Friday, November 22, 2002
Driving home from work, I saw it. It was a car that someone had made up to look like a hedge.

Then I realized it was actually a hedge that someone had made up to look like a car.

I closed my eyes and they crashed into each other, producing only California.

Dear David,

Thanks for your letter. I would like to dispel the rumor that I am a creative writer. This is not the case. In fact, everything I ever write is absolutely true. This requires no creative ability (how lucky for me -- I'm daft as a stump!) Also, I do not have a golden brain, although I used to have an aluminum baseball bat. At the moment, my head is filled to the top with those tiny paper circles that you get when you use a hole punch.

Best of luck with your black celebrity problem!


Tony 'Tender-Roast' Smitheroni

Thursday, November 21, 2002
Dear Tony,

Hi. My name is David and I'm writing to you today to ask you about your creative writing. I've seen your work on the Internet and, Tony, I am truly impressed by your output and its quality. How is it that everything that comes out of your head becomes solid gold in words? Do you have a golden brain? Should we call you Fort Knox? Are the security guards on break? Tony, I can't see them. What's the deal with Bobby Brown and Whitney Houston anyways? I mean, Whitney had that huge hit with "I Will Always Love You," and then she doesn't make anything good. Tony, I blame Bobby Brown...the best thing he's done is popularize an awful hairstyle. Or was that Theo Huxtable? Either way, I can't shape my hair in a wedge. And Tony, what the hell is a "roni"?! And why is it tender?


Tuesday, November 19, 2002
Somebody figured out how to play rock scissors paper through email but theres something missing i cant see your face i cant see your face and i dont know if the next word you are is rock to knock me scissors to cut me or paper to smother me dead

Monday, November 18, 2002
My workstation has been invaded by ants. I have a translucent keyboard, and I can see them crawling around in there, chewing on my keystrokes. Every now and then, one of them stops what he's doing and asks me,

"Why the hell do you put up with this?"

Sunday, November 17, 2002
On the advice of Daniel, I am blogging this dream:

I go crazy at the airport check-in desk and run away, pelting into the town. In an industrial slum I seek refuge in a third-floor tenement room. The police come after me, charging up the stairs. They recognize me from the bar where I was riding my bicycle on the tables, from the house party where the ocean was electric pink, and screensavers, made of tendril fire, bloomed on the ground like ferns.

I take some Elmer's Glue and squirt it on the police as they're coming up the dilapidated stairwell. A helpful woman, with a tone in her voice that suggests she's seen all this before, tells me, "Hey, that's assault, you know."

Assault? Carrying a big, black cloth, three cops hit me and I go down, wrapped in the fabric.

I wake up in the same room, but the door is barricaded. I try to get it open, and then the guards outside let it open, and there's a kind of customer-service desk out there.

"I'd like to get out of here," I say to the Indian man behind the desk.

"You have option number one, or option number two. You must write a letter to copper."

[it's a trick, it has to be a trick... I'll write a letter to copper and they'll say See, he's crazy, he writes letters to the elements...]

"I'm sorry," I say, "but I cannot write a letter to a metal."

"Then we will burn you." A fat, Russian-looking woman begins to heat up a soldering iron.

Friday, November 15, 2002
My fingers have been unusually talkative lately. I figured it meant I should start playing guitar again. So I went to the Guitar Center in San Marcos and tried out a couple of guitars. In my hands, they were mute as two-by-fours. All my music had boiled away long ago, like fuel out of a junkyard gas tank.

I tried, though. I got the most expensive guitar down from the wall and mashed my noodly fingers on it. "Flonk," it said. I put it right back up.

In the car, on the way back, I turned on the radio. It is an old Alpine -- once a very nice stereo, but blind with age.

The display is dead, so it must be played by feel.

Today, while driving to work, I imagined that everything in the world was inflatable. Things seemed pretty normal, but if you looked very closely, everything had those little flip-out nozzles like you see on a beach ball.

Ladies and gentlemen, I am sick of being scared. I am tired of being afraid of terror attacks. I am sick of feeling usafe. Screw the stupid world. Why are Americans hated? I am not the kind of American you'd hate if you met me.

Unplug your television! Unplug this computer! End the domination of fear! Take a plane to New Zealand, and start a farm! Screw being scared!

Meanwhile, I'll go watch CNN.

Thursday, November 14, 2002
Shhhh... I'm...

hang on...


Jack, Janet, and Chrissy are having a garage sale! I recently received the following posting to a garage sale mailing list to which I subscribe. Whoever is selling these things probably has a mustache.

Condo items still for sale, couch ($300 obo), settee ($250 obo), 2 overstuffed chairs (not large, $150 obo), 1 glass and brass coffee table ($225 obo), 2 end tables, (one at $75 obo & one at $45 obo), 1 glass & brass 1/2 circle hall table ($175 obo), 1 tall (6 ft. 10 inch.) hutch, very nice, ($750 obo).

Wednesday, November 13, 2002
Today, while buying a custom sandwich at Henry's Market, the Sheriff, sporting a uniform that said "Sheriff," got in line kind of next to me. When the sandwich lady asked who was next, I said, "Um, why don't we let the Sheriff go first?"

