busblog

nothing in here is true

  1. Monday, September 30, 2002

    what do you want for your birthday, tony? 

    just you, anna.

    i know, but i cant be there, im sorry.

    teenage runaway catholic girl skirted twins, then.

    but i got you that last year.

    whoops. forgot. how about world peace?

    ha ha! not likely, gandhi

    ok, then i would like Tsar to play, please.

    hmmm. i dont know if i can get that together.

    i trust you, i think you can.

    people didnt even notice that i didnt play any tennis while you were on vacation with your “family.”

    crazy. you’d think that people would pay more attention to things like that.

    i guess they’re too caught up in their own lives.

    is that why the so-called liberal media lets Bush get away with our economy plummeting, and the terrorists winning, and corporate fraud, and …

    look at your comments, tony, people don’t come here to hear you be right about politics.

    oh.

    they come here for the song lyrics.

    no they don’t.

    i know. so why do you post them, then?

    so you’d know what to sing to me as i fall asleep.

    put some beastie boys up there then.

    ok. maybe later in the week.

    are you glad to be back at work?

    im glad to be fighting crime again. sure. it’s nice to feel needed.

    i noticed something today that i thought was funny. this is the last month that you’ll be 108 years old, and lookit, youre #108 on the blogging ecosystem.

    ok, for my birthday i would like to be a little more popular than that.

    thats not so easy. you’ll have to kiss a lot of asses. and write better too.

    guess im shit outta luck.

    look at the company you’re in with though, kausfiles is sponsored by MSN/Slate, Jarvis created Entertainment Weekly. you havent done squat compared to those guys.

    adam curry is #34, anna.

    thats fucked up, love.

    tell me about it.

    i had a nice week with you, tony.

    shhhhhhhhh.

    i mean, i missed you while you were away, tony

    i missed you too anna. i thought about you every day. and every single lonesome night.

  2. Tsar 

    Hollywood Records

    “Teen Wizards”

    Teen wizards on your street,

    the grown ups get so high.

    They chain their children�s hearts into the sky.

    Let�s jam the jukebox, babe,

    the fuckers will shine on�.

    oh, hi.

    and everybody everywhere,

    is shooting off their air-to-air.

    To release the silent prisoner.

    Teen Wizards

    of tomorrow,

    Rock city

    on the radio.

    Everybody�s gonna follow,

    When the sun is burning on and on,

    For your will…

    Do what you wanna do,

    right now

    little angels, pretty girls

    on and on,

    having sex

    on the sun.

    the air is calling you.

    Super, super, Super child�.

    Hey yo, superfried.

    Got the juice

    and don’t ever lose it,

    a time to control,

    your rotton soul.

    Yeah!

    Stand up and face the sun.

    You ain�t the only one.

    No, you ain�t the only one.

    Oh,

    Teen Wizards of tomorrow,

    Rock city

    on the radio.

    Everybody�s gonna follow,

    then when the Earth is turning on and on,

    to your will.

    Yeah!�����..Yeah!

    Teen Wizards of tomorrow,

    Rock city on the radio.

    Everybody�s gonna follow,

    When the skin is burning in the sun,

    The silence will load the gun,

    the violence is the future son.

    And it�s you,

    I feel it�s true

    When I see you,

    I get shot through!

  3. you’d think that with all this fuss 

    about the fact that Bush knew and the FBI knew about 9/11 before 9/11, and with enron and global crossings, and martha stewart, and allen greenspan getting knighted by the queen of england despite the fact that the economy lost several trillion dollars under his watch, that Bill O’Reilly would have bigger fish to fry than to get his panites in a bunch over hip hop artists trying to make them ends; but surprise, the rich, white conservative talk show host wants to try to put Snoop Dogg and Ludacris out of work because companies like Pepsi and the Muppets think their brands would benefit from a relationship with the rappers, than, say, with the racist behind the “Factor.”

    click over to G. Beato on Soundbitten who defends the d-o double g and ludacris the way o’reilly wish he could have approached it: with intelligence, facts, history and a tad less hysteria.

