Sept 13, 1999

washed face. pooped so much. threw cat twice.

Sept 21, 1999

threw cat countless times in my semi-sleep. I am such a good cat-thrower. But what I really want to do at night is sleep. I hissed at my cat and said things like, "I'll murder you, you fucking whore! Shut the fuck up or I'll kill you--you know I will." I grabbed her under her arms and looked menacing (she can see right through the dark like her eyes are tiny suns--do you believe that?) and shook her and hissed threats right into her tiny, furry ear. Then I'd throw her. I alternated with shouting stuff like "I fucking hate you so much! I hate you!"

I am going to get rid of this cat. I'll really miss her. I love her so much during the day.

Sept 22, 1999

I had sexual harassment prevention and workplace diversity training today. I'm the best harasser in my department! It was the most unfun 1 1/2 hours I have spent in a long time.

I had decided to record the proceeding in the hope that I would acquire some good answering machine material. I was horribly disappointed. I was also interrogated about my tape recorder use when the meeting was breaking up by a nice blonde attorney lady who didn't really know how to approach me about it.

I was completely flip throughout the entire conversation, and in fact was slugging the free oj the whole time she was trying to intimidate me. She asked me what I planned to do with the recording. I told her I taped it for my own private use and that I had done it before (so she wouldn't be scared I was going to do something weird with it) at Life (months ago I interviewed people at the club for similar home use reasons--with similar useless results.) She asked if the people I had taped at Life knew that I was recording them (thinking that maybe since I hadn't asked her if I could record, I would apologize or give her the tape, I guess). I said I imagined they knew, since I stuck it in their faces.

She must have run out of things to say, because later she asked me the same question again, whether or not these other people knew I was recording them, so I demonstrated my technique out of frustration. I held the recorder up to her face and asked her how it felt to be made completely out of lumber. She turned a little red and that was pretty much The End.

Sept 27, 1999

Types of people I've dated:

Splitting Narcisist

Blue-Painted Macaw

Shiny-Pated Drunkiss (with feeling)

Burn Catcher (with poppers)

I've learned my lesson! I'm on the lookout for these types at ALL TIMES. If this is you, I'm like a shark. I can smell you from one to three miles away even in smog. Keep out!

Oct 2, 1999

Maxim:

Nobody likes a millionaire.

Oct 4, 1999

The cat is gone. My apartment (room) is now devoid of love and cat. See, with love comes need. With someone else's need comes anger (mine). So you can understand: I hated that purring, nuzzling cat enough to through it out the goddamn window. But I didn't. There's no point. She fell out before and survived. Two full stories! Just my luck.

Now she's at a friend's house (herein referred to as McHickey). McHickey already has a cat. This is who my ex-cat hates and fears right now: Me, McHickey, McHickey's cat. These are the reasons: For bringing her there, for being there, for sinking her claw so far in the skin of her leg that it came off and stuck there.

Oct 7, 1999

I've started to like my ex-cat a lot more now. Absence renders hate pointless? Her name is Who's the Cutie. She is trapped in McHickey's living room, while McHickey's cat, Choo-Choo Coleman, prowls the rest of the apartment. I went over two nights ago to see how things were coming along. Things are not going well.

I went into Who's the Cutie's domain and she was hiding under a coffee table and her tail was all fuzzed out. She was making those awful noises that made me want to strangle her before. She was terrified! Of Choo-choo Coleman.

I realized then that I had a new avenue for my venom. I left her (somewhat placated) and began my torture of Coo-choo Coleman. She was in the kitchen with McHickey and I grabbed a fork and fake-stabbed her in the face. I clenched my teeth and growled and lunged at her. Then I made her smell my fingers (Who's the Cutie was on them) and dove at her and chased her until she ran under the bed. This was to make her understand that WTC is a tough guy. I would say things in a menacing voice like, "Leave my cat alone you stupid asshole fuckhead!"

McHickey didn't like all this, even though his cat is a bully and he knows it. He told me it doesn't matter what I say, it's the tone of my voice that matters. I knew this, but to placate him I shoved my mouth in Choo-choo's face and fake-spit at her and screamed, "I love you!"

I have to do everything he says so he doesn't try to give my cat back.

Oct 14, 1999

I was cleaning up and I found this old can of fish food. Which made me think, 'I want a fish!'. I had one before, a betta fish (which is what I want again), but there was an accident. I think my cat might have been partially responsible.