"No, no," he said, waving me on, "let him go first." So I ordered my sandwich. Then he ordered his sandwich. "It was this or McDonald's," he said to me, somewhat confidentially. "My thoughts exactly," I said. The Sheriff and I had used identical flowcharts in deciding what to have for lunch. "You know," he continued, "that White Merlot over there is really good." He pointed at a rack of Beringer White Merlot. I had never heard of White Merlot. "You won't be disappointed. I don't know anything about wine, but I know what I like."

I picked up the bottle of White Merlot by the neck and hefted it experimentally, as thought I could gauge its quality by weight. "I'll take your word for it," I said. We proceeded through the checkout register. "Thanks for the wine advice," I said. He winked at me.

As we parted ways, I remembered that during one blind, flightless moment in the sandwich line, he and I had talked about hang gliding.

I brought the merlot home after work and put it in the fridge. A few minutes ago, my roomate said, "Hey, what is "White Merlot"?

"I don't know," I said. "The Sheriff told me to get that."

Larry Punchman's Mechanics of Comedy, Part III
Today's featured mechanism -- The Intrinsically Funny Subject, also called 'The Bareface':

"Today's headline: Evel Knievel injured in banana explosion."

Tuesday, November 12, 2002
Happiness continues to elude me.

I can see it in the distance, but it keeps receding at the same speed that my mind is moving.

I hope the latest research bears some fruit.

So, yesterday was the first day off in a long stretch of work weeks. It was nice to stay at home in my underwear and work on some neglected paintings and do the dishes. Later, I worked on making new music. Imagine what it'd be like to have the day off EVERY DAY!

No really, it...are you imagining?

It's not too much fun being broke and homeless, is it?

Today, while driving to work, I decided to pretend that I was doing something interesting. So, I "made-believe" that I was actually in a very elaborate kind of carnival ride that simulates driving to work, even to the point of appearing to respond to turns of the steering wheel and pressure on the pedals.

It was real creepy, and for once I was happy to get to work.

Monday, November 11, 2002
Hello, all.

I think that a testament to the fact that something is wrong with our modern American society is the breakdown of community, and the terrible sense of isolation that many of us feel. Of course, this might just be Monday typing.

But still, with record numbers of young Americans seeking treatment for sadness, I wonder: What's wrong?

Has sadness and depression always been a part of human life? Are we the first to reject it as damaging? Maybe sadnesses are common to living. And this whole bipolar thing: What artist doesn't have fits of productivity?

There is no community in America, I think, except for the workplace. Mostly this is true. There are exceptions, of course. And these are what you must seek out.

Oh, my friends. It is a strange and mysterious world. Please click here for a moment of succor.

Friday, November 08, 2002
Hi, Tony:

I love you, but it may be too late.


Thursday, November 07, 2002
Update 2:

Another response, this time from Jason. It came as close to the mark as I think anyone could get. I was about to get out of the box, but I heard a scratching sound coming from just outside the duct-taped doorflap. It didn't sound like the cat.

I think Barbie is out there.

Please help. I have run out of cold cuts.


One response so far, from Daniel. More frightening than reassuring. I haven't thought about Barbie for a while, but it's getting kind of stuffy in here.

I shouldn't have smoked that cigarette.

Good morning,

I'm Tony Smith, one of the JuicyDelicious guys. Today, I thought I would try something a little different from my normal routine. So, instead of driving to work, I got a big cardboard box from out back and covered it with aluminum foil. I put the box in my closet. Then I took all the Snapple, beer and cold cuts out of the refrigerator and put them in a cooler, which I stowed in the cardboard box along with my laptop. Just minutes ago, I sealed myself in the box with duct tape.

Now I'm in here. I'm reasonably sure that the tinfoil will keep out the satellite mind-control beams that make me think about Barbie, and the duct-tape should repel the cat, which has a microchip in its neck. I'm going to stay in here until someone can convince me that they love me and that everything is basically ok. Want to give it a shot? Email me at

Wednesday, November 06, 2002
Dear Pauls,

I like the "s" in your name. It's very catchy. The last name though. I'm thinking, "Bernhard," no, "Faulkowski." Kind of a Faulkner slash Bukowski thing. If you could just try on this jacket, these shoes, then we might get somewhere. Linda, could you bring in the jacket with the elbow patches please? Do you smoke? You should. Look at David Sedaris, very popular. Now we gotta do something about your writing. It's good. But you need something a little more "now." Can we suggest writing autobiographical short stories about your dysfunctional childhood? Where'd you grow up? Seattle? How about Brooklyn? You were born in Brooklyn, your dad died when you were 10, your mother beat you but fed you well. "Ethnic" food. You're a belligerent drunk. You went into the city and had a few ridiculous sexual encounters. By the way, how old are you kid? Don't answer that, you're 22. Alright, I'll take a look at the manuscript next month.


The Publishing Industry of New York City

Tuesday, November 05, 2002
I believe that the information density and agenda diversification present in the world has risen above a threshold beyond which it is impossible to discern the truth. The truth is still there, if it ever was, but it has become irretrievably obscured by the sheer volume of loud, compelling lies. We did this to ourselves, because we wanted it this way.