    o’reilly’s rant lost ludacris a gig, and im sure snoop dogg wont be getting a seasame street walk-on spot now that the nervous nellies who jump when the Factor tells them how high have been tounge-lashed, but my question is, wouldnt bill rather have these men employed? guys like him always bitch when they see a Black man getting a welfare check, or caught on “Cops” with his shirt off getting cuffed on his front porch as a pit bull barks and a baby cries. are ratings really worth the fact that perfectly good entertainers are losing gigs because o’reilly would rather walk in the predictable shoes of Pat Buchannan and bitch every time a rapper gets paid by someone other than a white suburban teen?

    is it really that outrageous to think that Pepsi would want to seem a little cooler than Coke by hiring Ludacris? or is it more outrageous to think that our government knew full well that Bin Laden did have a history of fucking with planes, and had a hard-on for the world trade center, and liked to target civilian locales, and the fbi got an email from an agent months before the attack which pondered why so many young saudis were learning how to fly airplanes in america.

    do the polls work yet in florida, o’reilly? are snoop dogg’s part time acting roles more important to you than the idea of americans going to the polls but not having their votes count? how do you feel about the fact that you can buy a share of stock of Sun Micro for less than $3 a share? dont you think that that is more troubling than a movie starring the muppets?

    the priorities of the Factor are mighty transparent. keep the brothers down. defend the right wing no matter how Huge they fuck up. ignore the real financial, political, and cultural disasters. focus on rappers with funny names and lyrics that you’ve never really listened to other than to scan for obscenities.

    The O’Reilly Factor: the #1 primetime cable news show. nice. fucking. job. america.

  4. i was cutting my filet mignon in first class 

    jetting from miami to LAX thinking about how red meat doesn’t agree with me any more. thinking about how i don’t like hugh grant and i really don’t like him when he’s really good in really good movies like “about a boy.” i was doing my best to resist the luxury the rich have become used to. i was trying to keep it real.

    the blonde stewardess had a bottle of red in one hand and a bottle of white in the other. i was chewing on a mouthful of spinach salad and buttering my warm sourdough roll and i nodded towards the red.

    i wasn’t keeping shit real.

    i did have surfer shorts on, an ac/dc tshirt, marilyn manson on the mp3 cd player that my good buddy got me off my wishlist last year. but i was laughing at a film produced by the makers of bridget jones diary and about to dive back into a novel i was totally loving from the oprah book club.

    i knew things were really bad when i couldn’t keep my eyes off the clouds.

    they were amazing. i wasn’t on drugs. i wasn’t in love. i wasn’t emotional in any way, i was entranced by them. they were like rockstars up there, i couldn’t keep my eyes off of them and i couldn’t believe i was so close to them. i was in the front row, i was backstage, i was on stage.

    they were great flying over texas, they were great over new mexico. there weren’t any in palm springs but they were creeping that way and they covered the entire LA basin and as we made our descent they were like snow that had been skied over by thousands of vacationers. they were still. they were stoic. they had stories to tell about their creation. they were going somewhere. they were covering a news story. they were peeking at our lives.

    over miami they stole the sun and sifted the rays. in la they were the sunscreen. spf 75. in aruba they simply provided sunshowers, tears from the gods who had no beachtowels.

    it made me want to be a pilot. but only on cloudy days.

    this is the busblog and i wouldn’t be totally honest if i didn’t reveal that when i changed trains today at wilshire and vermont i took the wrong train for the first time in over a year. i took the train that wasn’t going to take me to work, but take me back home, where the gorgeous twenty year old was snoozing in my bed, hopefully dreaming of nice things instead of allowing the demons to whisper silly lies in her dreams.

    i don’t deserve any of the good that comes my way. for the record. i don’t deserve the incredibly delicious wine flavored au jus on my steak or the leather recliner or blonde stewardesses or the island girls, or the vacations, or the attentions, or the friends who pick me up at the airport, or the ones who call me upon arrival, or the raiders kicking ass, or you, or this, or that.

    but i will take it and i will appreciate it.

    and i will do my best not to lie so much the rest of this year.

    i stole an LA Times today from a machine and i don’t feel the slightest bit guilty.