When I first got her (I used to do stuff with her when she was new) I bought her two betta fish to play with. They came in these huge plastic bags about two feet by eight inches and bulging with water. That night I spent hours in Manhattan getting drunk in bars and lugging around these two tiny fish in gigantic balloons. So when I got home I took one of the fish and put it in a bowl of water. I put it on the floor so Who's the Cutie (aka Valentine) could see it. She got really excited and tried to get it out with her paws. Well, water got everywhere, but she finally scooped it out onto the floor. But I have a floor that has spaces in between the wood and it slipped right through. I tried to fish it out, but it just slid off of coathangers and stuff, so I just left it and gave her the other fish.

This time she was really fast getting it out of the bowl, but when it was out, all its fins stuck together and it didn't move at all. It was just a little piece of slime on the floor and she didn't care.

Well, that got me kind of mad, so I put it back in the water so she'd see it fan out and move around, but every time she took it out of the water she'd lose interest. Pretty soon it died.

Then I realized I liked these little fish and I decided to get one for myself. I called it Fish III.

(I have found a friend).

Oct 14, 1999

History of Fish III: A very happy fish that would wiggle violently when hungry. This is presumably because other methods didn't seem to attract my attention, but I thought the squirming was funny and would notice and feed it.

One day I got a call from a roommate that there was trouble and Fish III was hurt. I went home and there was glass everywhere and my shelf was knocked down and Who's the Cutie (incidentally renamed Weasel [sp?]) was hiding under the bed. My roommate had put Fish III in a jar or something. Fish III was cut up real bad. There was a half inch gash in its torso(?). This meant, due to its size, that the body was almost severed in half. But I thought it might make it, so I put some food in the jar and shook it up a little to help Fish III move around. In the morning it was dead.

Nov 4, 1999

Things I want "coming up next" on Jay Leno:

Kidnapping

Firey Horseshoes

Claw Hammers and Skin.

Nov 4, 1999

I once told the boss at my pizza job that I wouldn't cut onions. He asked why not (in a shocked tone--for effect, I think) and I said because I didn't like to. He said I had to, everybody else cut onions, even he cut onions, so I had to cut them, too. I said, "If everybody cut off their dick-tips in the meat slicer, would you do that, too?" No, I said, "You can fire me if you want, but I'm not cutting onions." That was that. And from then on, everybody hated me more than ever.

Nov 23, 1999

Everybody loves an excerpt.

Dec 15, 1999

Catsaga Continued

McHickey went home one night and found McFeely (Weasel's new name) limping around the house and when he looked closer he saw her poor claw on her right paw was twisted and broken and sitting on top of her paw instead of tucked inside of it. Or inside of Choo-choo Coleman. I saw it, too. It was fucking gross. So I took her to the vet.

After two hours of sitting on a plastic couch beside boxes of shrieking and shitting cats and dogs (Except for one lady who brought her cat in a large plaid suitcase--really. They made her unzip it a little for air.) they called me into the back room and put her on a stainless steel table. Then this lady with dreadlocks (I don't know how to spell that, but I dread them) and her toothy, blond, the-weight-machines-I-use-double-as-depilatory-machines sidekick came in. They grabbed McFeely, squeezed her neck until her eyes bugged out, and threw her on her side. This "vet" told me--in the most evil, patronizing tone--that my cat:

• is grossly overweight
• has gum disease
• needs five shots
• had improperly trimmed nails (which she then clipped so fast one flew off and hit me on the cheek. This cost $15; meaning that if she only clipped cat nails she'd make about $6,000 an hour)
• and was eating food unfit for a rat.

Now McFeely was screaming, tears were streaming down my face, and as they took her away, I asked if they could save her foot. The blond guy didn't understand. I said, "Are you going to amputate her foot?" He didn't answer me. I sat and cried and knew I was going to be arrested.

McFeely came back soaking wet(?) in the arms of the grinning blond sidekick with a blue cast all the way up to her shoulder. He steadied her on the table and told me to hold on to her. I didn't. She immediately slid on her peg leg, fell four feet down, and slammed onto the floor. I laughed. I hated them all. I was paying them to abuse my cat for me, and was being insulted to boot. I paid them almost $200, and didn't even get to keep the claw!

Dec 28, 1999

Gargamel

McHickey went with me way down south to my parent's house in Cola town for Krismiss. My parents live in the Comfort Zone--if you saw the house, you'd understand the tag.

We stayed in the poolhouse (see what I mean? There's a hot tub, too. It even says 'Jacuzzi' on it.). Inside the pucking foolhouse (there's not much to do in Cola Town but make up nicknames for everything) there was also my sister's cat. A scaredy cat. Name of Spooky. All she did was hide and scream. She was universally hated and the only fun thing to do with her was stalk her and pounce and grip her tightly against her will and pretend she was sitting on your lap. This really was fun because despite her ghostly wisp of a presence, she was incredibly strong, and keeping her from escaping was a real challenge. It is rare to see fear this intense. Her eyes were like frisbees, and her little heart would flutter like a bird's. She was always on the absolute edge of a heart attack.

