busblog

nothing in here is true

  1. Thursday, February 28, 2002

    welcome, groovy kids from Internet Gossip, 

    lindsay lohan keeping it real one of my favorite sites on the web.

    Thank you Harmony, for writing about my ebay auction, I don’t know who you are or how you found my site but I’m glad you did because it’s nice to have so many new readers.

    Speaking of readers – or hits – I read one of the comments by one of the people on IG (and another site) disputing my claim to close to 150,000 hits this month– first of all, thats not a lot of hits, secondly thats for my entire site, not just for my links page or my blog. I have a huge site here with many many pages. I put up 20 pages last night, for pete sake, which means if one person goes through them all and ends up on my Blog, that’s 21 hits. I dont think thats a bad thing, I think that means that I can keep the attention of people for a wee bit longer than what you might expect a silly website to provide.

    Mostly everything that you will read here is false – like my FBI stories, chats with Mariah Carey, my claims at having good luck, etc. But sometimes people like to try to figure out what parts (other than the stats) are true. I say just sit back and enjoy as it’s all just in good fun.

    For the IG readers who are interested in cam girls, I have written a few things about them and allowed them to write about themselves. Dig around my What’s Old section of my links page and you’ll see that I cover a wide array of topics.

    Finally for those of you who are looking for reliable web hosting, NSNS hosts me, and will host you too for $5 a month regardless of content. If your site is way more popular than mine and generates a ton more traffic, your rate will probably be $10 a month, but theyre cool people and you should email me if you’re looking for a good host.

    Enjoy yourselves and please come back. I try to keep the site fun for all. And if you would like to donate a buck or more to my Snoop DeVille fund, just read here for all the details and one day I might announce driving to your town and I’ll give you a lift to the market. See if you can beat my new best friend JC, who has flowed unto the fund another buck, making the total $4. Thanks bro!

  2. what a difference a shirt makes 

    ashley anna is on a virtual tear on the coastal town of Acapulco, destroying Tathiana Garbin of Italy 6-1, 6-2 yesterday and making it to the quarter-finals of the Mexican Open.

    Ashley was at the beach house yesterday to help me during my brief ailment brought on by what appeared to be too much Novacane. But it was she who went through a series of emotional changes that were pretty amazing.

    The former teen princess of the desert is 100% Italian, and I watched her turn red with excitement when she saw me – it’s been a while. And for the record, ladies, a fella always likes it when we can see on your face how happy you are to see us. It’s sweet.

    But then I saw her turn green with envy when a good friend of the Blog called around midnight. This brought on my disapproving looks, tears, and raised and then hushed voices. The problem with the Hollywood cabana is that it is entirely made of wood, including the floors, which means that voices echo. Especially crying voices of young girls who like to shreik “get off me!” which alarms, you could imagine, the bored and curious neighbors.

    Ashley completed the Italian motif by turning a near clear white in the wee hours when it became apparant that the soup she took from my cupboard was not entirely all vegetable soup and even in the colorful shadows of my bedroom, there wasnt even a hint of tint on our little angel.

    Speaking of which, congratulations T-Bone Burnette for winning several Grammys last night. T-Bone produced most of Elvis Costello’s best records and produced Peter Case’s first record, which is still one of my all-time faves.

  3. Wednesday, February 27, 2002

    anna’s stubborn and that’s okay 

    she wanted to chat with me and i wrote back and said, only if i can put it on my page, and she wrote back and said, if you chat with me you’ll be happy.

    maybe im stubborn too, as it feels strange to admit that anna is right about some things.

    in the chat i asked her why she was still wearing that dumb blue outfit even though she’s losing in it.

    she said, why do you still have that auction up, even though no one has even bid one dollar. lol.

    i said :(

    she says its a secret.

    i said how come youre being so nice to me.

    she said, i read a book and thought of you.

    and she said take the day off and get in that flying car, im in Acapulco, it isnt far. im about to go up against Mariana Oliva Diaz and i think i can beat her.

    i said, you’re cocky about maybe beating a Mexican girl in Mexico?

    she said yes. and then she said, and shes from Argentina.

    i said do they have fish tacos in Alcapulco?

    she said, they have suites the size of half the hotel, lobster, champaign, toasters and toast, pitchers of purified water, thin little mexican blanket rugs and ceramics filled with potpouri, and me.

