Thinking, Drinking, and Stinking

I'd forgotten these...

2009-09-15T17:01:00.001-07:00

I'd forgotten about this blog till I saw my friend Kristine had resurrected her pornclerk blog.

I'm back.

Maybe this time it will be for good.

Updates soon to come.

--Isaac:(:)

Poppin' the cherry...

2006-12-01T19:02:00.000-08:00

I popped my cherry in front of a live audience last night, and it didn't ooze nor leave a crater in my cock, unlike dougie.

I actually pulled a few minutes of comedy together, while drunk, and hosted the E3 playhouse's comedy night last night, after the poetry reading.

I'd talked myself into it a couple of weeks ago with the guy who runs the comedy night.

See, after we do the poetry thing (Thursdays, 6-8 pm and make yourself a new friend - myspace.com/2ndary), there's a comedy night.

Only problem has been that no one has really stayed for the comedy night. After we pack the place with the poetry reading, it empties pretty quick and pretty much stays that way through the comedy. Whereas poetry gets anywhere from 40-60 people in this tiny place, the comedy gets a dozen on a GOOD night.

So, I talked to Shawn, the comedy promoter, and told him I wanted to do both poetry and comedy. An added bonus would be the carryover from the poetry night (cuz those kids love to show support).

He said that's fine, cuz he wanted to stop hosting it anyways...

Add in that the owner of the club, Wes, has been kind enough to let any poetry readers stay for free instead of the $7 cover charge they usually get, and bam, I talked myself into my first comedy gig.

However, I didn't exchange numbers with Shawn, and had no idea last night whether or not he remembered our conversation (cuz I BARELY remembered it). I'd brought a couple of notebooks, in the vain hopes that there was something funny enough out of all the random shit I've written and said over the years.

My main goal was: DO NOT SUCK!!!

The poetry night went long (cuz comics were cancelling or something), and no sign of Shawn. The poetry night stops, and I go outside for a cigarette.

Shawn appears from nowhere and says, "Do you still wanna do it?"

"Yeah. How much time do I have?" I said, playing it cool.

"5 or 7 minutes. Can you do it?"

"Sure," I slurred through the two Irish coffees, two Jamisons on the rocks and 1 beer I'd drank over the course of two hours.

I ran outside and started telling people to stay cuz it was me and this could be good or I could bomb, but either way, it was going to be interesting.

And surprisingly, quite a few people stayed.

And even more surprisingly: I not only didn't suck, I actually got good words from both the comics and my fellow poets.

One guy asked me how long I'd been doing it.

"First time."

He got a look on his face like "Shit."

I'll have video up at some point. Nici, who's been taping the last week or two of shows, hung around and taped me going up first. I was surprised at how comfortable I was. I told the only three bits I could think of (and probably the only three bits I have, right now).

That first laugh was so goddamn good. Better than coke, better than the booze I was drinking. My first bit didn't go over so well, but the second bit (boobs, which is more visual), I heard people laughing pretty hard. My favorite joke (Cats & Ketamine, which I might post at some point) went over really well, and even though I lost the punch line, I didn't panic and instead talked my way out of it and back to laughter again.

I still can't believe I did it, and people laughed.

Tap that vein, fuckers, tap that vein.

Now that the cherry's popped, time to start the fuckin'...

in the drive thru.

--Meatsticks

PS Many thanks to those of you who stayed last night, and to all the funny fuckers I know and have learned from watching.

Taking a flying leap (or not)...

2006-11-27T13:49:00.000-08:00

I was 5 or six years old, living in Dam-B, TX. We lived at the tail end of a long dirt road.

Dam-B's a small town, population around 600 or so. One gas station with a restaurant, one more restaurant, a washeteria (laundromat to Yanks), and a post office, all surrounding the big intersection where cars drove to more interesting and populated places where cousins didn't fuck each other.

I was the youngest child in a family of seven. My oldest sister had gotten married earlier that year, the next oldest sister was shacking up with her boyfriend, so now there were five. My brothers and sisters were all in their teens, except Ann, who was 10 or 11.

Daddy wasn't there, then. Daddy was in a place called prison and wouldn't be back for a few more years.

So our caretakers were Mom and the church..

Mom was working a double that day as the cook in the restaurant at the gas station. Since it was Saturday, there was no church.

So the oldest were left in charge to keep the young'uns from getting in trouble.

My brothers, Charles and David, had gotten new mattresses a couple of days before. We'd taken the old ones out to the car port on the side of the house.

Yeah.

Cuz we were the troublemakers.

David or Chuck came up with the idea.

It seemed simple enough.

Pull the mattresses to the other side of the house, stack them up, put the ladder on the side, climb up to the roof, jump off, land on the mattresses, repeat.

I was 5 or 6. And this seemed like a really good idea.

I liked climbing. I've always been a climber. I am great at getting myself up to places.

Besides, how often would anyone let you play on the roof of a house?

Of course, I didn't think this all the way through.

To the jumping part.

I'd never jumped from anything higher than the roof of a Chevy four door station wagon.

And even that was on a dare.

Our house was a single story house with a low attic / crawlspace. Maybe 12 or 15 feet high. The ceilings were slightly slanted, with those cheap tar paper shingles with gravel. Crappy for the long term sealing of your house, but great for traction.

I liked the climbing up part.

I really liked scampering around the roof for a little while.

I watched David go off and scream with glee, like Goofy in the old Disney cartoons when he falls.

"WHAAAA HOO HOO HOOOOEEEEY!!"

And then I crept up slowly to the edge, and looked...

down.

When you're six, the roof of a car was really high. And that's only 4 feet or so.

When you're six and looking at 12 or 15 fifteen feet, staring down at two double bed sized mattresses that looked like postage stamps, well...

I panicked.

No.

I freaked the fuck out.

Suddenly, I didn't wanna do it.

Suddenly, I felt like a bad boy.

Suddenly, I really, really, really just needed my mommy.

And my brother Chuck grabbed me, looked me in the eyes and said, "Look, I'll go. You'll see. It'll be alright."

Chuck and I shared a bond, then. We were born ten years and nine days apart. We were also the only two that weren't born in the hospital. We were connected.

I trusted him above all others.

He was older.

And with Daddy in prison, Chuck was the man in the house.

He knew MORE than I did.

I crept back from the edge, any sense of fun I had disappearing and watched as Chuck winked, turned, spread his arms and leapt off the edge. I heard him yell all the way down, heard a "thoomp!"

and then something coming up the ladder.

Chuck's head pops over, and he creeps over to me.

"See?"

I wiped my tears away.

"You wanna do it?"

I shook my head, yes.

I walked to the edge with Chuck, looked down at the postage stamp, and took a deep breath.

"On the count of three, okay?" said Chuck.

I nodded.

"One, two..."

And Chuck pushed me hard in the back...

and for a second, I enjoyed the sensation of falling...

But the postage stamp was in the wrong place for the proper receipt.

Had I jumped, I could have made it safely into the middle.

Had I understood the concept of aiming a leap, I could have aimed.

Instead, I landed face down, with the lower half of my legs and feet off the mattress.

My legs snapped back, rubber band style, and my own feet kicked my own ass for being such a bad, sad little boy.

I rolled off the mattress, almost trying to catch my breath.

Chuck scrambled down the ladder after me.

"See, that wasn't so bad. Wanna do it again?"

--Meatsticks

Cuz you're working for the maaaa-aaaaan.....

2006-11-26T13:54:00.000-08:00

Jobs.

I fucking hate jobs.

So the nagging parent voice in me says, "So, find some job you like and do that."

There isn't one.

I've looked.

I've worked construction, a corporate office, a Taco Bell drive-thru at 2 a.m. in a small town in Texas on the local high school's homecoming night, convenience stores, video stores, waiting tables, bartending, DJing, bussing tables in a truck stop in the middle of no and where, Ohio, working as a trap loader at a gun club in a concrete bunker, a clerk at a bad store in a worse mall in a stupid fucking town, and slinging expensive shit to people with too much money and too much fucking time on their hands.

What's left? Whoring, being a caretaker for retarded people, owning an oil company and being rich enough to snort good blow off a fat free stripper tit on my private yacht in Cancun, Mehico, going in the Armed Forces, being a cop / sherriff / douchebadge, and working at Panamint Springs Resort in Death Valley.

So fuck the work force.

I'm working up to something and have no idea what.

Well, I have a couple of ideas, but I'm such a sponge that I have to wonder sometimes if my ideas are really my own or just the regurgitation of all the shit I've listened to over the years.

The poetry's been helping, but the past week, I've been blocked or something.

More like regressing, really.

Probably just a delayed aftermath of the depression that sets in after Panamint, but with Vegas.

But that's another story.

So, any suggestions?

Serial killing isn't really an option, though it's got its bonuses. My problem is I have a guilty conscience and would probably confess in a heartbeat to shit I didn't even do, but I'd thought about doing it, so obviously I had it in me to do something like that and felt that I'd better go ahead and get locked up before I finally snapped and became Meatsticks the Ripper, so yes, officer, I did it.

So, that's out.

I've thought about glass blowing, but that whole heat thing really bothers me. I'm pasty skinned, so I'm pretty flame-sensitive. But I'm sure I could make some cool shit if I just did it.

Oh, if only...

See how easy it is to talk yourself out of things?

I've got years of experience.

Learn how, ask me now, for only 14.95 per session!

Call RIGHT NOW!

You need to make me rich so I don't ever have to wake up and leave my bed or my woman before 3 pm EVER AGAIN!!!

CALL NOW!!!

But not in the drive thru...

--Meatsticks

Even a Dog Needs a Bone...

2006-11-25T23:46:00.000-08:00

(I've told this story a few times over the years. Working on the poetry night I've been a part of (www.myspace.com/2ndary), I finally wrote it down in a cohesive form. Thanks to Danny D for helping me see that I came too soon in the first draft...

so to speak.

--Meatsticks)

"It was like having a dog pee on your leg,"
she says, in her cutest voice ever.

Where we are is
the house she and her parents are moving out of.

What she's doing is
answering my question.

What I was doing,
until just THAT moment,
was basking in the glow of my first orgasm with her present.

This was then,
when I was 19 and she was 18.

We were in love
from across the two sides of the tracks.j

She, a virginal Jehovah's Witness from a middle class family
and I,
a poor white trash agnostic,
not sure of anything except
not being sure of anything.

We saw our love as the
BIG L
love.

The kind that crossed those boundaries
that religions, cultures, and creeds
set up to keep the non-believers,
the undesirables,
the Me's,
away from Them.

It didn't work.

We fell in love
and we sinned a glorious kind of sin for the both of us.

Well,
except for the S I N
of S E X.

That was still a no no,
can't pass go,
can't collect the prize
behind the zipper...

Oh, we fooled around,
'our young crotches dry humping against each other
giving our groins the worst case of denim burn that you've never felt.

Then came
that one night
when she came
for her first time.

Ever.

We were still strictly clothes on,
grinding away,
when she lets out an
"Oooooh,"
and a shake
and a shiver,
and she jumped away from me.

We talked for the rest of the night
about what we both knew it was.

After that,
things got
heated, heavier, grindier,
and she had another,
then another
and another
and well...

