LIVE HUMAN TARGETS

The cd that I have waited so long for has finally arrived. I have tons of them, and then I quit... HA HA HA HA HA.

Anybody want one? I need a cheap way of getting them to you.

Ten bucks for each cd, plus three or four bucks for postage.

exit stage left

All of these lines across my face
Tell you the story of who I am
So many stories of where I've been
And how I got to where I am
But these stories don't mean anything
When you've got no one to tell them to
It's true...I was made for you

I climbed across the mountain tops
Swam all across the ocean blue
I crossed all the lines and I broke all the rules
But baby I broke them all for you
Because even when I was flat broke
You made me feel like a million bucks
Yeah you do and I was made for you

You see the smile that's on my mouth
Is hiding the words that don't come out
And all of my friends who think that I'm blessed
They don't know my head is a mess
No, they don't know who I really am
And they don't know what I've been through but you do
And I was made for you...

-The Story by Brandi Carlile

hash is good

It was a just another puddy yellow museum that you might find in any city in the world. Except this one was filled with the entire history of Bahrain. Everything from the discovery of oil, to the birth and education of the children, to the written language, to the clothes, to the pearl divers, to the ancient civilizations that lived here for centuries before I came here. The rest of the Arabian world seems to have buried their dead on this island feeling that it was the source of all life and the gateway to the eternal heaven. Of course, these are the same people that feel a woman should wear all black from head to toe and who built a palace for Micheal Jackson.

It was a lovely museum. Very hands on. I mean that - you can really touch, pick up and fondle all of the exhibits. You could even pick up and handle the rare Egyptian artifacts which are on loan from the graves of other rich dead people in the region. You have to enter and leave the exhibit through a metal detector, but once inside, you could fondle to your heart's content. It was worth the 30 bucks we spent to get in there.

Todd and I made our way back to the base and readied ourselves for another evening of shows. I would be headlining and he, opening. At show time there was already a crowd and there were more out there than the night before. Word had spread and those that came out were looking for a good time. I would like to think that I was the draw or perhaps the Marines and Sailors of NSA Bahrain were enormous huge comedy fans, but in all reality, they were really there to see Tey. And when I say, Tey, I mean the Tey. The one and only. For all of you that don't know recognize the name all you need to know is that Madam Tey is a very sexy, slender Asian who is fond of tight fitting clothes. I think she might have brought out some of the crowd, but only a small fraction. I'm sure most lustful happy 18 year old Marines fresh off the boat and filled with booze would rather see a middle aged, over weight comic than an Asian tart in hot pants.

The show went fine for us, the crowd enjoyed the revamped jokes and we walked away batting a thousand for the week. Not bad for shows done in hundred degree temps. Sadly, Tey didn't fare as well. Her sound was off, her clothes, sadly, never came off and she completely misunderstood her surroundings. In an attempt to get the crowd energized, she started a little "Who's better? The Marines or the Navy?" banter and it didn't go well. There was almost a small war over some of the heated banter between the two factions of men. As an entertainer, it isn't always a good idea to rile up the extremely drunk audience into a blood lusting fervor if you want them to sing along to your rendition of "Proud to be an American." I doubt that the mothers and fathers back home would like to see their babies dying in a bar brawl on CNN.

Todd didn't disappear this time and we eventually ended the night on the base. We went to bed a bit drunk, but sated. The next day was our trip to Djibouti and from what everyone was telling us, it was going to be murderously hot and uncomfortable. This would be our last night in a bed and with running water so we needed to soak it up.

The itinerary said 5 p.m. The handler at the base said he would pick us up at 3 p.m. for a ride to the airport. Our tickets said 5 p.m. We got to the airport at 3:45 p.m., our plane left at 3 p.m. It was Friday, the holiest day in the Middle East. Kinda like our Sunday. Nothing is open. We don't speak one word of the language. I have tattoos. Todd is...Well...Todd. No one wanted to, or could, help us.

I wanted to go so badly I was willing to dish out $2000.00 of my own money for me and Todd to get to the Djibouti on time. It would involve us having to flying all over hell and back just to get in to Djibouti, but I was willing to do it. Sadly there was just no way for us to get there. Djibouti is the fourth poorest country in the world and it is under constant fire from rival factions, so there is only a finite number of flights in and out of the country, there was no way we could get in there.

I was crushed. But my pain was just beginning.

The bookers could have cared less about our situation and at the time of this posting, I still have not heard from them. Not an email. Not a phone call. I should have known. These are the same fuck ups that screwed me out of Korea last October and didn't care when I had all my problems in Japan. They just don't give a shit. For them, comedy is a cash grab and if they have to fuck over people and do it under the guise of entertaining our troops, they'll do it. Soulless fucks.

Todd and I were stuck. We went back to the base and begged for help. They let us have our old room back and we just crawled into our beds, dejected and lost. I was ready to go home.

It was determined that we would fly back to Amsterdam and catch our original flights home. Hmmmmmmmm. Two days in Amsterdam.....If I have too. It's my gold watch.

At least this time I wasn't entering hash town with a huge case of jetlag. We arrived at 7 a.m. and like the two other times before, nothing was open. Nada. We had met some fellow Americans on the train from the airport who had four hours to kill and who wanted to get really high in that time, so we joined forces and walked the empty streets together, looking for drugs.

Getting high in Amsterdam. It's why you come here. Then you go visit the Van Gogh museum or the Anne Frank house and then you try to find your way back to the train station. All of these things are fun to do when you're high.

It was a warm morning. Much cooler than Bahrain, but still warm enough that you wouldn't need a coat. There was no one was out on the streets and nothing seemed to be open but we were able to find the one coffee house that was open early - For desperate stoners and Americans on short lay-overs. One lone hash happy coffeehouse...Hash is good.

There are photos. They're blurry.

The next two days were a mild blur. There were hookers under glass, free hash smoke, Van Gogh, Rembrandt, Vemeer, more hookers, more hash, a wearily done comedy show for a Dutch audience, and finally, home. We spent the last night in the airport just waiting for the flights home in the morning. Todd left at 7 a.m. and there was no pleasant goodbye. Todd and I had grown apart pretty quickly and we never seemed to get back on each other's good side. He seemed just as annoyed with me as I was with him and the only thing we could muster was a pleasant "See you later. It was fun." It wasn't.

My flight home was horrible. I was stuck between two people that have a phobia about having their elbows touched. 9 hours of awkward, forced smiles and uncomfortable, unnatural airline induced yoga. I was never more happy to see a plane I was on fall from the sky. I'm ready to begin my retirement from comedy.

I flew back into the present with just three and a half days before I am supposed to leave for Canada on the bike. I'm home safely. Thanks for the concerned emails. I did send some forty postcards out from Amsterdam at a total cost of more than two nights in a hotel in Amsterdam. I lost a lot of addresses, so if you sent your address and you don't get a postcard, forgive me.

I'm done now.

invasion of somewhere

Episode something...

I am in Amsterdam surrounded by hookers, hash and Van Gogh. I go home tomorrow, give me some time to get my head on straight.

invasion of bahrain

Episode #4

Is it legal to kill someone in the Middle East?

Flash forward to the present. I am sitting in Bahrain a day after my flight left without me. Yemen Airlines or the travel agent that booked the tickets, fucked up and now Todd and I sit without a country, a visa, or a way home. I'm assuming that the tour is over as there is no real way to get into Djibouti before the scheduled shows. It would take a dune buggy, an unheard of visa from the Saudi Government which is the most hardline Muslim country in the world, a boat, a guide, and 30 hours. None of which I have.

The contact here in Bahrain has their hands tied and the bookers back in America, LONE WOLF ENTERTAINMENT, is missing in action. Our American contacts Jeff and Olivia are both out of the country and so we sit without any idea of what to do.

So no Africa... No Nairobi....No shows....It's just time to go home.

More soon...

invasion of bahrain

Episode #3

Hot Shit!

Sleep is a gift, ask anyone who doesn't get much of it and they'll tell you. I'm getting to sleep three to four hours at a time and with each little nap(?) I just get more exhausted. When I'm not sleeping, I'm shitting. I know I haven't eaten enough food to justify this insanity and for those of you who are on my shit TEXT list, be happy that I don't have the phone with me. It's just madness. For those of you that think it's the water, you're half right. However, I am using nothing but bottled water for everything and I rinse with Listerine every other minute. Todd is just sucking down the fluids with local ice cubes and statistically speaking - he's shitting twice as much as I am.