    and since the flying car isnt exactly my property, xbi property, formerly fbi property, so really, your property, i cant tell you whether or not i have flown to acalpulco to party with anna, but i can tell you that she beat the Argentinian soundly 6-3, 7-5, but she had a smile on her face and looked good in that raggedy suit.

    you know you want your link on this page, with the proceeds going to the Snoop Fund, the one that JC has now given a buck to each day of this week bringing the fund up to $374. Gracias, JC.

    and happy Black History Month

  4. Tuesday, February 26, 2002

    and i looked down and i had scribbled: 

    this will not bum me out, this will not bother me. nothing will bother me. stay focused.

    this isnt shit. this isnt anything.

    sometimes people just feel like they have to take it out on someone and today is your day. this month has been yours, this year is yours. these last twelve months is yours.

    take it. take it like a man. bring it on. is that all you have. is that all they have.

    that aint shit.

    one thing about libras is we’re cool under pressure.

    ice.

    be ice, fucker.

    not only does the buck stop here but you take the buck and you eat it and it doesnt come out anywhere.

    it stops here.

    this is the end, my only friend, the end.

    this is pisces. this is what you said itd be. like when you were in the mountains. like when in “the shining” it was all nice and then the storm came.

    bring it on.

    i can take anything.

    if it snows ride your snowmobile.

    and when it shits, bust with the shitmobile.

    but always be nice.

    always be cool.

    you can do this.

    and you will do it with style.

  5. Monday, February 25, 2002

    when the olympic committee asked me 

    to help them make the games “more hip,” to attract the 18-34 demo, I put a list of musical groups on a sheet of paper that I said should be rocking out during the final ceremonies.

    first performer i nominated was Prince. i said, he has international appeal, he’s funky, and the chances are good that he’d write an original tune for his slot that would be both parts thought-provoking and a wee bit…how you say…sex-saaaay.

    since they’re a committee, they debated this suggestion and settled on Earth Wind and Fire.

    next i said you need an American rock star, preferably one from the New York/New Jersey area who could sing an uplifting song about the everyday hero. I didnt write down the rock star’s name, so as to let the committee believe that it was thinking it up themselves, but i should have because instead of Bruce Springsteen singing “Born to Run,” the group chose Bon Jovi singing something, I’m not sure, I was pointing, my dog was barking, and the children were crying and screaming.

    Way down the list I wrote in Christina Aguilera, KISS, and Donny and Marie, as a joke, and it’s nice that someone up there likes me because watching Kiss on the world stage, all fat and hairy on a platform that magically made its way around that icy infield is an Olympic moment that I’ll never ever ever forget.

    Here are some other things that I told the Olympic committee when they called me last night to ask me what I thought of the 16 days:

    I said, if the next games are being held in Italy, tell Bob Costas they’re going on in Iceland. That guy is the only person that I know that gives milquetoast a bad name.

    Easy on the 12 minute soft-focus features on the US Olympic skiiers who live in a barn to save money and are supersweet only to be immediately followed with 2 minutes of taped coverage of them wiping out on their Big Olympic Day, losing, and being disqualified from the event. Let the fact that most of these events are taped-delayed to your advantage, geniuses.

    Quit inviting the Russians to these things.

    And finally, if Fox chooses to have another “Glutton Bowl” up against your women’s skating finals: show more skating than skiing that night. The goal is to distract people away from changing the channels, dont reward them for channel surfing.

    If I ran the Olympics, I would also spotlight people who chipped in to my Snoop DeVille fund. I would have Dorothy Hamill say things like, “Thanks JC and TG for your bucks! You two are now honarary Soul Brothers, feel free to display your buttons and enjoy all the praise and honor attached to your new acheivement.” And then doves would be released and Prince would do a little jig.