My sister would come out to the foolhouse to visit Spooky and she'd always be hiding. She couldn't figure out why she couldn't get comfortable with us. As soon as she'd leave I'd chase her around the room shouting, "Come here, Azrael!" and grab her by the feet and feel her little heart pound. HA-AHaHa-HAahh!

What I got for Krismiss:

• One chia taz
• One foot-long solid acrylic Peugot pepper mill
• Three candles
• One flashlight and Two batteries
• Three gallons of water (gift to myself)
• One black eye (really)

Jan 4, 2fucking000

I am thinking this from Jupiter, the hip new home for the future. Where I am. I have to say, the year two thousand sure lived up to my expectations. I was anticipating waking up January first in a warm, womb-like pod with an interior the consistency of cream-filled goose down and strategically placed air jets (releasing pure oxygen the exact temperature of my body) caressing my skin with soothing strokes. I would think, "This is fantasmagorical and lovely, but if only I had a bloody mary, two vicodin tablets, a VR stabbing game with warm blood sensations, a pure titanium sex-suit (and a seamlessly toned, genetically-engineered and sexually higher-educated naked human to go with it), everything would be perfect. And it was! I'm just glad the future happened all at once. It enhances my pleasure, and when I'm happy, my skin just glows.

Jan 7, 2000

Bio-writer for hire

My sole instruction: include the facts.

The facts: He was raised in Virginia and went to two schools.

The result: I fashioned (better than 'cobbled together'?) shining jewels (better than 'gems'?) of bios for photo-graphier E. Stapel. I think when you've finished reading them, you won't only want one for yourself, you'll want to buy bios for all your friends!

* I was giving away the bios for free, but I found too many people were abusing the opportunity and ruined it for everyone. So please refrain from "borrowing" these sample bios. They don't cost that much, but they do cost me time to make! Thanks ;)

• Called everything from a "Crabby Appleton" to a "crippled genius" by his peers (of which there are two), Edward Staple, the enigmatic and mischievious photographer, astounds and confounds the hottest, stickiest regions of the world once again with his black and white images of people engrossed in pointed thought. Born and raised in Virginia, Mr. Stapel earned a BA in english in 1992 from USC, making him supremely qualified to take pictures and make us look at them. He's also a grad at SCAD.
• Edward Stapel is a man's man photographer's photographer. He grew up in Virginia, received a BA in english in 1992 from USC, and is currently a graduate student at SCAD. His photographs are great!
• Edward Stapel was raised in Virginia. Who knows if it was this, the exotic locale of his childhood, or the "bumpy ride" his alcoholic cat gave him in his early years, or the nickname "lime rickey"--the product of his trials is far more engaging than the dirty gossip. Mr. Stapel earned a BA in english in 1992 from USC, and is currently a graduate student at SCAD. At some point while he was attending school (or before, or afterwards, and in between) he took arresting black and white photographs of people in communion with each other, with themselves, with cracks in the wall. People thoroughly inside their own skins, sometimes aware of the camera, sometimes not. But always in their skins.

Jan 10, 2000

Online poll

Do you approve of Bill Clinton's handling of the economy?

(a) Yes, when he's on my lap.

(b) No. Do you have any pets?

(c) Yes with mayonaise.

(d) Hitler.

Since this is an online poll, please choose what you think is the funniest answer to ensure polling accuracy and record your sense of humor for the next two weeks. Thank you.

Jan 13, 2000

Alas and egad and efuck! McHickey wants to kick my cat out of his apartment. Poor McFeely, left to fend for herself in the dark, gang-ridden, gun-paved alleys of Park Slope, Brooklyn. His reason: McFeely and his cat, Choo-Choo Coleman, aren't 'getting along'.

Sure, they squabble occasionally (McFeely--a jet-black beauty--generally has tufts of wan Coleman fur [and sometimes bits of red] stuck in her nails and fluffing out from her paws like some kind of rockettes costume. Very becoming.) and one of them has been pooping outside of the box. (Which one? Well, the poops are short and fat, the exact shape of a certain cat named Coleman.)

At first McHickey said he was going to give McFeely back to me for my birthday present, but my birthday's in the middle of January and McHickey's is at the end of February, so once I return the favor, he's fucked unless I have a weird birthday in March. And I'm not that stupid!

Reasons Coleman should kiss the curb instead:

1. I'll fucking knife McFeely in the back before I let her live on the street like a whore.

2.

Coleman is the one who looks like a sausage that swallowed a cow. McFeely is the one that looks kind of like a model.