The sun comes up here at 4 a.m. and it isn't the type of sunrise where it sort of peeks out at you and then slowly proceeds to increases its intensity with each passing second, oh no. Here in Bahrain it just come straight up and starts cookin'. It was 100 degrees at 4 a.m. when I took my morning stroll. I accidentally walked 5 miles because I wasn't paying attention. I ran into heavy traffic from all of the marines and naval personnel that were doing their morning P.T. and the looks they gave me with my tattoos and portly little body were magical.

After the run, I lucked out and walked into the one building that houses the food and the Internet. Breakfast was being served a la carte and it was of a quality just above a Denney's meal. Nothing to cry about, but nothing to be proud of either. It didn't matter, food is food and for some particular reason I am famished. It must be from all of that laborious pooping. The Internet is slow, but at least they have it. Thank you to all of you who sent an email, sorry I can't respond to them all.

All the buildings on the base are puddy yellow much like the rest of Bahrain. There are a few transplanted trees scattered here and there to provide some modest shade and to break up the monotony of the puddy. Every so many yards there is a soldier wearing puddy yellow body armor from head to toe, and carrying a very large weapon. He, or she, looks like she has had enough of the heat and if killing you would mean a ticket home then so be it. The rest of the troops and sailors are wearing shorts and tee shirts, the very things we were told we couldn't wear here. As it turns out, 80 percent of what I brought to wear here is too warm for this climate. If they ever make clothes out of tissue paper, this would be the ideal place to wear them. It's just hot and with everything tinted puddy yellow, the sun's rays just reflect off of everything; the walls, the ground, and they burn you everywhere. If you weren't so moist from all the sweating you would probably burst into flames.

The first day on the base we didn't get much accomplished other than to get the low-down on what we could and couldn't do and what we should expect from the show. The warnings they gave us about touring Bahrain have made it almost impossible to get up the courage to leave the base and see any of it. Apparently danger lurks everywhere, even though there has never ever been an incident in this country. Not ever.

We slept, we ate, we shat. We slept some more. Then it was noon. Exciting no?

The sun fell out of the sky like a pat of butter melting on a hot skillet. Suddenly it was just gone. Sadly, the heat didn't leave with it.

The show was going to be held outside which is always a challenge, but a challenge worth doing when you remember why you're here. The crowd was large, well behaved and more appreciative than we expected, even though neither one of us was really awake for the show.

After our show, a Thai rock and roll band took the stage and sang covers of every song you can think of from country to punk and they tore the place up. Of course, it helps to have a lead singer that is a sexy looking girl wearing Daisy Duke cut offs and a half shirt. Marines tend to go for that sort of thing in their entertainment. They were fresh off the boat and really, really happy to see that Thai lady. She could have given a sermon on AIDS and they would have been happy and horny.

The Marines that didn't fawn over Thai girl made their way over to us and were full of questions, and booze. I wasn't ten minutes into answering questions about my tattoos before my first drink was bought for me. I'm still half-asleep and suffering from the shits, booze can only make matters worse. But I'm a trooper. That's why I'm here, to bring joy. Let my boozing be an indication of my dedication to service.

It was decided that all of the Marines and myself should get a tattoo. Muslims frown upon tattoos so the only place to get one was on the base from a sailor who has a home made gun. Never the best solution, but a solution it was and the calls were made. Thankfully, the Marines started fighting with themselves before any ink could be spilled and no one walked away with anything poorly thought out. It was decided that the next night would be more fitting. I had had enough and I stumbled back to my puddy yellow room to shit and pass out. I left Todd behind so he could drool over the Thai singer. He seemed to be in love. I wonder if there is a place in this crazy world for those two?

I woke up at 5 and again I was out running amid the crowd. These kids are in much better shape than I'm in and it's a sad sight to see me out there bearing the only fat on the whole base. I lost ten pounds in sweat alone before I was able to stumble back to my room for a shower. When I got there, I noticed that Todd's bed was empty and that he hadn't come back to the room last night. A bad sign. We were told to stick together and to not venture out without someone knowing where we are at all times. Todd was plastered and tired, so he probably forgot. What perils lay ahead?

I went out looking for him every where I could think he might be. That is to say, I went to the jail and the hospital, but he wasn't there. It was still hours before anything on base would be open so I could call someone to inquire about Todd's whereabouts. What if he went off base after a hooker? What if he took that personality out on the town without anyone there to watch his back? Shit. What if Todd was going to be the center of an international incident? There are already three G.I.'s missing this week, now Todd.

It was 9:30 before he just reappeared out of nowhere. Hung over, and shocked that he had caused such a panic. By the time he reappeared, there had been a small group of people anxiously looking everywhere for him so they could cover their asses should something happen to him. Legally, Todd is their responsibility. The base was frantic in their efforts to find the missing comic and for him to reappear so casually and hung over wasn't the greatest moment in comic-military relations.

Troubles aside, and after another shit and a nap, I was beyond desperate to get out and see Bahrain. This was really the only full day we had to get out and tour around and I didn't want to miss out. Friday is a religious holiday and everything would be closed, so it's now or never to see a real mosque and take in the sights. Giddy doesn't begin to describe it.

I was told that I had to cover my body so my tattoos wouldn't show. I was also told I couldn't wear my KC hat or my Kansas tee shirt as both would attract too much attention and the locals would be offended by them. I was willing to do anything, even suffer in miserable heat in a long sleeve shirt, and defy my Jayhawk love, just to see this country. I lost another ten pounds from the experience.

Todd, hung over and ashamed, came along for the ride.

We took a cab to the biggest mosque in Bahrain. The trip to the world beyond the base walls was incredible. There is so much beauty to be found in a world of concrete and sand. That must explain Micheal Jackson's desire to live here for a year(before he was kicked out). It's very beautiful in it's simplicity.

Even though the entire exterior is puddy yellow stone, the Mosque's interior is beautiful marble and silk. The interior dome is made up of glass and an enormous chandelier which is covered with hundreds of candles spreading light everywhere. The place spoke of heavenly beauty and passion and you can see where people can get so worked up about a religion. Inside there were only a few people praying, but someone in the highest tower was praying out loud on huge speakers so the whole town could hear it. You could not escape the sound. Muslims pray five times a day and during that time, NOTHING happens. Nothing. They are very serious about their prayers. I felt like I was pissing people off by standing there taking photos.

Our cabbie informed us that there is no poverty, or drunks, or homeless people in Bahrain. The more I looked around, the more I could see that he was right. Everyone here has money, everyone. Owning a Mercedes here is the equivalent of owning a Mazda in America. That must be why you see so many Arabs in them when they come to America. They really must think we're cheap driving around in Hondas. Money is everywhere here. It's a very modern city with antiquated habits.

We didn't have much time to look around after we toured the Mosque so Todd and I went to the Bahrain National Museum, which was the closest thing to us and something that would certainly stay open past 1, the time that everything closes in the Middle East. Normally a small market or taking in some local flavor would be nice to see, but everyone spoke so highly about this Museum we just had to go...

[no more until I arrive in Amsterdam in three days]

invasion of bahrain

Episode #2

Bahrain drops.

The Muslim world views eating pork as one of the single greatest sin by man on this planet. Most of the people that are flying to Bahrain and, indeed, most of the people of Bahrain, are Muslim. The second greatest sin is marking or altering the body in any way. Tattoos are really bad. Tattoos are a great sin and it speaks of the evilness of the person that bears them. I am batting a thousand with my fellow passengers. I must look like hell on toast.

I pulled the only food I had with me to eat out of my bag - a 24 hour old ham and cheese sandwich. I was so tired from the flight that I didn't even think about the great insult it would be to eat it in front of my fellow passengers. The ham ripped apart practically in slow motion as I took big gnarly sinful bites. The corners of my mouth oozed out spicy mustard which probably looked like sin's foulness pouring out of me. The other passengers wouldn't have noticed me had I just not opened the bag of extra crispy potato chips. The loud CRUNCH of the chips seemed to echo through the terminal and drew every curious onlookers. Eventually everyone at the gate was staring at me. Even the other Americans that were concerned that my foulness might ruin things for them.