  5. Saturday, September 28, 2002

    hi america, it’s me. tony! 

    hi! yes, i know that more than america reads this crazy little page but i guess i’m just happy to be in america. the beautiful. the wonderful. the muggy. the uptight. the airport-freaked-out.

    this morning i woke up in a tropical paradise, this afternoon i write you from the luxury of a swivel leather chair from the admiral’s club in the american airlines wing of miami international where they dont have any free snacks but they have $3.25 sam adams’s and cute little ibm computers for those of us without laptops.

    hi!

    have you missed me? doubt it. ive missed you. ive missed writing. ive missed being narcisistic and pondering my bellybutton. ive missed typing and typing and writing and writing and having some closet queen tell me that i misspelled something. ive missed a lot but most of all ive missed you, sweet blog.

    i’ve missed you too, tony

    everyone told me to have a good time in aruba and for the most part i did. i learned about a lot of things: about our bodies, our selves, about relaxation, and family, about babies and grandparents, aging, death, sex, pinball.

    mostly ive learned what i already known, im not someone who can really appreciate a beach side cabana unless its shared with a seniorita who thinks im top of the pops. dont get me wrong, there is something to be said of dark brown skinned sisters who try to outdo themselves to the latest dance crazes and theres something to be said about watercolor worthy sunsets and bottomless margueritas, and there is certainly something to be said about nearly-passed out pot-pushers who lean against a shack and proudly proclaim, “marijuana, hash, exctasy. i am a drug dealer!” as your mother and your sister and your brother in law look away and try to ignore the dreadlocked fellow. but there needs to be said something more about relaxation.

    i completely relaxed for about 25 minutes the whole trip.

    i read about 50 pages of the highly recommended “white oleander”.

    i watched about 5 hours of television, and only fiddled on the internet for about 65 minutes. i drank, i didnt smoke, i lusted, i didnt fornicate. i did all the things that i figured i would do, except one thing: i didnt kiss an aruban girl.

    they were all too young.

    this happened to me a long time ago in san felipe in mexico in ’98. me and my pals joe and mike roadtripped down there and the only attractive women were married or had children under their arms. in situations like those you lower your requirements and you look at a 16 year old girl and you try to rationalize and then you shake your head and get back with the program.

    there were pretty girls on the island, dont get me wrong, but they were on their honeymoons. or they were in high school. or they were trying to compete with their sisters. it was all very confusing.

    food also confused me. the older i get the more people want to educate me about what i eat. i dont like this. i dont think i eat all that much and now that my metabolism is sinking i want to lose the small spare tire that i am developing so people are telling me about the Atkins diet where you dont eat carbs. until this trip i didnt really know what carbs were. turns out carbs are my favorite things to eat. i love bread and pasta and all those things and i refuse to give them up. but then i saw the parade of others who didnt want to give this up or that up on the beach… half dressed… walking with their lovers who have never given up anything and it made me curious.

    what would i look like if i even tried to look decent?

    i also noticed tattoos. most people have terrible tattoos. most people dont know a good tattoo if it bit them on the ankle, which is what a lot of these peices of permanent art looked like: mistakes, accidents, crap stuck on that should be peeled off because its so out of place and so worthless that the guy who burned it on should be forced to rub it off. it made me happy that i had no tattoo.

    finally i considered the hair on the backs of men. (shut up.)

    applying the manditory suntan oil i discovered the i had hair on my back. not a lot but some. more than i want. more than i expected. at first i was repulsed. hair! on my back! the sin of all sins, ive been told. but the more i saw others the more i realized that pretty much most men with hair on their fronts have hair on their backs. so i chilled out and had another sip of rum. i worked out three times out of six days. i ran a few miles. i didnt eat too crazy. i danced a little. i swam some. but will i shave my back for a hottie? lets hope not.

    all in all it was a splendid adventure on a misfortunate rock in the ocean. one of the least beautiful places with one of the more wonderful beaches you’ll ever find.

    flying first class the whole way, being stoked with accomidations and extravagances like this “club” that has showers and meeting rooms and kids rooms and computers, is pretty sweet, people. the rich do know how to live. now all i have to find out is why their ATM wont give me $40 so i can get a few more round of drinks.

    but no matter. i understand there might be some carbs in my sam adams.

    whatev.

    its good to be back in the states.

    where i belong.

    with you.