Jan 28, 2000

Okay, McHickey lost his patience with the mysterious pooper and he actually spanked both cats after making them smell the anonymous poop--one at a time and very deliberately (although I suspect they held their noses). First he picked up McFeely, pointed her nose to the poop on the floor, said some harsh words, and gave her a resounding blow in the area of her kidneys. Then he did the same to Coleman. I couldn't stop him. He looked like he was in a trance.

I asked (using mostly McHickey's own words) some experts for advice. I called myself Nova to avoid detection.

Just making an electronic trail. Just in case.

Feb 4, 2000

I want to make some delicious chocolate chip cookies so I can secretly infuse them with drugs and pretend I'm a scientist and give myself joy. So I went to the grocery store (It's called Associated Supermarket, which should have been warning enough) on my lunch hour and looked around for a bag of chocolate chips to buy, because then you get the recipe for free. I saw these two guys firing a sticker gun and shelving mustard, so I asked them to help me.

"Excuse me, do you sell chocolate chips?" I asked.

"Down there, on the left at the corner," the uglier one said, pointing.

So I went 30 feet down the aisle and looked to my left, where I saw a bunch of cookies, and then, on the corner, a tower of maybe 200 jars of spaghetti sauce. I walked back to the two shelvers, instead of asking the cashier right beside me, because I'm nothing if not stubborn and determined to avoid success at all costs.

"Excuse me--"

"Can't you find it?"

"No, all I saw was cookies. I'm looking for a BAG of CHOCOLATE CHIPS. Please."

"GO down there and look on the left! Turn and LOOK at the CORNER!" the uglier (and stubbled, doubled-chinned) one almost shouted. I trudged back down the aisle and did it again. I wanted to make sure it wasn't there. I didn't want to give them the opportunity to laugh at me because they thought I was some stupid-rich-whitey-dummy-head. (I am white, but not rich. But paranoid.) I saw the Pinwheels, the Nutter Butters, the Mound 'O Sauce, and really stretching WAY around the corner now, and really LOOKING this time, instead of just daydreaming and smoking a blunt, I saw turkey basters, tinfoil, and aprons. Which just seemed to me like a step in the wrong direction. At least you can eat spaghetti sauce. So now my patient act is, like, wafer thin and stale and also dry. So I stride back with much more purpose and energy this time.

"Hey-"

"Did you LOOK around the CORNER?" They're both rolling their eyes, totally exasperated with this lobotomized three-year-old in front of them.

"There's no need to be such RUDE ASSHOLES about it!" I scream. "I've been totally nice the whole time and maybe you could take a FUCKING second to SHOW me since all I see are GODDAMN COOKIES!" Now the slightly less offensive one speaks and says maybe the ugly one should show me, since I'm such an idiot. And so loud.

"You really don't have to be so FUCKING RUDE!" I yell again, to keep up momentum. So this guy stomps down the aisle with me, taking giant strides to make it seem like it's only two steps away, and flings out his arms and presents 20 Nabisco cookie products to me.

"There. You see now?" he's so disgusted he looks sick.

"ALL I SEE ARE COOKIES! DO YOU HAVE ANY BAGS OF CHOC-O-LATE CHIPS?"

"Right there! CHOCOLATE CHIPS!" Now I see what is going on. I should have know from their idiotic countenances that they were idiots. So, I'm using my hands now to try to make it seem like I'm holding an invisible bag of chips and saying "bag of chips, bag of chips, bag of chips" like I'm hypnotizing him. This takes a moment, but turns out to be the breakthrough I was looking for.

"Oh! Bags of chips. To make them with yourself." We go back to the stacker, to tell him, once again, in the same words, but not from my mouth, that I am looking for 'bags of chips. To make them with yourself.'

"Aisle three." the stacker says. And we all shut up and they pretend they don't hate all the customers and don't love hiding and I pretend I don't hate them and don't love making moronathons.

(for correct spelling/definition of the term 'moronathon', inquire of Poody McBane)

Feb 18, 2000

Dear Friend,

this is a warning. I think someone at your company went to this website: NO!

this is a dangerous person and I want you to know. they are very clever with the computer and will find ways to be sneaky at all times. Please be very careful! I am only saying this because someone I know crossed them on the wrong side to get on their blacklist (made it as an enemy) and stirred up a bird's nest of trouble--giving them no end of head pains. They tried to get back on the tops of their shoes, but their heart had been rent and they were a man without a home. This all due to the underarmed ways of the questionable person. They lost their shirts when he picked them clean. They got the ax at work because the crazy nut rang up to bother.

This is a true story.

A Friend

goats

dear goblin

chumps

hurt me