By the time I realized that I had completely offended everyone it was too late. I was indeed the living embodiment of all that they had been taught about Americans and our sinful ways. I must have been a sight to see. There is just something about me in foreign airports that demands attention. However, the crowd that gathered around me didn't seem interested in getting my autograph this time.

Thankfully Todd Justice arrived and released some of the tension. It was getting hard to eat the chips quietly and I felt guilty about every bite I was taking. Todd and I have been friends for many years and he will be the other half of this comedy tour. He's a big, bald, and an unabashedly loud Texan. He was just enough of a character to get the eyes off of my catalog of debauchery long enough so I could finish my meal.

He's a good man - direct, very tall. Funny. It's really nice to see him and to know that he'll be on this trip with me. I think touring with people you know is a lot more entertaining. He walks up to where I am sitting at the gate and in his own Todd way, he starts to unload a very colorful tale of his trip over the pond. Apparently he was stuck in a small seat next to a man with a powerful cough from what he called, "Peruvian Gator Flu," and a screaming baby, so he wasn't able to rest at all. I didn't have the heart to tell him about my first class pampering, but I'm a comic and incredibly impish, so I dug down deep and told him anyway. He was uncharacteristically quiet for a moment. That quiet that says, "oh...Well goodie for you."

We got on the plane and sadly walked past first class into steerage. I was almost to the rear of the plane before I found my seat. I'm not much of a flyer and planes make me nervous on several levels. For one, I don't like the stagnant feeling in the air. Especially the air in the back of the plane away from the open door. I like air flow. I don't even like my windows closed when I drive or if I'm at home in -20 below temps. I like air flow. There were no vents on this plane. None. I hated it.

The only solace I received was when I looked back and saw Todd sitting further back. Just as he took his seat, the rear door of the plane opened and a woman in a coma, suffering from a deadly disease came in on a stretcher. They laid her out across several rows of seats and zip-tied her in...right next to Todd's face. To his left would be the only woman on the plane with a screaming baby. His face said it all.

I still couldn't sleep. 8 hours of flying and I watched every movie I could. We flew into night and Europe turned into the Black sea, then the eerie glow of Turkery, Iraq, Iran and Afghanistan. Their deserts were aglow with fires from refineries and random cities below us. It was beautiful even though you know that below are men and women dying and those flames are part of the reason.

We landed in Abu Dhabi for a brief stopover and most of the plane, including the ill woman, departed. The second they opened the rear door, a wave of heat that felt like lava pouring over me ran into me and I immediately began to pour sweat. I had been in my sweats now for close to 24 hours and I needed to change. However, the laws stated that we couldn't get off the airplane and by the look of the armed guards surrounding the plane on the tarmac, I could see that I was going to have to change in a one foot by one foot room of the toilet.

I put on some decent clothes but it didn't help. It was still seven million degrees on the plane. And there were no little vents to keep us cool. None. As in - They didn't build the plane with the little nubby vents that you twist for relief. It was stifling.

Todd was talking to some Americans in the aisle near his seat and when I got closer he introduced me to them. It was Geoff Bodine - NASCAR champion. He was out here on a tour just like us and he was just the nicest guy. He made you feel good and I guess that's why he's here, it's not like he's going to tell jokes or sing songs for the troops, he's a race car driver!

The last flight of the trip was less than thirty minutes. When we got off the plane, out of customs and out into the night air and it was over 100 degrees with perfect humidity. It was death. I was too tired to care or I would have collapsed and died.

We drove to the base through Bahrain. The city is a bit ragged and beautiful all at the same time. It looks like every Middle Eastern city that you've seen on TV and in the movies - Puddy yellow buildings, made of concrete and covered with matching yellow sand. Lots of fancy cars and brown people wearing white. I wish my first impression could have been better but I was in a coma and barely breathing.

For some reason we decided that we needed to eat something and so, for reasons I can't explain, I ate A&W burgers. I can't remember what it tasted like, but I ate it.

I went to bed - - at 2 a.m. Over 35 hours after I woke up.

The next day started for me before I woke up. Shitting was to become my new favorite past time.

invasion of bahrain

Episode #1

Too Tired to Post

Monday Morning and I am all nerves. I woke up early because I wanted to get in a good walk and take care of some other errands before I went to the airport. It's never a good idea to have this much to do before a flight, but timing isn't always on your side.

I got some American dinero out of the bank and picked up a package at the post office that had my KC Royals hat in it. I need that hat to keep the heat off and I want to send a message to everyone in the Middle East and Africa that I am not afraid of who I am. Especially if who I am is someone who favors a bad baseball team. Never be ashamed to express your love.

The airport security tags me for not checking any luggage on a trip to the Middle East. Every part of me gets a healthy licking and pawing over before they let me on the plane. I am expecting a lousy flight with no food so I forage as much chow as I can. In my haste, I grab a ham and cheese sandwich and some extra crispy potato chips.

A mix up with the airline has blessed me with the greatest single gift of all time - A first class plane ticket for a 9 hour flight. And it's a front row seat so there is nothing but acreage in front of me. I get a thick, fluffy pillow and blanket. A gift bag with an eye cover, fresh booties, lip balm, tooth brush, a selection of over a hundred movies, and a seat that reclines to a completely prone position and it massages your back - For nine wonderful hours.

I chose not to sleep thinking the best plan of action was to stay awake through the next day and sleep when I get all the way to Bahrain. It's a foolish mistake that I will pay for later, but I was confused by the ever-so relaxing back massage. Instead of sleep, I watched five or six movies. Most of them were good.

I landed in Amsterdam at 7 a.m. Amsterdam has always had the misfortune of being the first place I see in Europe when I'm terribly jet-lagged. This time would be no different. The sun is bright and I have 7 hours before my connecting flight so I have some time to tour.

I put my bag in a luggage locker at the airport and all I take with me is my passport, my money and the receipt that allows me to get my stuff back. I am wearing my sweat pants, my hoodie and my KC Royals hat. I scream, "AMERICAN!"

I was warned that Amsterdam was the pick pocket capital of the world and I am wearing an outfit that only has two pockets in it, both of which are wide open, easy targets for the best pick-pockets in the world. My nerves are even more rattled by the fact that I am just entering the natural time of sleep and I don't stay awake against my will well. I look haggered and strung out, but I am in the right town for it.

I catch the train in to Amsterdam in the basement of the airport and I get off the train at the exact same train station that I left Amsterdam in on my last trip here. So it's sort of a "coming home" feeling and a good omen for me. I ask for directions to Anne Frank's house figuring that I only have time to see that before I need to get back. It's the first time my accent has fallen out here and suddenly I feel eyes upon me. If they want my goods, it's gonna be a fight.

I am walking Amsterdam at 9 a.m. There is a bustle of early morning activity and a lot of sexy Europeans on bikes riding around. The more I look at these people the less I think "pot head" and the more I think "sex pot." Europeans always look like they could either break out in to a massive orgy at any second or that they are going to spit on you. Kinda sexy either way you look at it.

Anne Frank's house is famous for its seven hour wait to get in. Most restaurants could only dream of this kind of turn out. There isn't a soul there. I get in and I am out in less than thirty minutes. Not that I didn't appreciate it, I just didn't get into it. For one - no photos. Two - Anne Frank's house is bigger than mine. I was under the impression that the lived in a tiny little box. This thing had two stories and a beautiful view. I guess I was just too tired to fully get the point.

I was back at the airport at 11. I picked up my gear and found my gate. No security checks, nothing. I get to the gate and it's mostly Middle Eastern folks and a few rich white fellas, so I know I must be in the right spot. I'm famished after my morning so I reach into my bag and grab

one night in a paris potty

As a man gets older, certain things in his life will begin take on more importance. For example: When I was younger, pooping was something that just happened. Now that I'm older, pooping is a goal. An achievement. Every time I poop, I'm filled with glee. So much so, that I feel the need to text everyone I know and let them know.

Paris Hilton was recently sentenced to 45 days in the pokey for a probation violation stemming from a DUI charge. She was caught drunk again and was therefore directed to serve 45 days. Normally, a judge will direct the defendant be placed in jail immediately, without passing go. In Ms. Hilton's case, she was allowed a month to prepare. She's also being given a separate cell away from the other inmates at the LA county jail so she might be able to do her "hard time" in relative safety.