All from dry-humping.

We thought it was beautiful that we could do that without penetration.

And it was
beautiful.

But it was also...

Frustrating.j

She racked up big O after big O,
while I played the martyr,
my balls growing heavier,
my nethers getting rawer
with each
new grinding session.

Came the day I was helping her move out of her old house.
Her parents had gone to the new house that day,
in another town,
far away from where we were.

Us.

Alone.

It starts again.

We're grinding our young bodies away,
kissing furiously,
hands are going up shirts now,
nipples tweaked and pinched,
savaging each othe rin the most mediocre of ways that a 19 year old can imagine
when suddenly...

I felt something
I hadn't felt
in a long long time.

And I finally got mine.

Right into my boxers.

Of course,
she knew.

Kinda hard to hide it when you collapse shudderin gin a puddle on top of the woman you love.

I go into the bathroom and clean myself up
as best I can,
excited and embarrassed and somewhat
exhausted.

I go outside for a cigarette and she joins me to second hand smoke.j

We start talking,
y'know,
about that
Thing
that had just happened.

And I lookeda t the woman I loved,
and I asked her what
She
thought of it.

And she said,
"I don't want to tell you..."

And I said
"No, baby, it' s okay, tell me,"
my face and eyes still
post-coitally glowing.

And looked at me,
and said,
in her cutest voice ever...

Cut and paste...

2006-10-23T19:55:00.000-07:00

http://movies.crooksandliars.com/Countdown-SC-GOP-Fear1.mov

Watch this.

Olbermann is THE man. Not one fucking person besides Stewart, Colbert, and Maher have dared say anything of this magnitude.

But Olbermann tops them out, because they can always hide behind the comedy aspect.

As in, "We're just kidding."

Olbermann, on the other hand, says it without a smile. And it doesn't look stupid.

Enjoy...

--Meatsticks

A Strange Confession...

2006-10-22T12:01:00.000-07:00

I used to write like an addict. I loved words flowing out of the head and into the pages in my notebooks, computers, whatever.

And then....

one night...

a few years ago...

We were in San Francisco. We'd driven up there in my car for a leather / vinyl ball at the DNA lounge. And we were planning on staying the night, so we'd brought my large black overnight back, and as usual, my backpack.

We parked on Bryant street, and went to the club about two blocks away.

My car, it was a 2-door Mazda MX-6, bright fuckin' red. I'd bought it for a pittance in Texas right after I moved back from LA. Lots of miles, but ran like a dream. It was how I moved out here to Santa Cruz from Texas.

I loved that car.

This was also when I carried a backpack with me everywhere. I always had writing equipment. 10 pens, 2-3 notebooks, a book to read in case I got bored and various pack-ratty things I'd picked up over the years.

Literally, anywhere I was, my bag was somewhere to be found around me.

Anyway...

We're at the club, havin' a ball at the Ball all night. Monkey and I had taken a half hit of ecstasy we'd had left over from a month before. Nothing spectacular, but enough to make you go....

Ohmmmmmmmm....

The club was closing and Monkey had to go to the car to get our change of clothes from the ridiculously hot and sweaty shit we'd been wearing.

She came back to me a few minutes later.

"How are you feeling?"

"Why?"

"How are you feeling?"

"I'm fine. What's up?"

She took my hand.

"Your car was broken into. They got everything."

"Even my backpack?" I asked, hoping without a hope.

"Yes."

See, a Mazda MX-6, the '91 model in particular, had a convenient lever for everything you hate to do manually. You could pop the hood, the gas tank cover, and yes, the trunk. And all you had to do was break a window, open the door, and pull a little two inch lever.

And you, too, could have a big duffle bag full of clothes, a half-empty purse, and a backpack full of notebooks, pencils, pens, erasers, a sketchpad, and a ton of fucking memories.

What upset me most was the whole idea of someone stealing the bag and just chucking it once they realized there was nothing of any value to THEM in it.

What upset me most was knowing they wouldn't appreciate any of it enough to read it.

What upset me most was some things I'd written about Monkey and never shared with her.

So I cried and kind of fell into her arms.

I can replace the shoes and clothes (well, not all of 'em).

But I can't get those words back. And some of them were really fuckin' good.

We closed the club, had a fun little afterhours party, and a couple of hours later, one of the girls mentioned the possibility of trying to look for my backpack.

And the few people who were left agreed and the next thing I know, we're all wandering out into the early morning light of San Francisco, with the most colorful people wearing the weirdest shit from the night before, looking desperately for a black backpack that may or may not have been in a trash-bin cuz it didn't have anything a crack head could really use.

We searched for blocks and blocks. The sun got higher, and finally, we just gave up.

After that, Barry and Casey took me and the girl to breakfast, where we ate well and I cried a little more, and they made me laugh...

But that was then.

And I've moped for a couple of years about it.

It's really hard, like someone got in and stole some things directly out of my head. Like a block you put in your mind to not deal with whatever horrible old memory is making you crazy.

Writing is my life. Has been for a long time.

And when I do it, it's lovely and I have a good time with it.

But I keep getting brain farty-about the whole thing.

However, I'm glad I shared. Maybe this'll help.

Either that, or I'm just a whining cunt who needs to get over it.

Either way...

drive thru, bitches.

--Meatsticks

Abort Mission!

2006-10-22T10:58:00.001-07:00

Side note: This piece is a mish mash of three different things I wrote. For those who don't know, on my 30th birthday my true love gave to me my first abortion. She took the RU-486 actually ON my b-day. Most of this comes from when we were sitting in the clinic a couple of days before that, with a few extra lines / ideas from a couple of other things I wrote. I actually read this at a poetry reading the other night, and am pretty proud of the piece itself.

Special thanks to Dave Perez, who helped me rearrage and get it to flow really well.

--Meatsticks)

Should we put it in a jar?
And if we do, should we name it?
Sitting in the planned parenthood clinic...
My eyes scanning the room...
You can tell the girls who are afraid they're preggers.
Arms crossed,
eyes with that distant
"Oh dear God,
No,
Please,
No.
Make the test be wrong, just this once."
No boyfriend, husband, job or hope,
except this one offered here,
for a fee...
Over there, in the corner,
2 girls, side by side, arms folded, girls who can't be much older than 17,
they've got that 100-yard abortion stare,
their eyes struggling to not see
that cute little four year old on her mommy's lap,
right there,
in front of them.
In the other corner, a mother and her 14 year old daughter...
the mom can't look at anything but that child.
da Monkey and I, we're here for a test,
the test,
to see if she is pregnant.
A few weeks ago, we had a rare slip, her pulling me in as I spurted out.
Now...
her boobs are swollen
she's getting chubby,
and she's two weeks late.
If she is, the hardest part is gonna be the waiting
to have the abortion.
The thing that should have been hardest about this,
THE conversation,
wasn't even a question.
No "Should we keep it?"
No "Well, honey, what do YOU think?"
No "We'd make GREAT parents?"
Just "How soon do we get it sucked out?"
And maybe, you think this is a little sociopathic.
After all, it is a "life."
So's the bacteria I scrub off when I shower.
So's the bacteria that forms in my urine when it's left my body.
The cancer forming in someone you may or may no know...
that's alive, too.
Doesn't change our dislike and disposal of those things.
Doesn't change how we feel about this.
I can see
how some would be queasy.
But they're not us.
And we're not them.
This
is
about
choice.
We choose, wholeheartedly,
to stop the growth of the thing inside her belly.
And my mother's voice,
and your mother's voice,
and all the parental voices I've ever heard,
they all crowd my mind.
"That's so selfish."
And MY voice says...
What's selfish is spamming the environment w/ carbon copy mini-you's in the vain hopes that your precious widdle child will make the world a better place than you did while you were here.
Cuz, y'see folks,
abortions are NOT the problem.
The people who aren't aborted ARE.

((a toilet flushes in the background))

Drive thru...

Meatsticks

Raping Fish In a Barrel...

2006-10-03T23:36:00.000-07:00

They just keep makin' it easier, don't they? Not a lot of creativity anymore, but when it bursts through, DAMN!!!

Amish schoolkids getting shot down by a random fucking guy with an arsenal.

Regular schools are so passe.

No, today's discerning killer KNOWS to go after the esteemed endangered species, the hard to reach kind, like...AMISH!

Amish are the most non-offensive religion you can get in this shitty, pushy world. They shun all the shit I like, and the kids get the chance to go into the world, and most of 'em turn around and go right back to their little old farm...cuz they can't think of anything better to do with the shit we've got out here.

But, then, one day...

along comes psycho guy, runnin' through the hillside...

And how long did he plan this? There's no WAY this was just random.

It's not like there's Amish schools in cities. This guy drove all the way out to BFAmish Paradise, just to gun down some mother fuckers.

Why the Amish? What the fuck have they ever done to anyone besides other Amish? They don't fight anyone, they're just closed off and probably a little repressed.

Why not take out a Scientology Sector, or a few Catholic churches, or the Crawford Ranch of our esteemed President?

Why the fuckin' Amish?

But the psycho gun-totin' school shooters aren't the only ones up to some new twists on old-shenanigans.

Our Congressmen are catching up to 'em.

Rep. Mark Foley and the Republican leadership who helped cover his ass are all up for "Three Card Pedophilia Monty Awards" this year, a much coveted title that has been dominated by the Catholic diocese for the past 23 years.

Granted, Foley was just a voyeur who liked to ask supple 16-year old boys for photos of themselves, ask 'em to measure their big guns with a ruler, and occasionally request a face to ass meeting.

But it got covered up. And unlike the weapons of mass destruction, these e-mails EXIST.

AND they've been authenticated. It isn't like these kids made this up (that we know of, with presuming innocence till bobloblaw gets 'em off).

Keeping in mind, these are the same guys trying to ban gay marriage, saying gays are all but unnatural beasts put upon this earth to be made fun of, just like the nigras, chinks, gooks, spics, and wetbacks before them...

This is also the party of "moral values," where a woman's not really really brain-dead till Bill Frist SAYS she is...

The party of tax relief, 500-mile Mexican fences that they hope doesn't interfere with their ability to have a cleaned mansion at a discount rate from the third worlder they forgot to give a tax ID number to, the anti-abortion-WE LOVE JESUS-and-ain't-America the Beautiful Under God just the GREATEST damn gift god has put on this Earth...

this...this Party of AAAAALLLL THAAAT IIIIISSS RIIIIIGHT!!!!

((echo, echo))

they

were

covering up for creepy uncle Mark writing dirty IM's and e-mails to underage boys in his no-pay employ.

Ahahahahaaaaa.....

how do you not just smile at that?

Yes, it's heart wrenching, yes, it's heart-breaking, yes, it's sad those kids had to go through that, and where the hell were the parents...?

Oh, right. They were complaining to the Repuplican leadership about Creepy Uncle Mark!

Creepiest thing about it all?

He's the co-chair of the House Caucus on Missing and Exploited Children.

Oh....damn.

It just confirms what the Repub's motto would be if they were honest....

when you consider the war in Iraq, the national deficit, global warming, the assault on free speech, the debt, gas prices, medicine costing more than street drugs for half the effect, tax cuts while we're in debt, Abu Ghraib, Afghanistan, our relations with majority of the world, and Mark Foley...?