  6. Sunday, February 24, 2002

    had some drinks with some hot chicks 

    after work on friday and they had lots of questions for me.

    turns out they read this page, but not my main page and they kept asking things and i kept having to say nothing in here is true and theyd laugh and then say, “bullshit, tony. thats so bullshit.”

    i am the luckiest man alive. im starting to learn that now. and i wanna use that for good, not for selfish things. but im starting to feel old. chris and i were trying to go to the home town buffet in burbank but the line was nearly around the building at 5pm on Saturday and i wanted to use my superpowers there to cut into line. i took some pictures of the people and then one of my self and i looked at the pictures and i saw that there was a gray hair coming in over my ear. this wasnt the first time i found one.

    theres so much i wish could tell you, but more hot chicks than the happy hour girls read this thing and no one is satisfied by how theyre portrayed here, including myself. in no way is ashley as ridiculous as she might come across. and theres no way i could be an agent for an underground undercover vigilante group of misfits and castoffs who fight crime and pocket the contraband. in all actuality ashley is a full-scholarshipped med student at Irvine and im a left handed korean pitching phenom for the cubs with such a devistating screwball that it appears in some photographs that i am actually throwing underhanded.

    underhanded, indeed.

    im tongue tied and heart-tied and clumsy and pathetic about certain things that these lies disguised as fiction couldnt fool a child, which is why i have gravitated so easilly to the screwball, the most unnatural and deadly of all of baseball’s pitches.

    and here it is the month of pisces and its a nutty month where one unemployed fortune teller told me on a grayhound many years ago is the month where the lord and the devil fight their biggest battles over souls and situations. this is their month long superbowl and you can try to baton the hatches or take a vacation, but theres nowhere to run thats touched by the sun, theres no place to look but away.

    the curveball works because if a right handed pitcher throws it to a right handed batter, it looks like it’s going to hit you in the head and then it slides over the plate. but its slow in comparison to the fastball, and it spins and the batter can see it spinning and can adjust.

    the screwball curves the otherway: in on a righty, and works like a lefthanded curveball to a lefty.

    trust me, but this is invaluaeble to a pitcher with a mediocre fastball like most. critics call this a junkball, but for those who master it, it’s everything.

    it will, however, ruin your elbow. most screwball pitchers dont last even half the time as regular pitchers, and regular pitchers last on average only 4-5 years.

    how many gray haired pitchers do you remember?

    after they let the Blacks, and the Mexicians, and the Japanese and now, the Koreans, like me, do our thing.

    today is sunday, the day of rest, set aside to remain holy and here i am talking about baseball.

    but only cuz i want to talk about you.

    and cant.

    and never do convincingly, anyway.

  7. Friday, February 22, 2002

    ok, enough with the “wink wink” emails. 

    just because im very happy and skipping down the street on a friday morning, early for work, eating muffins, doesnt mean that i got it on with my ex- last night, thank you!

    not everyone needs that sort of action to feel like a million, perverts. loveable perverts. best perverts in the world.

    chris and i are the best of friends, and im slowly getting the hint that she and i will never be together again, and that sort of realization isnt all so bad as long as we can continue to be the best of buddies. last night i got to her house before she did, and i hafta tell you, it’s pretty nice to be able to really make yourself feel at home when someone tells you to feel at home.

    it was hot last night, even at the beach, so the first thing i did was take off my pants.

    then i searched around her pajama drawer for some bottoms.

    couldnt find any so i went into the bathroom, read half of a Jane magazine and stunk up that room pretty well.

    then went to the fridge, nude, and cracked open a beer.

    then turned on the tv and finally the stereo.

    when she arrived i had found a clean shirt but no bottoms, all the lights of her house were on and was sitting on her new thousand dollar couch with a beer and a magazine about to light up, the tv had the laker/clipper game and the stereo had on this Chicago band called Menthol – who i love.

    be careful who you invite to “make yourself at home.”

    so why else am i happy? well, yesterday sara quoted me and kitty linked me, thats always great. but im disappointed that Genevieve’s Nerve personals dont allow HTML in their descriptions, as reported by KB. I’m sure theres a good reason for it.

    why else smile? Large American Penis– obviously a nod to the Rabbit Blog’s url (www.tinylittlepenis.com) – wrote this on the 19th: Tony Pierce writes a bizarre, yet interesting blog. How he finds time to do all the HTML and find all the pictures is beyond me. Help him buy a car! He’s my newest link on the left.

    Dear LAP,

    As Sara quoted yesterday, in my humble opinion, if you have a great site thats updated all the time, you probably have a boring life. If your Blog is great, you probably have a dull job.