I wasn't a big fan of cell phones from the start. I spoke out against them and was four years late in signing on. I'm usually the last one to jump into change. I still don't want a camera phone, or a phone with Internet access, or one with a Bluetooth ear job thing. I don't want one that plays different musical ring tones. I can barely stand the caller ID function. I screamed and shouted and did everything I could to prevent my life from becoming indoctrinated into the cell-happy world. I told my friends not to TEXT me, that I preferred a call. (TEXT is now a verb, much like LUNCH.) I fought against each TEXT message that was sent to me.

Paris Hilton's mother showed up at the hearing and loudly made her feelings known, that she didn't respect the courts, nor the prosecution's prosecution of her daughter. She used a tone that spoke of disdain and disgust and that she wouldn't rest until each member of the judge and prosecutions' families were killed.

It started as an accident. I sent a TEXT message to the little red headed girl to let her know that I was pooping. It was meant to be ironical and there was much laughter. After that, I started adding more and more people to my shit list. I wanted everyone to know that I was pooping. Let us all enjoy my morning. Let us all enjoy TEXTing together. Let us become a part of a global community that shares in every experience together. I want to make sure that everyone I know knows what I know when I know it.

Paris left the court in a huff, completely disgusted that she was being "singled out" for punishment. She felt she was being punished only because she was a public figure and that she was due some special consideration, like OJ or Robert Blake. As she saw it, she brings joy and beauty to the people of the world that lead mundane lives and she needs to be praised, not punished. Paris, always the innovator, started an online petition to appeal for clemency from California Governor Arnold Swweathcoasdfafsdunegger. She hopes that Arnold will see the logic and free her.

If I eat dairy, I can poop like seven times a day. It doesn't come out in the most pleasant form, and there is usually some pain involved, but somehow I'm able to hunker down and get the TEXT out. On several occasions I have dropped the phone in a freakish moment of strain.

I went to jail once. It was a lot like prison, but with less joy. Jail is where people go on their way to prison. It's sort of a last chance saloon where the dreams of millions have come to an end. On any night, in any jail, in any country in the world, you can hear the sad songs of desperation being sung. Some people walk out of their jail cell and find freedom, others find a one-way ticket to prison. There are people who have been in jail for two years and two minutes. There are no friends in jail, just time to kill. Your room is really small and everyone in the pod knows if you smoke, snore, like country music, how long it takes you to cum and how stinky your poop is. I personally think that jail is pretty mundane and that Paris is going to do a lot to curb that mundane-ness with her beauty and excitement.

I have added bookers, club managers and other random souls to my shit list. People who barely know me now know when I pooped and how often. Probably the greatest joy I get from informing people that I'm pooping is the fact that they all think that they're the only one and they have no idea why I'm doing it. Their TEXTs are pure genius.

Paris is going to see maybe fifteen days in jail. She will go in with handcuffs on and a large crowd of supporters outside screaming her name. She will make jail cool for a whole generation of young mundane girls. The first thing I expect her to do when she gets out is to go out and get drunk.

I keep pooping and I keep TEXTing. The only peace I can offer the world is that I am not taking my cell phone with me to Africa. For ten days, there will be no poop updates. In that time, I hope my faithful readers will turn to Paris for beauty and excitement. Perhaps the people who are blessed to know of my movements will appreciate the fact that they don't have to be around to hear it, smell it, or see it. I'm sure Ms. Hilton will appreciate that fact after her brief stay.

por tu madre

Flowers. A phone call. A meal out. A card. A clock tower and a rifle. Cheap consolations for the permanent disfigurement you have caused your mother.

For those of you who celebrate Mother's Day, this is the day! Get out there and let your favorite mom know just how much you care. This is your only chance to do so. Even if your mother has passed on or hasn't talked to you in twenty years because you're a lesbian, this is the day where, if you wanted to, you could reach out to her.

I am not as close to my mother as most people. I have never known that close bond or the warmth that others tell me they share with their mothers. My mother and I pretend, but at the end of the day - she just doesn't like me and I don't like her. I guess we try to be pleasant in some hope that perhaps something could come of it, but at this point in our relationship we only seem to be regressing.

I used to think it was me. Was it something that I had done or something I could change that she didn't like? I wandered the earth always feeling that I had done her wrong for most of my life until I figured out that she was the problem, not me. That didn't take the sting out of it, but it helped me realize that it wasn't my fault and I should just let it go.

Here's the story.

She was born several months after her own father had died. Her mother was destroyed by his death. My mother entered the world surrounded by as much emotional turmoil as one child could. She would spend her childhood as an afterthought to her mother's need to find a husband. Her mother remarried four times and had three more children. My mother was left to her own devices and she found peace in the pages of books. She never reached out to the rest of her family and therefore she never grew close to, or become a part of, the family. To this day, I have only briefly met one of her sisters - once.

My mother grew to be a very smart, but also very shy girl. She grew up lost in a world of books and an active imagination. She had huge aspirations and she could see her future laid out before her. Then she met the man who would redefine the course of her life - My father.

She was pregnant at 17 and a lock for a college scholarship when she dropped out of high school and forced to get married. Her childhood dreams were dashed and for the first time in her life, her future was out of her control.

He was an unsightly looking little baby and the family and friend response to him was shrouded with shame and scandal. If it was his looks or the sentiments of a more conservative generation causing the shame and scandal, we'll never know. However, for a normally shy and self-contained girl, this was just the blessing that she needed to keep the world away from her. She regressed even further, but now she had a partner she could share it with. Her husband was a stranger in his own marriage and he could have cared less. However, mother and son - They were completely inseparable.

An ugly, shy, quiet little boy and his understanding mother. Her marriage was a farce and there was just as much physical contact between her and my father as there was distance. They didn't have much to say to each other. He was looking for a different world, and she didn't want to be in it. So, it's by some miracle that a second son was born just a little over two years after the first. Neither the father nor the mother could explain the second child. Miracle or not, I didn't enter the world a wanted baby. Sadly, the scandal that shrouded the first child's birth and kept the relatives away was lost. This time around, family was everywhere and there was nothing but praise and acceptance for the second child from everyone. Everyone, that is, except the parents themselves.

I was a big baby. 11 pounds, all lungs, and I was louder than a Banshee loaded up on caffeine. I had a full head of blond hair in a family with a two hundred year history of brunettes. A charming yet devious smile and my relatives couldn't stop doting on me. I was an extremely social creature and this didn't sit well with the established calm, private and reclusive nature of the world I entered. From the start, I had an uphill battle. The phrase "I just gotta be me" was created for me, and it would be a refrain that would echo through my life forever.

My mother never got that well deserved college scholarship, but she did finally go to college. She got her GED and then worked very hard to put herself through pharmacy school. Her marriage ended and she found herself in a new one in no time. This marriage was a complete departure from the first and the two men couldn't be more opposite. This time around, she went with the grain and married a more stable, more acceptable, extremely anxious and shy man with a promising future as a doctor. He also happened to be ten years her senior. She had high hopes that things were going to work out this time.

I grew to resemble my birth father in both appearance and behavior, which caused a lot of friction in the family. My birth father was the man she silently blamed for her early misfortunes and a being reminded of him on a daily basis burnt her toast on both sides, if you know what I mean. It also didn't help that I didn't share any of her interests or appreciate her dreams. We were at odds and she expressed her sentiments often.

We kept our distance from each other and we never found a balance with each other. Eventually the second marriage ended and it was decided that I should leave too. It took me barricading myself in a basement for four days with a gun before she sent me packing.

That was the last time we were ever a family. On the flight south, I cried in the bathroom the entire time.

I moved to the south and she and my brother moved out west. They found new digs and isolated themselves even further from the world. At 30 she finally realized that she was running out of time to live out her life long dreams, but through her son all dreams could be achieved. So she redirected her passions and focused all of her attention onto him. No one would ever come between them again. Not the military, not marriage, not the law or even another son.

I moved in with my grandmother and my birth father. Life moved on and I didn't notice that I had never called my mother or that she never called me. I went to visit her three times, every time the visit ended so poorly - once in violence - that the distance between us only grew wider until finally we just stopped talking to each other altogether. Even when I had a heart attack at the age of 17, she didn't call or come to visit. She thought it was a ploy to get more attention.

I got married and she appeared several months later for a visit after much prodding. Upon arrival she told my wife to leave me and that I was a shit. I'm not sure, but maybe that's why my marriage fell apart...Who knows.