Vote Republican!!!

Cuz really...

FUCK YOUR KIDS!!!

--Meatsticks

Here we come a wafflin'....

2006-09-17T13:18:00.000-07:00

I blame Zack Galifanaikis.

We're on the 280, heading back to Santa Cruz. It's around 3 a.m. and da Monkey and I are just tired.

"Pull off here," she says. "Take a left and it should be about a mile down the road."

Waffles. That's what we want...

Galifanookis talked about waffles during his show a few times. As soon as he mentioned it the first time, our stoned brains looked at one another and said, "Waffles sound gooood..."

Driving down the road now, eyes scanning for a Lyon's, a Carrow's, a Denny's, any sort of diner that would have waffles. We drive for two more miles, only to discover closed car lots, a street sweeper and a couple of gas stations.

"Shit."

We turn around and head back towards the freeway...

After we'd gotten out of the show, Monkey asked me "You wanna find some waffles?"

"Hell yeah. It's all I can think about right now."

"We'll go to Sparky's."

"You know where it is?"

"Kinda...I'll get us there. I know I bought a hat in a shop that was a block from Sparky's."

So we started out onto the streets of San Francisco, with only a vague recollection of a lost Monkey and a deranged Meatstick behind the steering wheel.

Driving around, taking loops that went nowhere, driving down one-way streets, praying for a crossover that would allow us to get where we wanted to be.

And the only place that could be was where waffles were being made...

Back on the 280, 5 miles from the 17 exit to take us into Santa Cruz.

"Try the next exit."

We do. It's as empty as the previous one. Except, as we turn around, we realize there's no direct way back onto the freeway.

Fuckin' San Jose...

"Take Market," says da Monkey. I get on the longest street in the world and we drive down it, giggling to ourselves, as Emo Phillips says on our stereo...

"My Brother says hello...so...Hooraaaaaay for speech therapy." (laughter and appluase)

"Mel's Diner. Wanna stop there?"

"No, I know Sparky's is around here somewhere..."

Back on the 280, finally, after some creative sign following on my part. We're now merging onto the 17 and a fog bank is rolling in like some dragon's creeping smoke from it's nostrils. Like the smoke coming from my nostrils as I smoke another cigarette, trying desperately to stay awake and alert enough to get us...

somewhere with fuckin' waffles.

It's a full-fledged mission, at this point, kids...

Back on Market Street, passing intersection after never-ending intersection, I notice something I have to remark on. I'm at a stop light, in front of the 3rd Mel's Diner we've seen (or the same one three times - who knows?), and on the corner, are 4 girls.

4 girls in varying states of tube tops, tank tops, tight pants and high heels. Some with the body to wear it, some with too much body.

And I say to da Monkey, "Ya notice how hard it is to tell the difference between girls on a nite out and hookers?"

"Turn left here..."

By now, the fog is not only set in, it's starting to fog up my brain. 35 mph on the 17 at 3:30 a.m., unable to go faster because the fog is reflecting my headlights right back into my skull.

"We'll have waffles soon, baby," she says, cooing softly and lighting me another cigarette.

Now, Andrist is on the stereo, talking about how we don't take retards out drinking with us because we don't wanna see 'em when we're turnin' into em.

"Waffles..."

Back in SF, it's 2:00. Last call. Girls dressed inappropriately for cold weather, high heels on pot-hole filled streets, trying desperately to flag down a cab to get the countless puking friends back home safely. Praying that some god above will hear their plea that they'll never do this again, if only God would make the puking stop.

And Monkey says, "Let's get out of here. We'll find waffles on the way home..."

Almost over the 17, now, close so close to home. Pass through Scotts Valley, noting how every place is closed.

"Denny's it is," says I.

We pull into the Denny's parking lot at 4:30, the fog having taken up an hour of our precious waffle needing time.

We walk in, looking exhausted and feeling worse. The two guys at the counter I'd played pool with two days before at the Jury Room whose names I can't remember.

We sit, our waitress walks up, asking us what we want.

"Coffee," says I.

"Water," says da Monkey.

"Be right back," says the girl, who so obviously has gotten the shit shift and has had to clean out everything over the course of this boring ass evening.

She's gonna get tipped well for this.

We open the menu to find a glorious...

lack of waffles.

Not a fuckin' one anywhere on the menu.

We both collapse into our booths, laughing maniacally, as the overworked and tired ass people in Denny's at this hour kind of try not to stare.

"Fuckin' waffles," I giggle as I try to decide what to eat now...

fuckin' waffles....

in the drive thru.

--Meatsticks

Plan B(etter) DAMMIT!!!

2006-09-12T10:58:00.000-07:00

And the Injuns said, "Do not judge a man till you've walked a mile in his moccasins."

And then we killed them, scalped them and gave the rest some blankets with smallpox and didn't tell them about our whole "vaccine" thing we had going.

"Thanks for the words. Bye now..."

we seemed to say.

But we love judging. Especially the Christers. They're my favorite pack of people who believe in "judge not lest ye be judged" who pretend that if their preacher tells them God told him to tell them to fight something, then they can judge it all they want.

Like this whole flap over the "Plan B / Morning After / I KNEW I shouldn't have had that last shot of Tequila this guy bought me and my mom's gonna be so PISSED if I get knocked up like she did when she was my age" pill being available w/out a prescription....

Provided you're over 18, of course. Wouldn't want the kids to start fucking earlier than when we tell them, cuz those little bastards always listen, right?

Just like our examples' mother did to her mom, who'd been begat by her mom before her at the age of....

whatever age it is kids fucked back in those days.

Where was I...?

Hmmmm....

So, Plan B is now available so you don't have to pay an eternity for your one night / week / month of binging that led to your terrible, terrible misjudgment as to exactly how cute and / or rich that guy was when you saw him in the dark bar last night.

SEND IN THE CLOWNS, sayeth the Ringmaster.

And courstesy of CNBC, the clowns they are a-comin'.

http://movies.crooksandliars.com/Donny-Deutsch-Pl.mov

What's amazing about this video (besides the whole "doctor's having moral qualms with passing out baby-killin' pills" issue) is that the girl was clearly, unequivocally, without a shadow of a fucking doubt RAPED!!

Isn't that the one exception they have on their whole abortion ban?

"I'm against abortion...except in cases of rape or incest, of course."

Here, we have a real, live rape victim who may or may not be preggers, and a doctor who has the power to have her not have a baby begat by violent means (cuz there's more than enough assholes in the world) and what does he do with his compassion?

He sits on it.

I guess God is anti-abortion and pro-rape.

Come on; according to their fucked up little view, if every (Christian) life is really that precious, it's because God meant it to happen. No more "she was asking for it with the way she was dressed." Now, rapists have a new defense:

"Well, your honor, I was starin' at her from across the room and I saw how hot she looked. And then, I feel this buzzin' in my ears, and I suddenly remembered that buzzin' in my ears back at the tent revivals we used to have 'round where I come from, and remembered that 'buzzin'' was actually the Lord tryin' to speak t'me. And when I listened real clear, it became obvious. The Lord said, an' I'm a-quotin' here, 'Jerry Lou, the lord commands you to take the rufee out of your pocket and slip it in that girl's drink. And then, you shall mate with her when she's passed out in order to further populate the world with people of a like mind to myself, the Lord Thy God, whose name is so hallow, you shall not speak it.'"

"And what happened then, Jerry Lou?"

"Well, I asked the Lord, 'Lord, isn't that illegal?' And the Lord, he spaketh back to me, 'What matter the laws of man when your GOD commands you? HELLOOOOO?!'"

"And then what, Jerry Lou?"

"Well, I thought about it for a second, and figgered, hell, since, y'know, it's the Lord talkin', who am I to judge what he's sayin'."

"So you did indeed slip the rufee in her drink and proceed to have sexual relations with her?"

"Yessir, I did. I'm real sorry, miss, but when the Lord speaks, I get a boner. Hell, I got one right now just thinkin' about it!"

Or something like that...

But are we really surprised that God's a rapist? Anyone out there remember the "Virgin" Mary and her "Immaculate Conception?"

I picture the scene as God getting hammered one night, and thinkin' about his divine plan for the sacrifice of his only child (cuz I don't imagine he was sober when he thought of this doozy.). Him pickin' Mary, who was still somehow, at the tender age of 16, married but still a virgin, and he starts starin' at her, little bits of drool comin' out of his mouth...

One thing leads to another and...

God wakes in the morning, "Holy ME!! What in the Jeckyll and Hyde have I done?"

Too late to stop the pregnancy (because after all, that'd be taking a life, which is way worse than rape as we've now established), Big G fixes her hymen, wipes her memory and sends down Gabriel, who is now tasked with damage control on an alcoholic God.

THERE is your immaculate conception, you sick freaks.

Just remember not to get raped on your way through...

the Drive Thru

--Meatsticks

PS To those who've posted messages / comments: I KNOW it was set on Private cuz I did it. My computer conked out on me a couple of weeks ago and it's still on and off in how well it's working. I hope that link still works.

Better Berfday Bureau...

2006-08-28T16:26:00.000-07:00

I'd love to give you a blow by blow of the funnest birthday I've had in two years.

I'd love to give you guys a peek into exactly how I got 6 bottles of Bush Mills, four of which are STILL sitting on my counter.

I'd love to tell you how the Venture Bros. Season One came into my possession, how Andrist autographed the four copies of his CD and the packaging and it arrived on my birthday so it was kind of technically a gift received on my berfday and thank you for remembering.

I'd love to tell you about my new shoes, new pants, my beloved Bush Mills Ten Year Malt Whiskey, Nord the Barbarian / Berserker's brother Danny Nord being at the party and allowing me to geek out for an hour on the fact that his brother is the freakin' BERZERKER!!!!!

I'd love to tell you about the giant tri-tip that was being cooked in the dark, the umpteen shots I had to do, the mess that is still our kitchen floor, the mess made up at the Poet by the Drunken Wonder Twins that made me fall down at the crescendo of a song, and how I dealt with the cops whilst trashed on the umpteen shots of whiskey I'd done.

I'd really like you to know all of that.

I'd love to tell you how awesomely amazing and lovely my woman is for pulling all of this together on short notice. And how great Amara and Amy Carter are for helping clean up as the cops walked away.

It'd be great if you guys could know all of that.

But instead, just know that I had a happy berfday and I'm sorry I missed you guys again this year.

Please leave a message at,....

the drive thru.

--Meatsticks

Drunk Thoughts at Taco Bell at 2:00 a.m....

2006-08-06T15:02:00.000-07:00

Immigration has to be cut off.

We need the border fence with snipers on 8-hour NoDoz fueled shifts every twenty yards because this whole Mexicans taking the jobs no American wants has gone too far.

Now they've finally taken over Taco Bell.

It used to be that Taco Bell late shifts were jobs that any white trash inbreeder or illiterate rapper wannabe could work.

Keep those construction jobs and strawberry field pickin' jobs and getting picked up at the lumberyard parking lot in the morning to go move some rich bitch in and out of her house jobs.

Just don't take our Taco Bell.