  6. Friday, September 27, 2002
  7. Thursday, September 26, 2002

    do people have a hard 

    time accepting Good in their lives?

    yes.

    do i, sometimes, have a hard time accepting Really Good in my life?

    no.

    not me.

    im perfect.

    all i shoot for in life is fun and good.

    so why would i avoid it when it comes?

    or be freaked by it?

    theres no way that i would have a problem with a bucket of moola on my front porch with a note that says “no strings attached” or a brokendown bus of cheerleaders in town for the national poetry convention who need to use a telephone,

    or true love

    of false love

    or true false love

    or lust

    or flirtation

    or the opportunity to make my personal and professional dreams come true.

    no, i wouldnt have any problems with any of those things. i would accept it all, take it all in stride, thank the Lord and go to the next step.

    i would never dwell.

    i do things textbook. perfect. as it should be.

    i come correct.

    in fact i dont have a personal or psychological stain on my entire soul.

    im just like you.

    thats why we get along so well.

    we know theres no such concept of too much of a good thing.

    so if the coppers drag me out again, tonight, after happy hour, remind them who the fuck theyre hasseling, yo.

  8. Wednesday, September 25, 2002

    hi, my name is tony, and im an internet junkie 


    here i am in beautiful aruba, land of iguanas, blue seas, white beaches and some of the most overweight tourists in the world and instead of combing the resorts for thong-clad topless european travelers to meet and make up stories about, here i am in an internet cafe writing you.

    i just got done gambling and drinking in the Crystal Casino, the island’s only twenty four hour gambling den. everyone is very nice to you here. they speak several different languages because no one can make up their mind as to who should own this tropical wonderland.

    this afternoon we took the airconditioned bus tour around the island. the whole place is very small so it only took us a few hours to hit all the hot spots. my advice: don’t take the tour. stay in the resort, wade in the pool, suck up the drinks and if you get adventurous experience the 80 degree sea and the pearly white sands. theres nothing going on away from the beach except for a goat looking for water to get his beard wet while atop a strange rock formation.

    do i love you all? of course.

    will i move here one day? never. there truly isn’t anything going on here which is why most of the 100k locals dream of moving to the netherlands or holland, whichever will give them a job.

    its warm here and its windy. my taxi driver told me that the wind is your friend. if theres no wind you feel the 90 degree temps and you sweat like crazy. with the wind you love where you are and you don’t complain.

    these are some of the sweetest and smartest people on the planet but i think that they are cruel sometimes. there were native “indians” who once inhabited this isle and to acknowledge them they named the local beer after them. i don’t think that’s nice since we know how “indians” and alcohol don’t mix.

    the women are short and dark and sweet and can dance dance dance. they love americans. they love sorta dark americans like me. everywhere i go they say hi to me and wave. my mother rented the most hideous mini van that has a huge rent-a-car sticker on the hood and on the door but still the ladies wave. i was thinking about going to one of the night clubs here and seeing the locals shake their groove thing but they take their dancing very serious here. in february and march, for example, they celebrate Carnival and they dance all day and all night for 10 hours a day for two weeks.

    i asked the college girl at the Aloe factory if people show up to work hung over after a night of Carnival and she says the whole island wakes up hung over but they just shake it off and go back to dancing while at work.

    why not?

    there are palm trees with coconuts. there are parrots, there are lizards, there are europeans who sunbathe with their tops off, there are dogs and chickens and lots of channels on the television.

    last night we all watched the Sopranos on HBO and if that isn’t your way to vacation, too bad, it’s mine.

    signing off from Internet Pl@net in the airconditioned glamour of the Crystal Shopping center somewhere in paradise, this is your pal tony reminding you that if you come here bring one bag of cash and another bag of sunscreen.

    hasta!

    p.s. thanks to my pal who is updating this page with classic posts!!!