My brother and I have never been close. We tried, but it just didn't work either. Who knows why. We were trying when he went to prison and again when he was trying to find work, but all our efforts were meaningless. I think he views me in the same light that my mother does.

My birth father died and suddenly the need to be a family came over all of us. I reached out to my mother and she reached out for me. For the next six years efforts were made, but just when things looked like they were going to show promise, something happened and it all ended. The setbacks began to outweigh the strength of our willpower and now the only thing that remains is just forced pleasantries and little else.

That brings us to today. Do I call and compromise my ethics, or do I just forget this day and continue to tell myself that she's dead? Do I owe her anything?

Happy Mother's Day to all of you out there who have earned it and deserve it. I have never sent a card, made that call or sent flowers...And I doubt that I ever will.

what's a sooner?

Is it an election year? I'm confused. Don't we vote for a president every four years? Wasn't the last election in 2004? Was it? I don't remember. On television is a bunch of news about presidential candidate this and presidential candidate that, and I know we just elected one of these mindless retards. And unless my timing is off, I know he isn't gone yet. We couldn't be so lucky.

I wasn't aware that this year was an election year and I'm surprised that I don't know much about most of the lambs on the slab. Normally I really like to sink my teeth in and really get to know the freaks that have offered up their souls to the media gods. All so that they might be the most powerful, most hated, and the most powerfully hated man, in the whole wide world. What type of man would want that for themselves or their family? What level of insanity does one need to find before the words "I'm running for president" can fall out of your mouth? Doesn't the fact that they would want the position in the first place speak of their gross inability to make long term, thoughtful decisions? Do we really want some asshole hell-bent on power and sick with greed to be our leader? Isn't that one of the main reasons why we go to war with other little countries and kill a lot of people? Well, every four years a great crowd of power-mad, socially retarded men sprout up and answer that call to glory. I am beginning to think that they are not really humans anymore. I'm sure that the corporations of the world have figured out a way to make Stepford politicians. In homosexual terminology, they're called "bottoms."

There have already been TWO presidential debates on television so I guess we're getting close to election day. The last election there was only three televised debates and they came barely a month away from election day, so we must be close. If you saw either one of the two debates, the first thing you noticed was that there was 8, 348 contestants in each debate. This only allowed each contestant to speak for a total of 2.4 seconds. In that time they have to state their case why they should be the dictator of the free world, and to answer any questions or rebuke one another. It was riveting stuff.

Looking at the new stock of would-be Stalins up there on the stage, one gets the feeling that this whole mess is just another reality show gone awry. Each week another candidate will go home amid a sex scandal, because of low television ratings, or because they fuck up a key speech and call the people of Indiana "Sooners" and not "Hoosiers."

There are just so many Muppety-like humans to choose from in this election, and with two different, very distinctive parties of idiots to choose from, you know it's going to be an action packed election season. And this is just a preliminary round. Right now, the election is sort of like the audition episodes on American Idol where you get to watch tone-deaf retards bellow out "I'll be," or dance out their rendition of "Toxic." There is no early money on any one fuckstick but my money is on Rudy "make sure my make up is one right or I'll fire you and everyone in your family, and get me an old black woman to shake my hand in this shot" Gulliani. He's on the RepubliCAN ticket, but I think in the end, he'll get the most call in votes and be the Last Comic Standing.

In the very generous and extremely fair two-parties-or-nothing-at-all political system that we have here in America, the other shoe is represented by the well-meaning Democrats. They have more candidates than their soulless Republican counterparts and some of them have names you'll probably recognize: Hillary Clinton, as in the former first lady Hillary Clinton. Rumor has it that she has a penis-sized clitoris and bats left handed. She'll probably outlast all of the other Dems, but sadly, no one wants to see her as President.

Barrack Obama, as in black man with a Muslim sounding name. Not like that should matter in the touchy-feely Democratic party. America has grown up and even the stern voters of the KKK might overlook his color and his name and vote for him. He's also a smoker, which means there is no way in hell he's ever going to get elected in America. If he were an abortion doctor with a penchant for driving drunk with little, half naked, white girls in the car, that could only improve his chances. That's how far he has to go. Expect him to accept the role as novelty vice-presidential candidate to Hillary Clinton's presidential nod. She's good with using people and he needs the press. If a Jewish candidate shows up in a wheel chair, expect that to be her second choice for novelty vice-president should Barrack say no. The self-righteous Democrats should split into a million little voting camps and with that you'll all but guarantee a Gulliani victory.

I don't like politicians for the same reason I don't like knock-knock jokes - They're obvious, and they're empty while still presenting themselves as clever. They're both filled with cheap material that appeals to an "everybody" audience and at the same time speaks to no one. It's shapeless, undefined and - probably most insulting - a complete lie. Candidates also speak in the same tone that sneaky, teen aged Casanova's do while they're trying to convince their girlfriend to drop her panties and put out. He offers up false promises with a well rehearsed Cheshire grin, and when he gets what he wants from her, he abandons her and lets her clean up the puddle of love hanging from her chin.

Bob Dole ran for president in 1996 and lost. During his campaign he was dull, dour and flaccid and no one connected with him unless they too were dull, dour and flaccid. He was kind of like the king of the dull, dour and flaccid people. He lost to a good ole boy, skirt chaser that ate Big Macs and smirked a lot. Two years after Bob Dole lost to Mr. Wal-Mart, he started showing up on television everywhere. And when he got on television, Bob was filled with technicolor. He was funny and charming and as down to earth as your best friend. He was Human. Had I seen this part of Bob during the election, I would have voted for him. Hell, I would have campaigned on his behalf. He would have been the king of the colorful, funny, charming people. After Clinton left office - Mr. Wal-Mart - he stayed the exact same adorable hillbilly that we elected. He never showed any signs of life. No evolution, no growth. It became obvious that America had made a huge mistake in electing him. Hindsight is the punishment for bad decisions.

I hope that this season's candidates remember the cautionary tale of Bob Dole and bring out their personality or, if that fails them, their true nature. If you're a really a greedy bastard, let us know. If you're a racist, let us know. Let your people respect you. They may not agree with ALL of you, but they can respect you. NO ONE is perfect and no one can pretend to be or they look even more scandalous. The only people we don't like are the people that we know to be obviously fake humans. It's been so many years since America last respected one of its leaders...I'd say we're due.

So far in the campaigns the candidates have done exactly what we have come to expect from them - they have corralled all of their opinions into one simple, yet messy, message so that none of them will stand out from any of the other candidates. No one likes an outsider and nothing feels worse than being excluded. So, this should guarantee that no matter which one of human cysts gets the nomination, they'll sound just like the other booger that you did like that didn't get the nomination and you won't worry yourself to death.

The would-be Nazis predictably take a party line position on every news issue that comes up. They put out identical statements on the issue. Of course, on the other side of the universe, the Sith Lords Republicans take an even weirder position of solidarity on the issue, but when you remember who buys their line of bullshit their comments don't shock you quite as much. I say we wait for them to bow their heads to give thanks for their whiteness and then set them on fire.

These are some of the issues that should thin the weak out of the herd this year. Pick any three.

Abortion. Environment. War. Education. Poverty. Starvation. Disease Spending. Medicare. Gun Control. Gay Marriage. Evolution vs. State's Rights. Social Security. War records. Resume accuracy. Success to failure ratio. OR Choose from any of the millions and millions of random things that could come up. Just fill in the blank.

I'm voting for the first person that calls President Bush a stupid cunt and doesn't apologize for it. Or the first person who promises to prosecute Bush and his buddies, and says, "Knock Knock."

sleep and sour

Every day for the past two months, I have been getting up very, very early. A bit too early for a man in my condition but one should never let a condition guide them. Unless they're on fire. Then they should listen to their condition. Generally, I'm not one to preach the gospel of listening to convention. I think it's this type of thinking that puts us in the condition we're in, in the first place. Even the person on fire was listening to convention moments before they sparked up. Perhaps THINKING about each decision that comes along would be healthy.

I seem to wake every morning at the beckoning of other forces that call to me from beyond my slumber. I like to think of these forces as good, yet devilish entities that help me see the world and the universe in a new way that maybe CNN and National Geographic can't offer me. It's that or really, really bad gas. These entities reach out to me and they whisper, "Go to the tree zoo and walk in circles." Don't worry, it's only for about an hour, then the entities get bored and go eat breakfast. I'm compelled to listen to the entities more out of curiosity than fear, but I never underestimate the power of a great ghost reckoning, so I do as they ask and try not to raise a fuss. I have too many new enemies this year and I really don't want to add poltergeists and cherubs to the ever growing list. Besides, what a ghost wants with me in the park at this hour in the morning has to be worth exploring.