Cuz now you're fucking with OUR poor, hungry, meek and huddled masses, right here in the USA..

The crime rate is going to go up now, because the cranky meth-tweeker geniuses and the "I'm one welfare check away from a felony" crowd will have nothing better to do than start robbing people again.

And then we're back in a 70's blacksploitation movie that NOBODY wants to be in. Oh, sure, we like to watch it, but it's just like porn: everyone loves to watch, no one wants to really do it.

Cuz the reality of the situation is way worse than the finished product that dribbles off her chin and onto the sheets.

Wait...wrong movie.

So write your congressman, your senator, your governor, your local SPCA, get your church involved, stand on a street corner w/ a petition and lie to people about what they're signing so they'll support it, something, fucking ANYTHING!!!

SEND the message LOUD AND CLEAR!!!

You may pick our strawberries, but you can NOT serve us Taco Bell!!

We stole that shit FAIR AND SQUARE!!!

(Did you know they won't let you walk...

through the Drive Thru?)

--Meatsticks

And where...

2006-08-02T21:36:00.000-07:00

did he go?

I know where, but WHERE...?

Who knows....

You can write to someone all you want, but eventually, all you're doing is having a conversation with yourself with someone else.

But at least I give myself an answer...usually.

Maybe he didn't get them, says the girl. Maybe you should try again.

I do.

Maybe he didn't get them again, I think...

But I fuckin' doubt it.

I did (or didn't) do something, and now it's cost me someone and something I do consider precious.

I know you're out there, somewhere.

I stalk your words when I can, gleaning them for sustenance, for meaning, taking what's there, letting that little piece of comfort in the knowledge of your safety keep me going back....

and back...

A turn of your phrase hits me in the head, sometimes in the heart, but at least it still hits like the pot I'm not going to smoke for a while used to.

Good enough and hard enough to put you in a stupor of contemplation and spiraling thoughts, looking at the fractals in between the lines, the lies, the loops and the spots in front of your eyes.

I miss you.

I truly do.

And it hurts, in a way I have to shut off and not feel and not acknowledge right now, because I've got things to do.

I'm not angry so much as frustrated.

Maybe turnabout is fair play.

And if it is, great.

Point taken.

But I guess I'll never know.

After all...

Never apologize, never explain...

right?

--Meatsticks

That's right neighborly of ya...

2006-08-02T21:28:00.000-07:00

We live in a small place a couple of blocks from downtown Santa Cruz. We're back off the street, living in a cottage placed behind a quadplex apartment style thing, with our cottage facing two other cottages that look exactly like ours.

To our side is our garages, and behind our place there's a fence separating us from the other places in our area.

Adjacent to us, across the fence, there lives a family on the upper floor of a duplex.

They have children. Not only do they have children, they have noisy children.

Not noisy in that normal kid way. The hispanic family in the cottage facing have kids, too, but they don't interrupt my thoughts on a consistent basis.

No, this is a family of LOUD NOISES AT INOPPORTUNE MOMENTS!!

For instance...

This family's back porch (where they smoke in front of their kids and giggle and laugh and yell) faces our bathroom window. Sometimes, when there's things like drinking and hangovers involved, a shit I have to take can take a while.

Sometimes, it just requires concentration and relaxation (something I'm not the best at in the first place).

Sometimes, it's all goopy and I feel ashamed of what I did.

But either way, peace and quiet is welcome.

So imagine...

You're having a small bout of constipation because of all the Irish Coffees you drank last night, and you're finally into doing the crossword puzzle enough to where the sphincter relaxes....

aaaaah.....

almost there....

(and then)

"JACOB DON'T YOU PUT THAT IN YOUR MOUTH AFTER YOU PUT IT IN THAT ASHTRAY!!"

(kid is now screaming from having his drooly, ash-soaked lollipop taken away: imagine the screams of the mythical banshee mixed with a baby's squeal who is uncomfortable because of the giant load of a shit he just took in his diaper)

Some else mumbles something incoherent, to which hag lady screams (even louder) "But he PUT IT in the ASHTRAY!! DON'T YOU KNOW HOW GROSS THAT THING IS!??"

Or worse...

Jacking off, eyes closed, breathing hard, close, so close, then all I hear is a loud THUMP and a child's breath catching as it lets out a squeal in a range high enough to cause a thousand dogs to cover their now-bleeding ears with their paws, like in that "Scanners" movie.

And people want to criticize people for wanting to have abortions? Fucking PLEASE!!!

When was the last time your abortion nagged after you while you were perusing the aisles of your local super Wal-Mart, pestering you because he really really really REALLY NEEEEEEEEEEEEEDS that new X-box game that he's too young and unco-ordinated to play in the first fucking place?

When last did you hear oh-so-many news stories about an abortion dying today in a car because grandpa ran inside the Home Depot for a gallon of paint and didn't roll the window down?

And have you ever been bouncing your abortion up and down on your knee, only to have it projectile vomit partially-digested Gerber's baby food mixed with Similac right onto to your new jacket?

I only wish they served abortions...

in Drive Thrus!

--Meatsticks

Bully-shit!

2006-07-09T13:12:00.000-07:00

Bullies.

Supposedly, everyone hates a bully. They're about two-steps above child molesters (only date rapists are lower than bullies).

But we're a nation full of bullies.

Oh, we love our underdog stories, like "Rocky," "Rudy," "Pretty Woman," where the bullies get their come-uppance at the end and all is right with the world. Yup, we love those stories.

Cuz they're just that: stories. Those stories are as false as the teeth of the ex-meth addict preaching at some school about the dangers of drugs somewhere out there.

Faker than a porn star's orgasms.

Faker than Puffy's marriage to J-Lo.

They don't exist. They're not real. They're a wish-fulfillment story, like super-heroes, winning one for the Gipper, and "Stranger in a Strange Land."

Great ideas, but we live in the real world and the wheels of fate do turn slow.

Till someone like North Korea launches 7 missiles to test 'em out.

Till someone like the Columbine Kids decide to get back at the bullies and bitches who made their lives miserable.

Till Iraq tells us to get the fuck out.

We're a nation of bullies, and this is our come-uppance. Except we're not the ones who get the great comeback story.

We're Apollo Creed, getting our asses handed to us on a platter by non-professionals because we just couldn't handle the fact that we beat 'em last time, but we didn't BEAT 'em.

What kind of bullies are we?

Well, let's see...

We'll invade a country that can't do shit to us and tell the world we mean business, but when a real threat (the aforementioned missile test) comes along, suddenly, diplomacy and multi-lateral talks seem like a good idea.

We'll tell some people "we ain't givin' you nuclear power for jack or shit, so shut up and sit down." And then give one to a registered terrorist state right next door to the guys we just told to fuck off.

We'll tell everyone we'll spread democracy through the barrel of a gun and be greeted with candy, kisses and blowjobs for doing it, and then blame everyone except ourselves when it goes off in our face like a Bukkake extreme video.

We'll hunt for weapons we know aren't there, but won't stop a real-deal genocide from happening. No, kids, cuz THAT takes "diplomacy, and diplomacy takes time."

And we'll give up all our freedoms in order to protect them and not even realize the ironic statement therein.

Cuz we're also stupid bullies.

And stupid bullies breed stupider bullies, and begets more stupider bullies, till finally, we're the super-duper-stupiderest bullies ever.

And then someone's gotta put a gun in our face for us to realize, "Oh shit. We have no idea what we're doing!"

We're peeing our pants right now.

We should be.

Our little show of strength has united the world against us like Panamint vs. Dr. Douchebag 2006.

We could have been nice about it. We could have used diplomacy 5 years ago when 9/11 was still fresh and the world was totally with us. We could have done a lot of things.

But a nation of bullies kinda-sorta-did-but-didn't elect a White House and Congress full of stupid, inbred, hillbilly eejits with puppet-master hands up their asses, and instead we got guys who looked at 1984 like a how-to manual instead of a cautionary tale.

Remember, kids...

War is Peace.

Freedom is Slavery.

Ignorance is Strength.

Sleep tight, douchebags...

I'm nappin in the drive-thru...

--Meatsticks

Top Ten List...

2006-06-20T19:07:00.000-07:00

I watched X3: The Last Stand the other day and had an epiphany.

Halle Berry ruins everything. Oscar winner or not, she ruins everything her insecure, pouty lips touch.

Every comic geek I knew growing up had the hots for Storm. Storm was a bad ass, locquacious and beautiful, a woman worthy of being called a goddess.

And then Halle Berry came along and has all but ruined that image.

As my anger grew as the movie went on filled with yet MORE screen time for this ridiculously overpaid, just one nervous breakdown shy of a heroin addiction bee-yotch, I came upon an idea...

An image, really...

the twin towers going down on that fateful day, and Halle Berry on Floor 92 of the South Tower at 9:19 a.m., waving sadly as she sacrificed herself for the greater good.

And then I started thinking about some other people...

and so, I give to you, my friends, my top ten list of people who should have been in the Twin Towers on 9/11...

and why.

10) Bill O'Reilly - He goes to Gitmo, and hours after he leaves, 3 inmates commit suicide. Coincidence? Who wouldn't have loved to have heard the words "3,000 people, including conservative commentator Bill O'Reilly, perished in the Twin Towers today?" Yeah, he goes.

9) Halle Berry - harbinger of doom for all things on celluloid / digital.

8) Ann Coulter - she likes raping the imagery of 9/11 while lambasting anyone else who does so, including the widows of those who died on that "fateful day." I can't wait for the day when it's revealed that this hateful coke-fueled ranting douchebag is actually a post-op tranny. Seriously, have you seen that fucking Adam's Apple she has? She's gotta be hung like a rhinoceros horn. She should make her words mean something: take all your money from your books, build a time machine, and go back in time to sacrifice yourself for the cause you supposedly love.

7) George W. Bush - the only failure in life who keeps falling UP the ladder. He's broken the country, made us more hated, and he can't even speak our fucking language! Oh my god, that means he's a TERRORIST!!! Goodbye white house, hellooooooo twin towers.

6) Dick Cheney - dark lord of the underworld, capable of shooting a slow moving old man while drunk on a quail farm, but unable to not talk out of the side of his mouth. As Lewis Black said, "I met Dick Cheney the other day. I've never stood THAT close to EVIL!"

5) Jay Leno - He's sucked for years, but gets all the "best" acts to come onto his homogenized, whiter than millquetoast show precisely because he sucks. He had Ann Coulter on the other night and didn't even try. And I'm blaming George Carlin (whose only joke was when he moved over on the couch, "I never thought I'd have to move to the right of Ann Coulter.") who had a primo opportunity. And no, being 67 years old with four triple bypasses is no excuse, George. I might forgive George for this trespass, but Jay needs to fly with the angels.

4) Avril Lavigne - One of our local bars is the Rush Inn. It's got one of those downloadable jukeboxes that are all the rage around these parts. And since some people are repetitive creatures by nature, you can usually tell who's in the bar by what songs are being played. There's a certain crew of people I like who have the most horrible fucking taste in music EVER! And they play the same 5 songs by Avril Lavigne every time they're at the bar. EVERY! FUCKING!! TIME!!! I don't know the girl and haven't heard her speak, but her songs suck and she should either get cancer and die or go back in time and join the other people on this list on floor 92 of the South Tower. Although if she started singing, I'd imagine she'd be thrown out the window and hit the ground faster than the towers did.