    I try to break my own rule by having a sorta interesting life by HTMLing as fast as I can late at night – when I’m home.

    The blog is done during my federally mandated 15 minute work breaks.

    Thanks for the links,

    Tony

    Finally, some people have asked for the unedited transcript between myself and the 21-year-old Texan beauty, Jai. As you know, nothing in here is true, and the true parts are edited for entertainment and style. So even in a chat interview, I cleaned some stuff up and chopped out some chunks for presentation since the dialogue lasted a whopping 2 1/2 hours! Lucky for us, Jai posted the entire transcript and you can enjoy it yourself if you click this for part one and this for part two (we got disconnected).

    Lunchtime!

  8. happy birthday, drew barrymore 

    i hope your day is peachy today.

    how was your yesterday, drew? mine was so pleasant i dont even know where to start. first let me say, that it is weird talking about good luck. when i was in college it was so easy to write sad stories and sad poems and tragedies and woe-is-me stuff and i suppose i thought that that was what good writing was all about.

    but it’s not.

    anyone can write a tragedy. anyone can build up a likeable character and make his life shit.

    but to write about fun and love and friendships and happiness, and to do it in a way that isn’t dull and sappy and boastful and ridiculous is a tougher trick than you’d think, and if you dont believe me, look through the racks of Hallmark one day – closely – or flip through the movie section of the paper: the kids cant write a nice happy story to save their lives. which is one reason that i love Drew so much, because her sweet stories have never missed, in my humble opinion, especially The Wedding Singer, which is my favorite of hers, and Ever After, which comes in a close second.

    this is the blog of an average man. i was walking from the oceanside loft of my former girlfriend this morning counting my lucky stars and thinking that my life could be better, but not much, and the lesson to you, dear reader, is anything nice that you find in these pages could be yours all yours because most of this fell in my lap – i didnt work at this, i didnt earn it, and Lord knows, I dont deserve it.

    last night she made us stirfry as we watched the skating upset and we drank beers and smoked and i fell asleep in her lap after the gold medalist did her thing and she tried to wake me before Michelle Kwan took the ice, but im old, i was out.

    last night we flipped between the Lakers and Frontline and the Olympics, but couldnt stay away from “The Glutton Bowl,” probably the most disgusting and wonderfully funny show I have seen this season.

    The biggest eaters in America were given three minutes to eat the most hamburgers, hotdogs, sushi, mayonaise, butter, and beef tounge. The semi-finals had the men eat cow balls. Then for the finals they ate cow brains.

    plates and plates of brains.

    the young Japanese man who won the competetition was deemed by the hilarious announcers as “the Greatest Athelete in the World,” rightfully.

    although i might be a close second for keeping my stir-fry down.

    anyhow it’s beautiful here in los angeles today and im happy and i hope you are too and i am very honored that you have chosen to read this today and i hope that you have an incredible weekend and all your birthday wishes come true.

    p.s. i just bit into my morning chocolate chip muffin and one of my fillings fell out, leaving me with a very sharp stump in the back of my mouth, so maybe i am not the luckiest man alive after all, but perhaps only now, sadly, in the top ten.

    told you it’s easy to write tragedy.

  9. Thursday, February 21, 2002

    kitty bukkake 

    breakfast

    kitty bukkake is one of my favorite diarists. why?

    well, not only is she a great writer, and not only does she link to me from time to time, but she, in her Nerve personal ad, said in the Read section: “tonypierce.com”. How cool is that?

    Very cool, if you want to know. Very cool. The rest of you can feel free to include me in your personal ads as well.

    Also cool? The chap from NYC who sent in a buck and forwarded the link to the What it Means to Be Black photo essay to everyone he knows. Gracias, amigo.

    Heres the link for you to send to all of your friends too:http://www.tonypierce.com/2002/2/bhm/whatitmeans/index.htm

    Be a Soul Brother, it’s fun!