I tend to let my mind drift into weird spiritual and magical places in the early morning hours and I am not sure how this happens. I don't know if this is the spirits or just early morning haze. As I look back to my past and dig around for some answers, nothing significant or profound seems to have happened at this hour to create such powerful urges to walk. Just trying to think back and figure all of this "is this or isn't this an important moment" thing is hard to do. Perhaps that's the reason for the walk in the first place - To get my mind thinking.

The early hours of the day are traditionally the best time for a person to think of life as born anew. Doubly so when you're exercising. It's a time of hope and fresh new beginnings. Reflection time - or magical time - is something that the mind usually likes to do in the afternoon or evenings. I don't see how someone wearing sweats and a pair of hundred dollar running shoes can think of life as "new," but they do. It seems to me that this person would see their life as more - - Damaged, and in desperate need of repair. Isn't that the basic idea behind exercise?

However dishonest with themselves as they may be, as I pass them on the track their faces seem as gleeful and innocent as fat children sitting on a mountain of candy. Not one sign of suffering or confusion. Not one person looks plagued by pre-dawn entities. I'd imagine that I sour their morning walk with my pained look of a constipated ninety year-old man trying to figure out a Nintendo Wii as I pass them by. It must really throw them for a loop. "Why is that guy thinking while he's walking?"

I guess my spiritual clock needs some fine tuning.

Two months of brisk morning walks amid the blossoming trees and spring flowers has been such a beautiful way of putting things into perspective for me. Even with the ghosts and the confusion, my thoughts were crisp and clean and deep - like a crystal blue glacier lake. Things aren't evolving in my life any faster than they normally do, but the attitudes within me have. It seems like it's taken lifetimes for me to come to grips with my emotions much like many others struggle to, but I think I'm finally on to something. All of my anger, my pain, my passion, my joy, my fear and my rage issues have found their place in the sun, and I have finally figured out an effective method of living with them all without letting them control my day. Such a breakthrough in life is what most people spend years and/or thousands of dollars trying to achieve. So I guess I'm lucky that I figured some of it out so early. All this was discovered with a dour look on my face.

I am as peaceful as, as, whatever. And, yet I wear an old man's face.

You can't always get the wind to blow in your sails from the same direction. Sometimes it's a good idea to tack until you can find a new bearing, even if the your sails are full and your course is clear. Conventional wisdom would preach the opposite, but, again, conventional wisdom isn't always the best way to live life. A sailor can learn more about himself from a stormy sea than a calm one. A ship is only as worthy as its worst day at sea. The blossoms and the dew of the tree zoo have been my navigator for the past two months and they have been a wonderful one. But today is a day for new winds and waters.

I was a swimmer before I was anything. Before I was born, I was a swimmer. Before I left my dad's body, I was a swimmer. My family's history, as far back as the big bang, is made up of swimmers. So when I need to connect to my roots, I jump into liquid. I am made to swim. The morning wraiths seem to hate the idea of me swimming. I am assuming that either they can't swim themselves or they know that water has some mystical power which they fear. I just need to feel water move across my body. Perhaps I need to find the fat smiling face of a child within me.

I went swimming today. I walked out my door this morning and instead of walking to the right, I went left. I walked to the Y and found myself under the chlorine waves - smiling as fat children do.

Walking isn't a thinking-man's game. It doesn't require a lot of attention to detail to walk successfully. As long as you remembered to put on clothes before you go walking in public, then 9.9 times out of 10 you'll be fine. Swimming is a different game. It requires some in-the-moment attention. Like walking, it helps to be wearing something before you swim in public, but, while a slip up during a walk can give you a sprained ankle or dog shit on your shoe, slip up while swimming and you drown or get eaten by a shark, or worse - you get sucked down the drain at the bottom of the pool. Don't laugh, it happens.

Swimming carried me away from my old world thinking and filled my sails with new winds. The ghosts and their suggestions seemed to disappear for the moment and I was free.

Chlorine cleansed.

african dream

Africa. I'm filled with anxiety as my departure day approaches. I have no idea what clothes to take or what, if any, items to take with me. I am only gone for nine days, five of which are extreme travel days. The four days where I am actually static will be spent in my usual state of awe and wonder as I look around a new corner of the world. This is my fifth continent of the seven and I am as giddy as a man about to see his fifth continent for the first time!

I leave Seattle and fly nonstop to Amsterdam. I'm not sure how long the flight is, but I know that when I arrive, I have a six or seven hour layover and then another brutally long direct flight to Bahrain. If I have learned anything from my previous trips across the ponds it's this: Take a pillow, a blanket and wear comfy sweats.

Then I get to rapidly decompress before I have my first daylight show in an open air cafeteria for whomever wishes to show up. These aren't the best conditions for a comedy show, but you do what you do when you can do it and try not to complain. I do this again the next day if they haven't run us off the base by then.

The next morning I fly to Sanaa, Yemen. I sit there for five hours before I continue on to Djibouti. If you have never heard of Djibouti (pronounced Ja-BOOTY), it's a small country snuggled between Ethiopia, Somalia and Eritrea. All three of these countries are fighting with each other. All three of these countries are pretty active about hurting each other. For some reason America has troops there. The "why" is for the historians to figure out, so don't ask. I'm just there to entertain them and avoid trouble...and insects.

I will be sleeping in a tent, showering outside and I have no idea what there is to see in Djibouti. Tourist trap seems to take on a whole new meaning there so I will refrain from seeking them out. I do want to get out and my adventurous spirit will most likely find me eating something that I shouldn't. I hope to avoid the same trouble that I had when I was in Okinawa when I belched at a local restaurant.

What do I buy? What do I take pictures of? Can I send postcards home from there? What does one wear to avoid offending the locals or attracting attention? Will my throat tattoos blend into the crowd?

The booking agent was nice enough to send me a little fact sheet about the area and the only part that really stuck out in my head was the "look out for scorpions, ants, and mosquitoes" and the part that read, "don't let them keep your passport at the airport." Other than these two informational gems, I don't have much to work with on this trip. FODOR's doesn't sell a Djibouti book. Thankfully they speak some French so I might be able to squeak by.

No one sent me their addresses as I requested, which should make it easier for me to send postcards should I be able. Other than a few close friends, I'm not sure anyone is aware that I am leaving the country on this INVASION trip. Should anything happen - I'm nervous.

What to wear, what to wear? Shorts to show off my lovely pasty white stems? My brilliantly blue KC Royals hat? Combat green BDU's that the military wears? A "FUCK YOU! I'm American!" tee shirt? For those of you that are thinking that the most dangerous part of my trip will be Africa, remember that I will be just as unpopular in Europe. They may not have deadly scorpions, but anyone can throw a rock at you.

After two days in Djibouti, I fly to Nairobi. I have an eight hour layover and then I fly nonstop back to Amsterdam. Another eight hour layover and I fly non stop back to Seattle. Landing safely on the 22nd or the 23rd. I should be completely wiped out.

THEN... Drum roll... I leave on the 26th for another cross country bike trip. I have until the 31st to arrive in Toronto, Canada for a show at 8 p.m. That's 1900 miles in less than six days with a show at the tail end of it. Then I have seven weeks of traveling on my bike across Eastern Canada. I wonder if they will like my "FUCK YOU! I'm American" tee shirt.

With all the layovers, it seems to me that the best thing to do with that time is to get out and see each town. If I do, then I have to take a carry-on bag for the whole trip and when I layover I can get out and see all that I can before I leave without having to check-in or worry about losing my luggage. I figure 6 to 8 hours should be enough to see any city and I get two shots at Amsterdam. Anyone know of any good restaurants in Nairobi or Sanaa?

I contacted the local papers about placing an ad indicating where I am going and what I'm doing. And, should anyone in the area have a relative in those locations, I would carry something with me and pass it on to them. We'll see if anyone does so. This might limit my traveling abilities, but again, I'm not really taking the trip wholly for my benefit.