3) Condoleeza Rice - I read a thing recently online when I was bored that was celebrating "strong women public figures" or some other bullshit. Condi was on this list. Strong woman? She thinks she's married to George, for God's sakes. She's a sycophantic, double-talking, gap-toothed puppet in a power suit whose every word sounds like she's on the verge of tears. I'd rather listen to Halle Berry sing songs written by Avril Lavigne than listen or read another word that dropped out of this woman's mouth like the cum she wishes was running down her leg from her imaginary husband.

2) Osama bin Ladin - thanks, asshole. Cuz of you and your stupid fuckin "Jihad," I've had to put up with this bunch of schmucks for the past five years, and will have to deal with the repercussions of their actions for the rest of my life unless I can find some country that sucks less than this one does right now. You've won, for God's sakes. We're now invading countries, slashing civil rights, detaining people for years without any semblance of due process, and slowly trying to turn ourselves into a theocracy so we can battle YOUR vision of a theocracy! You're a bleeding, cancer infected rectum who deserved to be on those planes! Where's the courage of your convictions, ass!?

1) Carrot Top - You drippy, shit-stained piece of underwear hanging in the back of the closet. You're a ruiner of my fellow ginger people! You're our representative to the world, and look at you. You look like Joan Rivers' bastard child from when she dug a cum-loaded condom of Eric Stoltz' out of the garbage and had herself artificially inseminated. Gallagher wouldn't even tell your jokes, you ass! Why couldn't it have been YOU!? Dear God, man, WHYYYYYYYYY!!

Drive thru.

--Meatsticks

A Dream I Didn't Have...

2006-06-15T19:33:00.000-07:00

While at the Rush Inn the other evening, a friend we'll call Martha related a dream she'd had about me to me...

It goes like this...

Apparently, in the dreamy dream, we'd all (as in the tremendous amount of people we know in Santa Cruz) had a party at Martha's house.

Of course, the house was trashed like a rape-victim's panties by the end of the evening.

And of course, none of our drunk-to-the-point-of-mild-retardation friends were willing to stay and help, so they left as to absolve themselves of guilt.

Leaving just Martha and I...

alone...

drunk...

Martha (whose last name really should be "Stewart") had swept and gathered and collected all the shit that'd been strewn about by our revelry.

And she's starting to sort though this gigantic pile of fun-that-was and she looks up...

to see me with a giant John-Wayne-Gacy-Clown-with-a-Secret-type grin on my face, dancin' my way out the door.

And she says to me in her whiniest Please-God-HELP-ME!-voice, "Aren't you gonna stay and help?"

To which I just say, "You shouldn't have let me into your dream, motherfucker!"

And continue on my way into the ether of dreams...

I don't know if that says anything about me, her, our relationship as friends, or if it's just one of those...things that doesn't mean anything except what you want it to...

But I did laugh as I wrote this down to bring to you non-existent faithful weirdos...

In the drive-thru...

--Meatsticks

Can you spell...

2006-06-11T14:44:00.000-07:00

Spelling bees.

Where you give a child credit for being able to spell a word, and don't give a shit if he / she / it actually knows what the word means.

Pontificator - one who pontificates.

That's about the level most kids can deal with.

Stupid kids breed more stupid kids.

School - place where you learn social interaction, ostracization, and how to get up early to do something mindless and soul-crushing for the rest of your life, whether you like it or not.

School seems like a good idea, at first. A place where all the kids get together and "learn" about the world, history, math, science, dating, sex education....the important stuff.

By the time you get to 12th grade, you're probably learning how much booze you can shove down your throat in order to vomit it all back up later.

But you still get up for school in the morning, hungover, bleary eyed, and praying no one slams a door or yells too loudly.

Just like your shitty job.

Just like your shitty life.

Distractions are everywhere, and we pay damn good money for them.

Try staying informed, but the more you watch, the more numb you get. It gets in your head the way memories of the last evil bitch / dick who broke your heart and made you not trust anyone anymore, oh no that's the LAST fucking time that'll happen to ME...

And you get so pissed off, you think, "I gotta DO something!"

So you start writing letters to get your elected representative (who you didn't vote for in the first place) to try to get him / her / it to fucking DO something.

That doesn't work.

So write your senator, that OTHER elected official, and get HIM to do something about it. Isn't this the way democracy is supposed to work? They take the will of the people to heart, or at least try to do the right fucking thing, and vote against stupid shit and FOR good shit.

Nope...not happening.

Before you know it, you just start writing letters to the editor of your local newspaper in the vain hopes that SOMEONE is listening to anything anyone is saying.

But all you get there is some rotten douchebag who disagrees with you writing HIS letter to the editor in response to YOUR letter to the editor about how your letter to the congressman and the senator didn't work and how much that sucks. And this douchebag, he tells you that that's the way the REAL system SHOULD work, by ignoring minority-type people like you.

So.....

Oh, I know. I'll start an e-mail campaign. I'll send it out to everyone on my list and that'll get an online petition started and then we can REALLY show those bastards that WE mean BUSINESS!

But no, sadly, instead you keep getting that same fucking e-mail from that same princess in Bangladesh who has this incredible amount of money that they'll give you a percentage of if only you would help them by "storing" the money for them for a year.

Or yet another missing / possibly dead / last seen with her father / mostly mutilated when they find her child ALERT!

Or, of course, the one about how small and unsatisfying your penis is to your lover until you take VIRILEXECUTION!!!

Democracy in action...in a nation full of douchebags.

Politicians are just like bad relationships. The instant you have faith in them, they let you fucking down.

Oh, they talk really purty, and all. They spell "Accountability" for the bee-keepers at home, and they talk about "freedom," "democracy," "liberty," "defending marriage and America against godless gay terrorists."

But when it's time to do some shit, it's the same old excuse.

"Oh, we didn't have enough votes...."

"We had the votes, but, y'know, no one wants to make the other guys MAD or anything..."

"Oh, I slept in that day..."

These guys are on vacation every other month, so they have to be well-rested. But really, they don't do shit.

They talk about it. They'll tell you the check's in the mail, sure, we care about your children...

But instead of passing shit to take care of kids, they instead blame it on the entertainment, the violence, the violent entertainment that is at this very moment warping your child's mind beyond all recognition and turning him into a POD PERSON!!!

Your child will kill people if they play Grand Theft Auto.

Your child will kill itself if it listens to Nirvana backwards, at night, underwater in the fog of a moonlit swamp.

Seeing Janet Jackson's nipple will make your kid want to eat raped babies.

Or, best of all, they'll vote to keep a braindead woman hooked up to machines to keep her "alive" so they can look like they're doing something to their Christian Base.

They won't stop wars, they won't say no to a tax cut, they'll change the rules so that they can't be held "A C C O U N T A B L E, accountable, and they can't fucking protect us from airplanes, and because of that gigantic cluster-fuck of screaming falling people and buildings, now THEY want to KNOW about everything YOU do, because...what if...

oh god, it's too terrible to think about it...

What if someone you know is a terrorist?

What if..dear god, what if YOU are a terrorist and you don't know it!

Right now, you could think you're writing some shitty thing on your blog for the world to see, and secretly, you're using stolen flight vouchers to fly here and there to check up on the terror cells that you've helped create while you've been sleepwalking!

It could be you...

So, now, they need to know your e-mails, your phoneconversations, your sexual / pregnancy histories, what you watch, what you eat, where you go and where you are, right now...

cuz remember...

you could be sleepwalking instead of actually writing this...

YOU, dear reader, could think you're reading this, but really you're just remembering it from earlier to cover up the fact that, right now, you are ACTUALLY talking some pimple faced 15-year old boy into blowing himself up for virgins in heaven and praise from Allah...

And where does he blow himself up?

Of course.

In the Drive thru.

--Meatsticks

3 more things about Panamint...

2006-06-07T19:36:00.000-07:00

These are a couple of things I forgot to post about, and one gigantic shout-out that I missed.

===================================================

FagS!

So, there's an 8 guy sausagefest going in the room Monkey, Pringles and I had rented.

This was the night we were plotting murder.

It was one of those nights where someone would quote a song lyric and suddenly, everyone would start singing it.

Y'know, like...

"I don't practice Santeria..."

The whole crowd chimes in...

"Load up on guns..."

Everyone "Bring your friends..."

That kind of shit.

Glen, who was on extasy, starts singing Gordon Lightfoot's "Sundown." He's really singing it, really feeling it, as only an E-tard can.

When suddenly, he trails off...

his eyes open wide...

he looks around the room and says...

"Wait! There's no girls in here!"

Runs out the door, slamming it behind him.

Opens it a split second later...

"FAGS!!!"

Good times...

===================================================

As Glen came back in the room a moment later...

So does James Inman. To describe Inman is to really lose the point. Inman is nothing short of an experience to be had, savored and forgotten about in a haze of narcotics and / or booze.

Inman's losing his shit at this point, and starts telling us this story about the lady he was with, and how she wanted to lay out under the stars in the desert, so he dragged the air mattress out there, but he forgot the pills and booze he'd left back in his room, so he went back to get them and...

"What's the point, James?" says someone...

"I left my girlfriend in the desert" he screams, his veins all but popping out of his bald head, "and I don't remember where she is!"

"So you need a flashlight?"

"YES!"

I hand him one, and he was off into the night, to not be spotted till the next morning, when he may or may not have found her.

===================================================

:Last but not least, I wanted to send a shout out to Chaille, who goes out of his way every year to make sure that party runs as smoothly as a freshly born baby's bottom. He's the invisible man, the clock-worker, the guy trying to make sure it all goes as according to plan as this weird shit does.

To Chaille; thank you for helping give me and the rest of us something to look forward to every year.

The Chaille moment that sticks out in my mind was him walking out of the sunrise last year and dousing Abe Lincoln (Brett Erickson) in dried horse manure that he'd found somewhere. Upon which Abe turned green for a few moments and froze like a skeleton in Pompeii.

I cannot tell a lie...

====================================================

For real, I'm done with this shit for this year.

Love you all.

....douchebags.

Drive thru, please...

--Meatsticks

Snatch!!!

2006-06-05T10:52:00.000-07:00

Final Panamint post. These are just a few things that happened on various days that made me laugh, made me pause, or just made me smile as I think about them.

====================================

On the second night of the party, as Monkey and I were walking out of the door of our hotel room, the first words we hear are "YOU, sir, are the guilty orgasm of a rape victim!"

We start walking quicker towards the stage on the Poor House, wondering if Dims had finally pissed someone off.

No, it was Glen Wool, doing one of his bits. What we'd just heard was the topper for his previous bit. Then he did a bit about getting caught by your brother jacking off to his porn and how your penis can be a weapon if it's hard, but not if it goes off.

We liked him right away.

=================================================

Good times...

About a week before Panamint, Monkey and I had drank some tea at the end of a long drunken evening with two friends of ours who run an art gallery downtown. Not "art gallery" like most Santa Cruzans mean (i.e., college trustafarian whose parents are paying for his / her rental space for a year until they finally get their career of the ground).

