of these men are absolute dickheads? I think three point shooters have Napoleon complexes- it's like they can't dribble, crossover, and posterize centers, so they stand behind the line and crank out 3's all night. It's a personality trait more than anything else. Of course, it just could have something to do with how they are raised. Did it seem strange to anyone that Ray Allen's mom, Flo Allen, was allowed to walk onto the court at TD Banknorth immediately following the big "3-pointer" during the television timeout to hug Reggie Miller and kick it with her son on the bench? First off, I don't even let my mom come behind the bar when I bartend. Second, does Reggie Miller have any idea who this woman is? I felt bad for Ray's wife who had to stay in her seat during the whole fiasco, holding on to all their kids, clapping and smiling while Flo pranced around the Garden with her bedazzled "MOM ALLEN" jersey on. I understand she's a proud mother, but she practically got as much face-time as her son, who actually did something incredible. I don't know, it just doesn't seem fair that Flo gets court access, and poor Jack Nichølson has to sit peacefully in his seat, cursing at the officials from a safe distance. I say if anyone deserves to be on the court hugging dudes and giving props, it's Jack. The Lakers have Easy Rider, The Shining, and One Flew Over the Cuckoos Nest. The Celtics have an annoying mother with a bad sense of fashion. I think we all know who won this one.

KoPau! and Where I Fit into the Lakers Market Share

Last night's heartbreaking loss to the NBA's best team, the San Antonio Spurs, on a last second tip-in by Antonio McDyess should be the topic of discussion for just about every Lakers blog on the planet today. That's exactly why I'm not going to discuss it. We've more important things to cover about the lakers- like this Total Recall rendering of what a half Kobe/half Pau cyborg would look like. I'm not sure who the absolute genius is over there in Lakerland who puts these incredible graphics together, not to mention the auteur who oversees the Christmas videos, but I'd just like to say, "Fuck yeah." This particular image, for some reason, brings to mind the the AFI top twenty film Weird Science, that scene where the motorcycle gang terrorizes Wyatt and Gary's super awesome party. If they ever remaster that classic film, I know I'd like to see this 6'9", half mohawk animal running wild across the screen slam-dunking Anthony Michael Hall in a toilet somewhere.

Time, History, Poetics

I wrote this poem about five years ago and recently came across it, dusted it off, polished it a bit, and tried to remember what I was doing back then. And I'm glad I'm not doing it any more. Nonetheless, our experiences today are the books five years from now, when they make sense.


LOVE, but with arthur lee


I saw shapes of worried phrases
heavy twisting question marks
and helpless bleeding punctuation
passing through your eyes this sunset
as you fingered the needle
on the record player
and clung to side one
of my LOVE album
1. ALONE AGAIN OR
2. A HOUSE IS NOT A MOTEL
3. ANDMOREAGAIN
4. THE DAILY PLANET
5. OLD MAN
6. THE RED TELEPHONE
it reads like a cryptic fortune cookie of our relationship

I stared out the window
in a daylong silence that dried my tongue
refusing to speak
hoping you would leave

you glanced for a moment
through the same window
expecting to see
the white naked breasts
of my beautiful neighbor
just visible above the blooming rosebushes
seducing me with her ribs
an apple in her hand
her eyes shooting into mine
blue lasers cutting you out like cataracts

but there was nothing
you couldn’t see into the window of my eyes
past the thorns between my ears

Snarky

Do you ever read over an email or a letter and change your voice or the inflections of your words so that the entire tone of the correspondence changes? For example does this sentence sound snarky to you- like something a rich kid from New England with a go-cart track in his backyard would say now that he is "roughing it" as an artist in the Lower East Side?

"I have an impeccable work ethic, a healthy tolerance for cocktails, and a rotating wardrobe of beat-up vintage Levi’s, all of which I’d like to someday display for you."

It's like I look at it and I see Rob Lowe in Saint Elmos Fire. But it's me. It's meant to be mildly entertaining. Or am I crazy for changing the voice in my head when I read? Strange that I just finished a novel about a guy who has "funny schizophrenia."

Ron Ron, Gone Gone? Trade Rumors Swirl Around The City of Angels

Every time Ron Artest gets the ball, I say out loud, "Please don't shoot that Ron." I even said it during Game 7 last year- He proved me wrong. Once. In all fairness, his shot has proven me wrong 40% of the time this season, which is not bad when you compare it to a certain Laker legend by the name of Smush Parker who dropped a little better than 40% of his buckets in his career in the purple and gold. It's cool. Smush is now playing with Iraklis Thessaloniki, the last-place team in Greece. I bet if Mitch Kupchak plays his cards right, he could probably land Smush, the Serbian powerhouse and former Washington State Cougar Nikola Koprikiva, and a Grecian league First rounder for Ron. This trade deadline could change basketball internationally forever.