I have less than five days to plan and prepare for both my INVASION trip and my bike tour to Eastern Canada that follows. Like I said, I'm anxious.

the punch line of life

I needed cereal. I had just finished the last of my Honey Nut Cheerios and I was jonesin' for something new. In hindsight, Costco may might not have been the best place to go pick out a tasty new breakfast treat. For one, Costco doesn't always have what you're looking for. They're limited to only those goods they can get from distributors and even they don't know what that's going to be from day to day. So if you're looking for your favorite label of this or that, you might have to go with your second, third, fourth or fifth favorite choice. The rub here is that if you do buy your second, third or fourth choice, you're going to have enough of it to last you seven months and by then your favorite brand will have come back to the store and left again. You learn a lot about self control and patience in these tense moments. I walked out with my sixth choice - Life cereal. Enough to last me nine years.

I must have been quite a sight walking up to the cattle pen-like checkout lines with just ONE item under my arm. In a store that's famous for flatbed trucks being used for grocery carts, and six tons of groceries per customer, a man with a modest-sized box of LIFE must have looked pretty ironic on many levels. It also didn't help that I was clutching that single box of LIFE as if it were my life. I have no explanation of why I clung to it so.

My LIFE only cost me $5.99.

But I digress. This isn't a tale of shopping woe.

I have always felt that the ratio of good to evil can be measured by the amount of money that's present. The only exception to this rule is an Ass Pounding. Money or no money, anal sex is just pure goodness...Unless you're the poundee. No matter how hard you wish it, you'll never be able to take the sting out of an ass pounding.

Eating enough LIFE will eventually make you feel like you're receiving an ass pounding from the inside out. But pushing a flat bed trailer around that is loaded up with six tons of goods and then standing in line for an hour will clog you up - both figuratively and literally. Perhaps they should of just got some LIFE.

national day of prayer

If you forgot to do so, get out and give a shout-out to your favorite deity. You're a bit late, but I doubt that you'll pay too much in the after-world for your oversight. YESTERDAY - was the official National Day of Prayer. Of the 365 days that make up the Earth's calendar year, YESTERDAY was the only day where your praying matters to God. I think we should be thankful! The people on Jupiter only get a National Day of Prayer once every 12 Earth years. The Gods there must be really understanding or they must not suffer from the levels of low self-esteem that our Gods do here on Earth. Or perhaps they think that Jupitertonions are really ungrateful and not very humble in their presence. Of course, Jupitertontians probably don't think that God lives in the sky like we do, because their planet is so powerful that it makes all of it's energy from its enormous size and gravity. Thus, their Gods wouldn't be "above" them like we like to imagine ours to be. Jupitertonians look down at the ground while they're praying. I can't imagine many Gods enjoying someone looking down on them. It just doesn't seem to carry with it that sense of all-encompassing power that someone looking up to you seems to have.

Anyway, YESTERDAY was the day! If you were going to let the Gods know how much you loved them and how thankful you are for all the blessings they have bestowed upon you, then YESTERDAY was the only chance you had to let them know - according to the United States government. May 3rd - the holiest of the holy days, according to those most righteous and pious souls that brought you war, poverty, apathy and yatching on your dime while people die. It would be an unforgivable sacrilege for you to forget your annual penance. If you missed it, you're gonna die.

But why May 3rd, you ask? What's so special about May 3rd? Does it have something to do with the fact that is the birthday of "CHRISTopher CROSS?" who coincidentally sang the CIA brainwashing and torture song, "When you get stuck between the moon and New York City." Or is it in honor of Satan's girlfriend, Greg Gumbel's birthday? Is this the only day on the calendar that doesn't have any sacred or social significance for any of the well established religions? A hard thing to imagine when you look at the Catholic church's calendar. They have a holiday every day. Were there no groups of souls lost at the same time for God on this day? This enigma carries with it no clues. It baffles me.

A National Day of Prayer. It seems like just what the world, the universe, and, more importantly, what America needs right now.

As I circled the walls of Jericho YESTERDAY in an effort to bring down my own walls of sinful girth, I noticed that some local religious cult was preparing a sacrificial altar inside my lovely park for what was sure to be a virgin-killing, snake-dancing, bible-thumping, cattle-raping revival. Inside my beautiful park, filled with some of nature's finest work; trees, flowers and ponds. Among all of this glory that nature had brought these mindless little sheep, they set up their metal and plastic altar to praise their gracious God, which was to take place from noon to one p.m. Cause that's all the Gods require of us - Every 365th day, for one hour of praise. That and endless singing that sounds like cows fucking.

They had set up the tents and chairs, arranged the sound system so no one within two miles of the park would be safe from their vile wailing, and they brought in a huge drum kit, which is a sure sign that things were going to get nasty. Not even the animals were safe from their limitless cruelty and madness. With no where to run and hide, the animals would have to endure a full hour of God's blessed and chosen, rejoicing.

Then they sent out their well-coiffured, dead-inside dogs of war to set up their signs that would direct the mindless and the guilty toward the last free-will choice that they would ever make. Every step that could be taken to ensure the Rapture would occur on National Prayer Day was being done. Redemption - by bass drum and high hat. I didn't stick around long enough to see if they were going to bring guitars, tambourines or, worst of all, large, white, middle-aged swaying, choir girls, but one could only imagine what horrors they had in their demented minds.

I made four passes by their altar, but it was still standing as I left the park. Their strength of numbers was enough to keep me from making much of a dent in their stronghold, but I tried. One enlightened soul standing against all of Hell's backup band is really no battle at all.

I'm torn, as are many of my like-minded confederates, over what to do with all of these lost sheep. There is a dark side of you that just wishes that most of them would be willing to test their resolve and see if their faiths are true by going to see God - right now! Perhaps that's what the park gathering was for, to discuss their mass departure or to engage it.

Then there is the other side of the argument that says that you should try to save them, that there might be a way to salvage something. Hitting them over the heads with science books and baseball bats doesn't seem to work, nor does setting them on fire or feeding them to lions. But you can't say we haven't tried!

How do they get so lost? In a recent conversation with the little redhead girl, the topic of direction and guidance came up. With my present desire to redirect my career and find new things to amuse myself with, and with her similar needs to find anything whatsoever, we felt we had a good chance of finding some answers.

You get to a point in life where you wish to go further but you're either confused by too many choices, or discouraged by too few. Or you get to a point where there doesn't seem to be any choices at all and your spirit just starts to die. It's at these points that zealots are the most effective at recruiting and brainwashing the weakest of the herd. They create options or give you guidance that you just couldn't imagine being able to give yourself. They give you self-esteem and confidence and tell you what a good job you're doing. And they say all of this with the same tone a pleased father figure uses when he praises his children's passing report cards. The phrase "You'll be rewarded ...," is a constantly used phrase to reinforce their psychotic madness.

I hope you'll remember when you get to a point of confusion that you shouldn't give in to the first or easiest way out that presents itself to you. Religions aren't the only answer, they're just the simplest and usually the first in line to wrap a comforting arm around you. Sadly, the self-esteem you feel from it will be just as one dimensional as the religion that gave it to you.

If the answers to all of your confusion, and the answers to all of your questions can be summed up in one hour of one day of the year - and with the use of a drum kit, then maybe you need to ask some better questions.

As I found out while talking to someone else about what I should do, the answers that they gave me were emptier than the ones I came up with that were wrong. At least when you make your own wrong decisions, they're yours. You will take two steps back, but you will be able to take four steps forward. If you listen to someone else, you just step sideways.

If it helps, here's my prayer. A real one.

"Oh.... You! You crazy kook! I pray that you will open the eyes of those that read this and that their eyes be led to the DONATION button to the left of this post. I pray that you will show them how to use it, and use it often, so that The Daniel Ministries might be able to continue to bring them all the good word that you have blessed with us with - day after day. You know who they are, and they know who they are. I pray you fill their cheap little hearts with shame and pain and suffering. I can feel their guilt through these words. I pray that you show them how to reach down deep into their hearts and pocketbooks so that they might help The Daniel Ministries with a modest monetary "gift." A gift that will allow The Daniel Ministries to continue to afford the internet connection and the coffee that makes these posts possible. We ask this in [fill in name of deity] name. Amen."

phased and confused

"A distinct period or stage in a process of change or forming part of some thing's development." That's how some online dictionary defined "phase." I looked it up because the word and I have been dancing around a lot lately and I wanted to see what it really meant before I waxed on about it at length in a post.