A real one. One you have to make an appointment to go in to buy. Real art.

Real EXPENSIVE art.

Anyway, Monkey and I had a great time. Monkey ran everywhere, while I sat in a chair feeling very Cheshire Cat-ish while one of the owners kept trying to get her trip under control.

"Hey," I said as I smiled my biggest grin, "what are you worried for? It's all just good times, right?"

"Yeah," she said through her tears and started smiling wider. "Good times."

Which became a mantra for the rest of the evening.

At Panamint, I told the story to Hack and Casey, and somehow, "good times" took on a second meaning, regarding dims' murder.

But remember kids: good times are only funny if you do them.

=================================================

Raindrops a fallin'....

Death Valley gets an annual rainfall of 6 inches per year, according to Darwin Dave. Dave said this after we'd been sprinkled on twice.

Then he says, "that was about a quarter inch. We are blessed."

And Dan, Ian, Hack and myself looked up at the sky, and with murder on our minds, said, "yes we are.'

==============================================

I haven't written much about Ian of Drinking with Ian because I don't remember a lot of what was said.

However...

The night of the murder plot was a subplot involving Dims' car. Ian was deadset on peeing on it. We just couldn't decide where to do so, since the party was still in full swing on the lawn and Dims' car was right next to it.

Ian checks the door handle on the drivers' side.

The door opens.

Ian turns around and calls out doug.

"dougie, this is gettin' out of hand."

Ian proceeds to explain the dilemma; we now have a sworn enemy's car at our disposal, but do not know exactly where the car has come from. We know said enemy had flown in to Vegas, and therefore it was either a rental or a borrowed car. If it was a rental, all was fair. If it was a borrowed car, Ian said, "it deserves to get fucked up even more for letting that doucehbag borrow it."

or something like that...

dougie gets all hushed with us and says, "hey, it's only second night. We're gonna need something to close with on Monday."

So, we peed on the bumper, and later, on the windshield. Someone out there has pictures of this.

===================================================

Darwin Dave, Messiah...

The night of the murderous plot, after everyone else had gone to bed, Darwin Dave stayed up with us. Dave is a masterful non-sequituriat and commentator. The one that made him my messiah was as follows...

I'd made a comment about something being "theoretical."

And Dave decrees, "In Darwin, everything is theoretical."

My eyes widened, the clouds parted, light shone down from heaven and landed directly on...Darwin Dave.

Bow, bitches. Just bow....

==================================================

Monkey Trails....

Anyone who read last year's proceedings on my blog may remember the Monkey story involving ritalin, a lack of sleep, and then a disappearing act by the love of my life.

Apparently, most of dougie's crew read it.

The morning after the trial, we were all wandering in the general area of the doug's RV campsite, and then further, usually in groups. I'm standing by the fire, trying to talk to HolLi between her shouting at Dims to die of death by a thousand cuts, when I notice that Gay Cousin Eric, Shawcroft, and a couple of others are yelling "MONKEY!!"

I look out into the distance, and sure enough, Monkey is walking by herself. I motion to her, she makes an "I'm okay" gesture and I walk up to the crowd yelling for her.

"Why are you yelling at my lady?"

"We don't want her to get lost or anything," answers Gay Cousin Eric.

"She's fine. But thanks for your concern."

As if to prove my point, as I turn my head to look back at her, I see her feet flinging through the air in a perfect cartwheel.

"Monkeys are agile," I say to no one in particular as I light my cigarette and walk out into the desert for a little bit.

=================================================

Pringle's Paws...

I don't remember if I told this story last year or not, but here goes.

Last year was Pringles' first time on shrooms. He ended up taking enough for three doses cuz he didn't feel it right away.

That'll learn him.

Monkey and I wandered around the desert for a while, in the dark, cuz the ground looked like it was glowing. Pringles tried to move around, but whenever he did, he'd end up on his back flailing his legs like a turtle.

Until he hit the nettles. Nettles suck. If you don't know what they are, go google them.

The following morning, as the sun is rising, we encounter dougie, who looks at Pringles (who was wrapped in a blanket with Panda Pajama bottoms and a 1000-yard death-stare straight into sunrise), and dougie says, "What is this absolute terror in your fucking eyes!?"

And all Pringles can say is..."Nettles."

And I chime in, "Nettles."

And dougie says, "What the fuck are nettles?"

Flash forward a year...

We were all wandering the desert at this point, the morning after the trial, just kind of laughing and playing the adult, drug-infested version of "Marco Polo: Desert Island Edition."

When hark, in the distance, we hear dougie's voice yell...

"PRINGLES!!!!! NETTLES!!!! I FOUND 'EM!!!!"

Cuz knowledge is power...

=================================================

This year was the first year I did not suck behind the mic...

On the last night, dougie makes EVERYONE get up behind the mic. Art brings the pickle juice (this year, mixed with Wild Turkey that Ian had swiped from Dims instead of vodka) and you step behind the mic, take a swig, and say whatever it is you have to say.

Of course, the hard part is not sucking or getting nervous in front of everyone. These are some modern gods of comedy that come to this party. If you like to laugh at everything, this is the place for you.

But that doesn't mean you can DO it.

Every year, I've gotten behind the mic, gotten nervous, and felt like a retard. It's the one thing I dread besides cumming too quickly.

Pringles felt the same way, as did Casey. So, throughout the day, you could see us randomly scratching things down in our pads.

Pringles' bit was brilliant. He let me read it over, I told him to shorten it, and he did, and it went over great.

And when I stepped up....I did not suck.

I wasn't great, but I did not suck and I even got some much desired laughs out of everyone.

And they weren't even sympathy laughs.

=================================================

Dims' Departure...

Dims left the final morning of the party. Hack, Pringles, Casey and myself were sitting around that afternoon, bullshitting, when Hack says, "You know, I kind of miss Dims. Without him, what else would we have talked about for the past two days?"

To which Pringles says, "I don't know, bringing about world peace? Solving homelessness? Seeing God? There's a million fucking things that we DIDN'T get to talk about because of that guy!"

===================================================

Have you seen my kitty?...

Just after Dims got pushed over, Bingo had a bit of a freak out. No, a big freak out. Her mental condition seemed to be getting the better of her and there wasn't a whole lot anyone else could do about it besides try to talk her down.

I had this red kitty

I wore it in all my breast pockets of my various suitjackets. It matched the color of the red hat I wear perfectly, and it really brought the suits together.

Bingo sees him sticking out of my pocket and screams "Kitty!"

She appeared to need it more than I did, at that point.

So, I gave him over to her. She rubbed him against her face for a second, and then jumped the fence to another subject and was off. I wandered away, trying not to think about it.

The next morning, though, I was wondering if she even remembered. Not being able to find bingo, I mentioned to dougie what it looked like. Monkey talked to Bingo and a search is on.

If any of you have seen him, he answers to "Kiwi." He's approximately 6 inches tall, and fits oh-so-perfectly into a suit jacket breast pocket. He's gentle, but can be dangerous when cornered.

==================================================

You take that speed?....

On the final night, those of us left were sitting around the final campfire of the party. One by one, people slowly died off. Glen handed two speed pills to Pringles, then wandered off.

After a time, Glen came back and returned to his chair. He looked over at Pringles and said, "Did you take that speed yet?"

"No, I still got 'em. You want 'em back?"

"No, no. I was just wantin' to steal your bed if you were gonna be up for a while."

==================================================

Viva Las Vegas....

We went to Vegas on Tuesday afternoon to see dougie and Andy perform that night at Tommy Rocker's.

We stayed, hung out with an old friend of mine, got drunk as shit, and then ate at a restaurant inside of the Hooter's hotel where Hack was staying.

Our meal came to an end, and we all kind of realized it was over when the bill arrived and we divvied up money to pay.

Hack stood up, and stared at us, not even knowing what to do.

"What do we do, now? I mean..."

Monkey spoke up.

"Just turn around and walk away."

"But..."

I looked at him, with tears in my eyes...

"We understand, man. Just go."

I didn't want to have to say anymore goodbyes.

Because they suck.

Till next year, fiends...

==================================================

The following are just random highlights that will only make sense to you if you were there, as there is just no way to accurately describe what can be summed in a phrase.

Emory & Inman's Debate About God, presided over by King of the Desert 2006, Glen Wool...

Shawcroft and Phillips dueting to "She's talking again!"

Art, Banjo, & Tommy Rocker tearing the fucking house down three separate times...

Golden Showers for a Saran Wrapped Lady...

Bingo's song that I missed because I had to poop (Just Jenn had tears in her eyes from the song, and I'm so sorry we missed it)...

Realizing how many people read my blog (thank you, guys)...

And now, the random, loving people this year that made it all worth it...

Hack Oddity, Lil' Mikey Coca, Ian, Dan Schlissel, Norm Wilkerson, Kristine, Casey, Banjo, Prinny, Art, Henry Phillips, Glen Wool, Ngaio, dougie, Matt & Becky (you're the coolest!), Costa Rica Kevin, Bill, Ben, Bingo, Darwin Dave & Jay / Ray, Tommy Rocker, Andrist, Monkey, Pringles, and whoever else I missed.

You're all phenomenal and I'm tired of writing about this shit!

Drivin' thru...

--Meatsticks

Trial of the century...

2006-06-01T17:50:00.000-07:00

This is the final chapter in this trilogy portion. Thanks for playing this far. I’ll have favorite memories up later.

Any and all quotes attributed to anyone are the best that my mind is capable of remembering and is subjective to the quantity of drugs in my system at the time the person was quoted.

Without further ado, I give you Part 3: Panamintrials and tribulations…

Of course, it had to happen.

Things can only go so far before things get pushed to that next level. On the third night, Sunday, that line got crossed, tap-danced on, peed on, rubbed in the dirt and left for dead in the middle of nowhere.

After a lovely evening of hanging out with Hack & Monkey in The Pig, the main party broke up and people scattered. After a while, it was just Banjo Randy, Monkey, Hack, Dan and someone else on the porch of the poor house, smoking a bowl.

When hark, across the road, a blaze of epic proportions catches our eyes.

“What the fuck is THAT?!”

“Let’s go check it out.”

According to a story I heard from Pringles, the trial was a spontaneous event. Dims was sitting next to Derrick, people were all around the campfire, and somehow dougie got it into his warped mind that we needed to have a trial, right then, right there, of Dims.

All I know is, by the time we showed up, the first witness had been called and things were underway at Panamint Court.

(cue music – dumdumdum –dumdumdumduh – dumdumdum)

The charge: being the biggest douchebag to ever come to Panamint (and that’s with four years worth of history to look back on).

The defendant: Dr. Dims, a man who seemed reasonable to some online and for some reason, was declared alternately reprehensible, unintelligible, and just plain unwanted after one short day at Panamint. In short, being a giant douchebag.

The defense attorney: Glen Wool, a formerly unknown to us comic who had endeared himself to all of us with the line, “You, sir, are the guilty orgasm of a rape victim.”

The prosecutor: founder of the feast and recovering douchebag, doug stanhope.