  9. Tuesday, September 24, 2002

    anna said, why are you trying to make troubles 

    i said, aaaah. i aint trying to make no troubles.

    she said, all this bs about women writers being crazy.

    i said, take it easy. first nothing in here is true.

    she said, thats the biggest lie around.

    i said, second i didnt even say it, whalen said it. and i dont even know if he believed it when he said it.

    she said, well you should stop saying it.

    i said, i didnt even say it!

    she said, cuz then people will think that you think it’s true.

    i said, i do think its true, but i never said it.

    she said, i dont need you anyway, the lady that they said was me just got several million dollars from penthouse and i’ll get mine soon and i didnt even have to pose, and i would appreciate it if you took down that weirdo photo essay that you have of me.

    i said, i’d appreciate it if you won a tournament.

    she said, id appreciate it if you just shut your big fat mouth.

    i said, i know.

    she said, what are you doing tonight?

    i said, anna, my life is so bizarre, i could be doing a bunch, i could be doing nothing, i really dont have the foggiest. i could walk down the street and meet christina aguelera or i could–

    she said, thats not how you spell her name.

    i said, i know.

    she said, i thought she was on your list.

    i said, what list?

    she said, everyone has a list of people who they’d do.

    i said, do?

    she said, yeah, my list is harrison ford, adam sandler, mel gibson, brad pitt, and john cusack.

    i said, john cusak?

    she said, yeah. now who’s on yours?

    i said, i dont even

    she said, come on its just fun.

    i said, ok, you, mariah, madonna, christina aguelera, drew barrymore, and this chick who lives down the street.

    she said, thats six you can only have five.

    i said, ok, cross your name off the list.

    she said, you prick.

  10. Monday, September 23, 2002

    from the blog archives: january, 1974 

    a gaggle of cheerleaders bum rushed my back door as I was taking out the trash last night to my surprise. they had picnic baskets with tasty foods, thermoses full of tangy fruit drinks and wines, bales of hay and trick ropes for entertainment, and of course pom-poms and silly string and ecstasy and chewing gum.

    there were so many of them that it was hard to get anyone’s names and im so bad at remembering one or two people’s names at a party that this amount was just ridiculous to even attempt so i just smiled and called everyone honey and sweetie and blondie and red. they called me sweetheat and turned down the lights, turned off the tv, turned off the computer, locked the doors and windows, took a wrench to the dripping shower and busted with the whippits.

    life is a delicious waltz filled with clutzy gentlemen and the same old friut punch. it takes more, sometimes, than a squirt of lime to get the party started proper and if weren’t for the strands of pom poms on the floors and the snoring heaps of blankets snoozing on available floorspace, i would have thought it was all a dream this morning, but isnt everything a dream?

    i left a note for the girls on the television wishing them a happy day and to ignore the mess and how to lock up the house but i was late for work and couldnt start the coffee. i hope they understood.

    sometimes when youre late the busses and trains will help you out, but not this morning.

    my arch enemy, this guy who i hate who rubs me the wrong way was at my bus stop. it’s sort of who Brad Pitt was to the guy in Fight Club, his alter-ego. this is my nerdy ego who reminds me of all the nerdy dorky dumb things in my personality that i try to ignore. he’s only at my busstop when im late. he is so creepy. so of course he was acting all creepy as i waited and waited in the brisk sun of todays wintery los angeles morn.

    the bus arrived packed with late losers alike and we made it more packed. stuffed with humanity the bus rolled on and i wondered how much they paid off the guy to tell the supreme court that the LA bus system was ok and had enough vehicles despite being terribly short for years and years.

    got off at the stop, walked the five-six blocks to the job and thought about Welch’s fine rememberance of the Daily Nexus and I hope all of you either have a Nexus in your past or are having one now or are about to have one, because it was a spectacular experience.

    and just as i thought that, i saw a man naked from the shirt down crouching behind a row of bushes in front of an Office Depot right behind a bus stop bench. he was going number two, i believe. i wondered if he had tp. i wondered if people knew there would be human poop in the bushes as they waited for the number 21. i wondered if even this could dampen my fine spirits.

    and i got on the elevator in my place of employment and i sat down at my cubicle and i fired up the machine and i began to type to you.

    and i read an email that a young lady wrote to me about how she fantasized about anna and martina in the locker room after their match and my day had officially begun.