Phase seems to be the easiest way to explain away the failed processes which humanity has endured and evolved from without having to answer for them. When humanity fails, media loves to record it. This is done for posterity's sake, so that they might learn and remember. It's an odd thing to do, but everyone does it. We all have a box of embarrassing photos, tapes or other materials that show us in various "phases" which we should have destroy but didn't. It's almost as if we think that we will look back on the time when we sported a mullet and parachute pants and suddenly feel better about it. To somehow look back on those "phases" and be able to make peace, or forgive, ourselves.

Regardless of how well we hide our most embarrassing moments, someone will always find them before the slated time of AFTER our death, and then, much to our dismay they press us about it. We were hoping that death would save us from having to answer those hard questions, but no one is so blessed. They always pass over the good material that would make us look like the coolest human on the planet and head straight for the big pile of shame. The more embarrassing the material, the quicker we are to call it a phase. When the material is remembered fondly, we call it nostalgia.

Even if there is no material present to inspire it, someone might casually bring up embarrassing moments and cross-examine you until you've given up your shameful past. "Oh that! That was just a phase," you'll cry. Hoping that with that, everything will be alright and nothing more will need be said. We might get ribbed or razzed a bit, but calling it a phase saves us from having to give details.

We never recall great achievements or successes and claim them as "phases." It could be because no one smugly asks us about a great haircut we had ten years ago. No one asks us about the classic albums they find in our storage shed. There is no upside to keeping memorabilia unless it's worth money.

I'm evolving. Not evolving in the flippers-to-fingers kind of way, but in the, "My favorite ice cream is now Mint Chocolate Chip. It used to be Jamoaca Almond Fudge, but I grew out of it," kind of way. [This is true, by the way.]

As I come to understand phases better, I have come to see obvious patterns in their development. For one, they're prone to outside influences: Trends, pop culture, what's cool or "in," hysteria, moodiness, and passions.

A friend of mine from back in the days of drugs, sluts and other stories of hope, got serious about a girl who was real heavy into Jesus. Three months later he was a new man - clean, serious, saved and that's all she wrote! He wasn't even looking for any answers but suddenly he found a whole bunch of them.

Others can lead you astray in your weaker moments. People start to idolize superstars, pop culture icons, religious zealots, wolf pack leaders, and other notorious individuals. For example: All the Madonna clones who appeared in 1984. All the Kurt Cobain clones who showed up in 1991. All the Elvis impersonators who have been roaming the earth since 1977. You could also include in this group: All the drag queens of the world. Every goth chick who has ever swabbed her lips, nails and hair with death-black paint hoping to catch Johnny Depp's eye. Every city slicker wearing a pair of Wranglers and a Stetson. Every Rennie/Pirate who has donned a pair of tights, a pentacle necklace and screamed, "Hazaah!" for no reason whatsoever. And every Neo-Nazi who has ever sported a swastika and some jackboots, just to name a few.

These people were, at one point, into something different and then got in a mood that became a phase. As is often the case, most people hope that these particular unpopular phases don't last long. I feel otherwise. I prefer people to be expressive about an inner desire and they should embrace it and not so be easily swayed to change. I feel this way about everyone except for the Rennie/Pirate people. Those people need to get it together and grow the fuck up, or move to Honduras.

I'm sure there are millions and millions of reasons for phase shifting and I won't waste a whole day listing them all, but I would like to talk about mine. It's been some time since my last blog and I think it's time for some personal updates. It's hard to admit change, so bear with me.

First - Gone are the gym rat days. Say hello to walking. I walk/jog every day. 3 miles minimum. But unlike the days walking at the gym, the mileage is now accumulated in a heavily wooded park behind the perch. One lap around the park is one mile and there's a nice little gravel path to follow. It's still a bit chilly in the mornings but it's a nice walk. I even jog at times but my legs aren't as cool with that as I am. For some reason my shins just won't stop hurting so walking is really my only option. I would still swim if I could find time in the day, but after the walk, the blog and other various labors, I don't have the time to offer up to a two hour swim session each day. I miss it a lot.

My hair is short again. It isn't the butchered short 'do which I received in Montreal during the bike trip, but it is pretty close. I'm lazier about my appearance these days and styling hair has lost it's value to me. It's right below clipping toe nails. It's still sexy looking though.

I have gills. It's a new tattoo just behind each ear. Three little gills that I am very proud of. Cyranno De Bergerac still eludes me, but I'm working on it. Perhaps this summer.

Gone are chocolate chip cookies and in is anything lemon, and peanut butter cookies.

Gone also is the desire to live at the Perch and now there is a huge desire to return to the Midwest. The need for mountains has passed on for now, and the desire for familiar family soil has taken its place.

Also gone....My desire to be a comedian. At all. It's over. I'm not enjoying the lifestyle anymore. In its place is a huge desire to just write and work shitty jobs until either the writing pays off or I die. Comedy has become a dark place for me which I can no longer see the joy in. The work is empty and the rewards are few. I wish I could be more uplifting here, but hey, at least I want to keep writing.

Jazz is also another casualty. Nowadays, the music of champions is Ipod DJing. I just trust the Ipod to play one of the sexy songs from my 1600 song list. Each song is attached to a phase of mine.

Not that this makes a difference, but I'm in a Chuck Taylor phase as well. Shoes rarely mean much to me. I still own my boots, but now the Chucks are the shoe du jour. Royal blues ones. I can't live without them. Odd eh?

The last one is odd. I came to the city to be more social, but I have found that I am less and less social than I have ever been. I just don't answer the phone or seek out the company of others. I'm happy with the solace of my movies, motorcycle and my mind. [and the affections of a little red headed girl named Farris]

This is all subject to change. Hey, it could just be a phase.

what's in the other hand?

I have spent years and years standing, kneeling or laying behind women, pushing, stroking, choking, yelling obscenities, bruising my balls, smacking their ass cheek, and wondering the whole time, "What expression is on her face right now?"

I don't know why I spend so much time wondering about this stuff. Normal people just enjoy the fact that they're getting laid and just lose themselves in the pleasure of it all, but not me. Perhaps I'm fixed on it because it's the only time I can't see her face during the romp and, therefore, the only time I don't know if she's digging what I'm doing or not.

Countless women have told me doggie style is their favorite position for various different reasons, which makes me assume the face they're making is better, more twisted, than the one they're make during all the other not-as-good positions. Now, I'm not the greatest lover in the world, nor is my cock all that huge, so a great deal of the super ecstatic faces that you see women making in porn films, or through open windows while they're humping their monster cock lovers, isn't all that common to my experience. However, I have made the faces of a good gaggle of women contort with my own special type of humpin.'

But I have no idea what they're doing during the "hard lovin" style of doggie and that burns in my soul. I have purposefully tried to twist a woman in half, which isn't easy to do, and the pained face that they're making in that position is due more in part to the irregular twisting than the ecstasy of my "pushing."

I lose my concentration more often than not when I'm in the doggie, just because I want to know. It doesn't take long for my mind to wander off while I'm back there, and on more than one occasion I have actually started rapping my fingers on her back. It's not until she says something that I pop back to reality. If you're sitting there going, "Why not use a mirror?" I've already thought of it and I have. But a woman knowing there is a mirror, or a camera, or a live audience in the room, will always overact when she knows she's in the limelight. At least every time I have tried it, the victim has always gone a little overboard with the "ohhhhs" and "aaaaahhhhs" and "oh my Gods." I guess I could have someone hide in the room and then have them hold up a mirror that my conquest can't see, but that seems like a lot of effort for such a cheap curiosity.

Sadly, curiosity is a powerful, powerful narcotic and you can never say no to it. You open a fortune cookie, you have to read that fortune (or you'll die). You can't throw it away. In fact, I don't know anyone, and I have never heard of anyone, who has ever thrown away the fortune without looking at it. I do, but I do it to piss off people who are with me that HAVE to know what it says, even though it's MY fortune. I love doing that! I'll even eat it so they won't get to see it.

Someday, I will figure out a way to see what the other side of the fence looks like while I'm painting it, but for now, I'm forced to live with the great unknown. Perhaps that is what drives me to keep humping so many women. Maybe I think that the next girl will be a "look-backer" - that most elusive and very rarist of woman. I have heard stories about them, but it's always, "My friend has a brother, who knows someone, that humped a look-backer." So until I run into one of those spine-free ladies, I will just have to keep eating fortune cookies.