The judge: Derrick, a new man to the party who showed himself to be a truly kind and welcome spirit. A better judge could not have been chosen.

The jury: two Lakota Indians from the nearby town of Darwin.

Witnesses were called, one at a time. Every time a new one stepped up, someone threw some cardboard on the fire to make it puff up.

The star witness was the Devilled Egg, Mat Becker. Despite fervent hammering by Atty. Wool as to Becker’s perceived devilishness, Becker could not help but insist that he was, clearly, just an egg.

“But what are these,” asked Wool, grabbing Becker by the horns.

“Horns,” replied Becker.

“And what kind of animal has horns?”

“The Devil, sir.”

“And that would make you what?”

“Clearly, I’m an egg sir.”

“And this?” Wool pressed, grabbing Becker’s tail.

“A tail, sir.”

“What kind of animal has a tail with a point at the end?”

“A devil?” queried Becker, obviously confused and under the influence of some substance.

“And that would make you…”

“I’m clearly a deviled egg, sir.”

Many more witnesses were called, including two of Dims’ former defenders, Norm Wilkerson (who was not charged with the sin of convincing Dims to attend the party when he was ready to back out), and yours humble narrator.

I thought I’d be smart and ask the defense attorney where he’d been the previous evening while under the influence of a drug that we call extasy (and if you’d read part 2, you’d know the answer to that). However, Stanhope himself objected on grounds of the question being immaterial.

That and witnesses don’t get to ask questions, apparently.

Stupid Panamint justice system…

The turning point for the defense came about when Mr. Wool called as his final witness his own defendant, Dr. Dims.

Glen lobbed some soft balls at him, asking his name (Tom), how long he’d been at the party (two days), where he was from (Austin)…

And then Glen switched tactics, asking him about his previous relationships. The court room of trees fell silent as Dims, for the first time since anyone had met him, didn’t slur his words and answered questions directly.

No, “I’m a dick and everyone hates me for that…”

No bullshit posturing…

No stupid comments…

Just Glen asking about his last relationship, why it ended, and Dims emotionally responding.

And here we were, with the object of hatred so many of us had decried, made fun of, plotted the death of, laughed at, and put on trial for being a douchebag, and suddenly, he wasn’t pathetic, anymore.

Suddenly, the murder plot wasn’t so funny.

Suddenly, this guy had flesh, bones, memories, love, hate, and a ton of anger and potential untapped.

We were all silent, as Glen finished his line of questioning with a simple statement.

“Dude, if you look around, nobody hates you right now.”

And everyone goes, “aaaawwwww….”

And Dims mumbles something and even his own defense attorney has to tell him to shut the fuck up.

The defense and prosecution rest, and dougie looks at the two representative from Darwin and says, “Gentlemen of the jury; as the true natives of this land, it is your responsibility to judge the preceedings. How do you find the defendant?”

Red Crow, filled with fire water, stands up and decrees, “YOU ARE ALL GUILTY!!”

It’d be real nice if the story ended there and things were okay after that.

It’d be real nice if Dims chilled out, we stopped hating him, and everyone went to bed with a new friend or ten.

It’d be real nice to say that.

But we all know that ain’t what happened.

We all hung out around the fire for a long time. As the sun was coming up over the mountains, people were variously wandering around the desert, finding old vehicles left behind years ago and places to cartwheel.

Back at the campfire, HolLi & Dims wouldn’t leave one another alone. HolLi got aggravated enough by whatever to scream at him at one point, “I have a memory of my father dying on Christmas floating through my head right now, and I’d rather be back there than here with you for one more fucking minute.”

Ouch…

This kept going between the two. Dims got up at one point and said something to dougie, who ran away wild-eyed and screaming that he wasn’t going to waste his trip on this anymore.

Dims went back to the campfire, where HolLi still sat. Now, HolLi was telling him to kill himself.

At what point the words “arrogant cunt” came out of his mouth is known only to Kristine, HolLi and Dims.

But when those words came out, Kristine saw red, went right up to Dims and knocked him the fuck over.

At which point, dougie did have to waste his trip one more time because now he had to get Dims to leave. Dims went back to his room, presumably, leaving us with a naked and screaming Bingo, a shocked HolLi and a mildly freaked out Kristine, and the rest of us wondering what the fuck had just happened.

And lil’ Mikey Coca comforted Kristine and we all started to wonder where the party could go from here.

After a while, some of us went to the front porch of the restaurant, waiting for our coffee to be made and brought out. I had two cups then decided to pass out.

On my way to the room, I once again ran into Rosemary in one of our “Mornin’ Sam / Mornin’ Ralph” moments.

“What’d you guys do last night?”

“Oh, we had a trial of a guy to find out whether he was the biggest douchebag to ever come to this party. But it was funny.”

And Rosemary, without missing a single beat, say, “Oh, you mean Tom?”

Holy shit…

I’ll see you kids one more time…

In the drive thru…

--Johnny “GUILTY AS CHARGED” Meatsticks

If you wanna meet evil....

2006-05-29T15:56:00.000-07:00

It's always hardest to explain what we were doing, y'know? Some people who go have real jobs (like me), and therefore have to be careful what you talk about and what you don't.

But aaaah, fuck it.

So here's part 2: Panamentallo...

2nd day's breakfast consists of us cooking eggs, bacon, and hash together on our Coleman stove on the front porch. Order some coffee from the restaurant, and get the day started right.

We're already running lower on beer than we'd like, so it's time to switch to vodka.

Eat breakfast, offer some to others, break up and begin the day anew.

It was around this time that I officially met Dr. Dims.

I was sitting on the vista with Pringles, looking out at the desert road, when Hack walks up.

"I don't know what that guy's fuckin' problem is, but he needs to get it checked out."

"Who?" asks I, innocently.

"Fuckin' Dims." And he points to a guy with glasses, two unopened beers in his left arm, and the one he was drinking in his right.

"That's Dr. Dims?"

And I got excited. I'd been reading his posts and blogs and stories on the Writaholics site that BAJer started a while back. He'd taken a ton of shit from a couple of different people. He seemed reasonable, if not a little over the top.

I'd come to his aid a couple of times, and was stoked to finally meet him.

"Oh, he's alright," I said. "First day jitters." I proceeded to fill Hack in on what would later get me questioned by a prosecutor and a defense attorney.

Even after my brilliant explanation, Hack just stared at me. "Have you actually talked to him, yet?"

"No."

"Go talk to him."

And I went up to him and introduced myself.

"You're Dims. I'm Meatsticks."

"Hey, man, good to meet you," he said in the slur that would pretty quickly become the bane of everyone's existence at the party.

Within two minutes, I wished I hadn't started talking to him. He introduced himself as a dick, then proceeded to explain why he thought he was a dick, and then went further by giving examples of him being a dick like he says he is.

Telling other comics at the party that he's funnier than them, for example.

It's an unspoken rule at the party that you can talk shit about any comic you want to, as long as it's not one that's AT the party. And if you do talk shit, it'd better be funny shit talking.

Dims' was inane.

I did what would become a motif throughout the weekend; Dims would walk up, people would suddenly remember things they had to go do.

"Y'know, I gotta pee, I left the iron on, is that my child in the middle of the road I'd better go check, holy SHIT my ASS IS BLEEDING I gotta go..."

As Hack and I walked away from our lame excuse that hung in the air the way that bricks don't, I spoke my mind. "I'm sorry I defended that."

Once in the safety of the room, Hack says, "What is that guy's problem?"

"I have no fucking idea."

Pringles and Holli joined us shortly thereafter, followed soon by da Monkey. Holli was an interesting critter. The night before, she'd run around in nothing but a bra and a pair of Depends adult diapers. It disturbed me how many guys at the party thought that was the hottest thing since Jenna Jameson last fisted a girl on a porn video.

"Dude, diaper girl is HOT!!"

Sooo....fucking....creepy.

We smoked a bowl, and rejoined the party, only to meet the man who would become known as douchebag #2. It's hard to shock this crowd of people. We all willingly throw out ideas like date rape, eating babies and eating date raped babies (cuz look at the way they were dressed), but it's funny because no one actually does it.

Douchebag v. 2.0 (a grad from Duke University) topped all that with a real story, involving a 13-year old girl who liked to fuck, a roll of duct tape, and her nakedness duct-taped to the top of a U-Haul. I don't remember details; I just remember horror on Prinny's face.

"Is that real?"

"Hey, don't blame me, I'm just the guy who told the story."

Who's surprised he was from Duke? Not me.

But the party kept goin'...

Nightfall comes, and I'm waking up from a drunk nap. Monkey is inside, counting up the chocolates. We'd made up some treasure chests involving cigarette packs, and parts of a road map we'd cut up. We also had some plastic easter eggs crammed full.

We doled them out, four to a package, not knowing the strength of the chocolates themselves. I had 6, and then 6 caps of mushroom dust, before I really started getting off.

By this point in the evening, there were two conversations that you couldn't escape.

One was what a douchebag Dims was.

The other was how to kill him.

A crew of 6 of us (whose names shall not be mentioned; you know who you are) were the focal point of the second conversation, with various co-conspirators popping in, then out of the conversation when it got too rough for virgin ears.

At one point, about 8 of us were in room #1 when Ngaio walks in.

"Man, I done told you guys, I can't be here when you talk about this shit. I am not an accomplice."

Then Glen Wool (my new fucking hero, btw) shows up. He's rolling his nuts off on Extasy, and even HE got into the murder plot.

After a while, it got to be too much. After a couple of hours, Hack and others kept looking at each other and quoting stanhope...

"It's only funny if you do it. Right?"

I don't remember all the details. Suffice it to say, we made Agatha Christie's murder plots seem like a CBS movie of the week.

I have to pause and explain something at this juncture. This kind of shit has never happened before at the party. In years past, there was one or two guys that everyone just kind of avoided or didn't give drugs to. To understand the level of douchebaggery involved that got us to this point, think about the fact that Glen was on EXTASY and helping out with details!

At one point, I did feel bad about it. I kept hoping Dims would loosen up and join the rest of us. We could all have a good time together, I was sure.

Round about this time, I find Dims w/ Jessica and Jack&Dino. I try to talk to Dims, who's convinced (rightfully) that everyone there hates him. Granted, this wasn't a large change from when he first arrived, thinking everyone there would hate him for his honesty (read: douchebaggery).

Dims is frustrating; every time you think you've got him out from behind his paranoia and anger and got him dealing with you on a one on one basis, he blows it by opening his fucking mouth again.

J&D looks at me, smiling his big, toothy smile and says, "It's only funny if you do it."

To which Dims slurs, "Yeah, it is only funny if you do it. Whatever it is, if it's funny, do it, right?"

To which J&D jogs off screaming, "He did NOT just fucking say that to ME!"

And we laugh about it.

I met Jessica at that moment, and Dims trapped me. J&D and Hack are behind Dims, over his shoulder, waving bye bye to me as they make a clean getaway.

"I gotta take a shit!" I spurt, and run away, robe flowing in the wind.

This went on for hours.

Darwin Dave was hanging out with us as the night got longer. We mentioned Dims' murder plot to him, to which Dave (my new messiah) relates the following...