  10. summer finally decided to show up here in Hollywood 

    about damn time, February nearly came and went.

    got buzzed with a hot chick last night and didnt get to sleep until 3am. the beer was so good that i woke up at 7 and felt like teenager.

    made my lunch, burned some cd’s for Axel, and got to the subway a little early.

    a young guy reading the paper pressed the elevator button, as we waited an older guy with a toupee showed up. when the elevator arrived both the men rushed to the back so as not to be responsible for the complex controls and the uncomfortable chance to have to close the door on a tardy old lady.

    i happilly accepted the assignment and firmly pressed the Down button.

    made it to the train, rode it to the transfer station, walked down to the other platform, saw that the train had arrived and left early, cursed that driver and said a little prayer about his children picking up shingles for him to contract, rode the escalator to the street and caught the 720 bus.

    people can be weird about aisle seats in busses, ive noticed. they’ll sit there and if you see that the window seat is available they wont slide over or stand up, they’ll just rotate their ass so you have to squeeze through. a fellow pulled this manuever this morning and fortunately the bus lurched forward as I was making my way to the window seat and my rear end met his face. i said i was sorry, but i wasn’t.

    sat down and cracked open some Tolstoy.

    the fellow looked at me and said, “don’t i know you?”

    i said, “probably not.”

    he said, “i swear i do.”

    i said, “not unless you watch a lot of gay porn.”

    he blinked.

    i said, “i look like this one guy Tommy Teabag, he has these whopping large–”

    “Tony Pierce!”

    Even if you’ve known me a hundred years, odds are I will forget your name. I blame the hippies. They say second-hand smoke kills, but when I was in college I think I became victim to and outrageous amount of second-hand pot smoke. I never touched the stuff, of course, but I am now sufferring from the effects. My memory is the prime victim.

    “I’m sorry, I don’t remember your name.”

    “Freddie Miletta, you dated my sister Therese.”

    It was my turn to blink.

    “You didnt date her for very long. But you took us to see the Replacements play at the Palimino.”

    “Holy shit, little Freddie?”

    The kid was now well over 6 feet tall.

    “Yes, yes, damn Tony, that show changed my life.”

    I wanted to say, “me too” but we were both on a bus in Koreatown at 7:45 in the morning.

    “So what are you doing now?” Little Freddie asked.

    “I’m FBI,” I said and showed him my badge.

    He looked at it and laughed, and said, “Oh, God, you were always so funny. Therese loved you so much, you know. But really, what are you doing now?”

    I said, “I sell sunglasses on Venice Beach.”

    Freddie said, “Really?” he looked disappointed.

    I said, “Yeah. At first I did it just to cover for my buddy, but you’d be surprised how much money you can make there.”

    “I hear it’s the second most popular tourist spot in Southern California next to Disneyland,” Freddie said.

    “You heard right. So, tell me, what’s Therese up to these days? Did she ever graduate from Santa Cruz?”

    “Oh yeah, she married this software guy, this hippy,” he said.

    The bus stopped for a young lady with a bicycle. The lady pulled down the bike holder on the front of the bus, placed the bike on the rail, locked it and boarded the bus. Soon we were rolling again.

    “Any kids?” I asked.

    “No, I don’t have any children,” Freddie said.

    “No, Therese.”

    “Yeah, she has twin 6 year old girls.”

    “Well good for her,” I said. I never said “good for you,” type things I wondered why I was saying them now. Oh yes, that’s right, because my mind was recalling all the wonderfully dirty things that Therese and I did in the back of my Cadillac back in my junior college days, and how I was at a loss for words, because how do you share those memories with her little brother who probably thought I was the older brother that he never had simply because I took him to one lousy punk rock show.

    “Oh, not really,” Freddie said, “her husband died a few years in a car accident.”

    “I’m so sorry.”

    “Don’t be, he was a drunk and, ironically, he was hit by a drunk driver on PCH near Monterey and she got a fortune in insurance money.” he told me.

    “How about that.” I said. All of this was too much for me to handle on such a nice morning. I pulled the cord and got up.

    “I thought you were going down to Venice Beach,” Freddie said.

    “Not today, this is my day off,” I said.

    Bad lie, it was a beautifully sunny day. First perfect day in a long while.

    “Good seeing you Freddie, give Therese my love.”

    “I’m sure she’d like to call you. Gimme your number.” he said.

    “tonypierce.com – she can reach me through my web site,” I said.

    And the bus stopped at the stop and I got off.

    A few minutes later another bus arrived and I got on and made it to work a little early.

    After bagels, I wrote on a little peice of paper, “no one believes our badges are real, make them more believable,” and stuffed it into the suggestion box.