"Yeah, I met that guy. Y'know, I was a rodeo clown for 12 years and an undertaker for 17 years. And I didn't know which one of my skill sets would be best used on the guy."

This went on for more hours.

The sun started to rise. One by one, our ten little indians of Mayhem and Murder dozed off for the evening. Finally, it was myself, Monkey, Dan, Hack, and Darwin Dave.

At one point, Jessica comes out of the woodwork with a cup of some fluid.

"Watch" she says, and then splashes the cup's contents onto the dirt.

We watch for a second, then remember that there's nothing happening.

She did get us, though.

The sun was up, now, and morning workers at the restaurant were going in to work. Casey had long ago left our murder plot, sitting at the table around 6 a.m., waiting for coffee to start at 8. We finally joined him as the coffee got rolling.

Rosemary, head waitress at Panamint, comes up to me and says hi.

"So," she says, "what were YOU guys up to last night?"

"Nothing much," I said, "Nothing much at all."

More to come from...

the drive thru...

--Meatsticks

The Good Times are Killin' Me...

2006-05-28T18:32:00.000-07:00

It's been four days since we've been back, and nothing still seems real.

Apparently, I somehow grew some spikes in the desert and I'm not givin' 'em back, no way, no day.

So, here's part 1 of Panamental Chronicles:

This year, we had a room. The first year, I crashed out in the poor house (me without a car and all) and last year, with Monkey and Pringles in tow, we camped out on a bed that couldn't stand the heat.

So this year, a room with air conditioning was worth the price.

We took off on Thursday night, with only a map, a car full of booze, clothes and chocolates of a special variety, and trekked our way into the desert.

(sing along, now) I drove all niiiiiii-iight, to get to you....

I couldn't get the weirdness out of my head. Panamint is my finish line, every year since I started going. It's the thing I look forward to the most and the time I sleep the least. You always go forward at Panamint. Something always happens.

Sometimes, it's just beer and fuckers bein' funny.

Other times, it's just you and a rock and a road to stare at.

But I was also sad. No Padre, no Nay Nay.

Nay Nay was the one who made me feel the least douchey about the car wreck that first year. She made me drive The Pig around with her and Kerry in the back, waking everyone up for the windstorm that threatened to blow us all...away.

And Padre, well...

But breakups happen, people leave and things change.

Even at Panamint.

And then of course, the worry of the myspacers. People have an overwhelming need to be clique-ey. We can't resist ourselves. If we can find a way to separate us from them, we will find that fucking way.

So, of course, Panamint is no different. I've got best friends I've known for 10 years that I wouldn't invite to this party. As I've written before, it's an endurance trial. You will find what you are made of in the desert, at this party.

Are you live, or are you just Memorex?

We'll get back to you after day 4.

We pulled in at 8 a.m., finding ourselves to be the first arrived. Keith, now a proud co-owner of Panamint, told us of their good fortune in buying the place, and asked us not to go out back and to not smoke in the rooms. As we walked out on the porch to go to the room, I noticed the "closed for Private Party" sign, flapping above the road.

And I briefly flashed back to the previous year, as the sun rose on that most beautiful morning, when Pringles was high on shrooms for the first time in his life, on his way to the bathroom, fists pumping in the air, striding like a power walker at the mall, turning his head and projectile vomiting 2 paces apart, first right, then left, as some random campers awake in their sleeping bags and wonder just what the fuck animal is dying at this weird place in the middle of fucking nowhere...

And I looked at the sign and said to Keith, "Thanks for that."

And he said, "Yeah, we want to take care of you guys."

We checked in, passed out, and awoke to mostly newbies arriving. For the first two hours after noon when we woke up, I had no idea who most of these kids were.

Except Jack&Dino. If you don't follow Jack&Dino, you should. He's literally too much funny for one name. He's on my Friends list.

I introduced myself, we laughed about the lap dance he got the year before from the absent Nay Nay, and then we started introducing ourselves to the other people.

And only a few used their real names. You could tell the myspacers because they all had names like Hack Oddity, Jack&Dino, and of course, Dr. Dims.

More on him later.

Dougie arrived sick and not in the mood to do much of anything. The stage wasn't set up on the poor house, and no one had the energy to do it.

So we all drank. A lot.

My only goal was to not pass out. The first year, I had wrecked the car, so I was punch drunk on top of real drunk. Last year, I blame BAJer (Baby Arm Joe) because he gave me something that was supposed to be absinthe. I passed out in the middle of the first night party, as the Mattoid, Henry Phillips, and Satan knows who else played not ten feet from my unconscious head.

So this year, I took a nap. I was not gonna be that guy.

And I made it. We (being a bunch of new people) sat on the porch of the poor house and played whatever songs someone could play on their guitar (such as "Santeria," which faded into "One" by Metallica, which became something I don't remember).

People were tired, and feeling weird and awkward, for some reason.

Hack Oddity, Monkey and I hit it off great. Thank Buddha Hack was my neighbor. Apparently, Dr. Dims didn't think he could make it, so Hack took his room. Turned out Dims DID make it, but Hack kept the room.

And I'm glad he did.

But more on that later.

I went into the room, smoked a little green with Pringles, and we all drifted off to sleep.

It felt like the first day at college, feeling people out, trying (but not too hard) to figure out where you're going to spend the next few days while you're here. Who are you gonna tag along with? Do you feel safe enough to run around?

As Prinny said, "It was an odd one."

But oh, we had no idea...

More to come...

if you just go through the Drive Thru....

--Meatsticks

Days blur into nights...

2006-04-06T01:44:00.000-07:00

I've been so caught up in "I used to be" lately.

Like "I used to be cool."

Maybe the whole turning 30 thing is catching up to me.

"I used to be smart..."

No smarter than I am now, really. And I've always been kind of vaguely dumb. Let's face it; if I really wanted to prove how smart I was, I'd stop smoking, drinking, smoking pot, and taking mushrooms.

But I like my life the way it is (minus a few things I'm currently working on changing).

But I've always been a little dumb.

Like just now, I was doing a crossword puzzle and had to ask da Monkey if...if...the ocean six blocks from our house was the Pacific one.

And she laughed.

And then she told me it was and proceeded to give me shit for it.

However, she did have to ask me how to spell "insidious," so, we're even.

That's what a relationship is; between the two of you, you know enough shit to get by.

"I used to be funnier..."

This one kills me. I always wanted to be funny, and have written tons of jokes, one liners, and other things down in my head.

But I'm just a big vagina, really. I can't seem to make myself go to San Francisco and work comedy clubs in that 6-minute set thing. Fear of rejection is the biggest reason, followed closely by my panicking second, and coming in at a close third is low self-esteem and a reasonable fourth is I'm just not funny.

But then, I wrote a bit recently called "Abortions on Demand" for my show, and am in the process of trying to get the rest filmed and THAT is pretty fucking funny.

I really just need to write more. Comedy, writing, and writing comedy is like anything else; the more you do it, the more you're good at it.

Or the faster you realize how badly you suck at it.

Whichever comes and sticks first, y'know?

"I used to be handsome..."

Even if and when I was that mythical handsome, I never really thought I was and still don't. It's like the whole penis size...thing. I don't know how big my dick is because I've never measured. I don't want to know cuz if it's not as big as I want it to be, then you'll never get me to drop trousers again, even for a blowjob from a small chinese lady.

And if it IS as big (or bigger), well...I'd be introducing both myself and my huge penis to everyone I knew. You wouldn't be able to keep my penis out of the public eye.

"Look at it, it's HUGE!!!"

Cuz I know me...

So, being handsome is like that. I'd rather not know. I get told I'm handsome by people, but never take it seriously. For a brief period of time, I believed in my own press, round about my mid-20's.

Don't do that. You'll just become a douchebag and fuck a few chicks whose names you won't remember and it'll be awkward when you run into them five years from now, so you should just move out of state and never look back...:)

"I used to write more and better..."

Write more, yes. Many evenings were spent in small rooms, parking lots, porches, bedrooms and churches, scribbling on paper or typing into the wee hours of the morning, cranked out of my skull on the beautiful green nectar of the Gods, Mountain Dew.

And I wrote a lot. At one point, I had 60 pages of 3 different novels I was writing at the time going. Of course, they're lost to me now. I found a printout of one of them a while ago and...

well, it sucked. Good idea, but nothing too good.

But it's always great when you're writing it.

Write better? Well...

You ever look back at some of your pieces you've written and said, "Wow, I wrote that? How cool!" I've got a few of those.

Mostly, I've got "I wrote that?! Who the FUCK told me I could write?! If I had a big dick, I'd have to choke on it and die for writing crap like that."

So I just don't look at the old notebooks as much. Although I probably should try that and see what happens. Not all my ideas can be bad or full of shit.

But I'm willing to bet a lot of them are.

"I used to be thinner..."

This one I don't have as much trouble with. I fluctuate between a 34 and 36 pant, and I'm told that is not a problem. My minor beer belly that's always been with me is now a bit of a beer gut. I blame da Monkey's new position as a bartender at a beer bar as the reason for this happening. There's a lot of nothing in beer.

I might have to switch back to whiskey...

So long as I don't pee in the bedroom, I think I'm safe.

"I used to be younger and what the hell have I been doing with my life?"

Liking it, actually, and liking it more and more as time goes on. The only thing I don't like is our stationary existence at this point in time.

Jobs just seem to be there to suck the life out of you. They don't really serve you as much purpose as they do other people. I like the people I work with fine, and I get benefits and all that shit, but I'd rather we had more time to play than we do.

So, I get paranoid about "what if I lose this job?"

And I alwasy come back to the same thing. "Cat food and cardboard boxes."

It's something da Monkey would say to me when I first moved out here a few years ago.

"I don't care what it takes. Even if we have to live on cat food and sleep in a cardboard box, I'm not losing you."

And that's our philosophy. No matter what, we are there for each other. We don't need anyone to tell us that we need a license or a priest or a government authorization to say we're committed to one another.

Cat food and cardboard boxes.

"I used to be faster."

Yes, I used to be faster. Oh well.

I've learned in the past few years how being slothful once in a while can be good for you. Unfortunately, several times, I've hit the point of sloth that I don't like; the point where you can't really remember being anything but a sloth.

But I'm working on that.

"She and I used to do (insert whatever you want here) more..."

This one still kills me. Whether it's sex or adventures, yes, we did used to do a little bit more of it. Some of it indenpendent of one another, some of it side by side, grinnin' the whole damn way. There was a six month period a couple of years ago where I would come home and find her in various stages of drunk, stoned, and / or trippin' on mushrooms after I got off work.

And of course, I had to catch up. How do you not, with a face like that?

And so, that works on my paranoia, the not doing as much thing...

But I've realized more and more lately, something else.

da Monkey and I are always good with each other.

We've had screaming matches, sexual problems, times where we couldn't figure out why we were crying, anger, pain, the threat of punches being thrown...

But at the end of every day, the best feeling is the two of us in bed together, snuggling and snoring loudly as the night fades into the next day, where we have to get up, go to work and make some money, just so we have a bed to come home to and a reason to do it all over again...

I love her.

She loves me.

And that's about all there is to say about that.

Drive thru, please...

Meatsticks