“Look out the window. And doesn’t this remind you of when you were in the boat and then later that night you were lying and looking looking at the ceiling and the water in your head was not dissimilar from the landscape. And you thought to yourself why is it that the landscape is moving but the boat is still?”
-Crispin Glover, Dead Man

“I haven’t slept for ten days because that would be too long.”

“When I was on acid I discovered that margarine is better than butter. I saw through the bullshit. I saw beams of light and heard things that sounded like car horns.”

“Alcoholism is a disease, but it’s the only disease you can get yelled at for having. ‘Goddamnit, Otto, you’re an alcoholic!’ ‘Goddamnit, Otto, you have lupus!’ One of those does not sound right.”
-Mitch Hedberg

“You know, David Hasselhoff has that look of constant confusion, like when dogs get bred too much.”
-Henry Rollins

“Back in 1991 I used to hit old people with folding chairs. Now I am a rock and roll superstar.”
-Wesley Willis


I haven’t updated too much lately. I guess I’ve been too busy doing things. So, I’d apologize but I’ve been having too much fun to feel bad about not updating.

I’ve been drawing a lot again. I get bored looking at webpages at work and constantly find other ways to entertain myself. In the past couple months I’ve tried sculpting things out of tinfoil and play-doh (seperately, not together) I purchased at the dollar store before work.

The last few days though, I’ve been drawing cartoons again like a mad man. I’m pretty proud of them. As soon as I have a chance to get over to my folks house to use their scanner or one falls out of the sky and shows up in my room, I’ll post some of them.

I went to a Lesbian bar last night with my new pal Kira. There were a lot of tough dykes there. It was cool. I played all the John Mellencamp songs on the jukebox.

I don’t have much to say right now, but the last week’s been pretty good to me.


Mr. Night sky, can you come a little quicker? I don’t feel home in the day time, and I never will. There’s just always something missing from my world when the people are out scurrying.

Give me a town where everything is shut down, save for a dive on the corner where I can hang my hat.

Give me a town where the people have gone to bed, and won’t complain when I come stumbling and howling.

Mr. Night Sky, Mr. Night Sky, I’m on fire, can you hear me?

Mr. Night Sky, Mr. Night Sky, why’d you leave so soon?

I was behind the wheel of the car, and though I could see what was going on, I couldn’t get comfortable at all. My back was too arched, my feet were too far up, and the steering wheel seemed to far away. And I was dreaming of you.

Mr. Night Sky, I drank too much last night.

Mr. Night Sky, I didn’t say some things I should have said.

Mr. Night Sky, in the mornings I feel good as dead.

I’m a day late and several dollars short. I ate rice for a week to soak up the whiskey and sew my stomach back together. Every night I stand on the front porch looking for your stars, but they’re too dim to see in the street light.

Mr. Night Sky, I thought we were friends.

You stick with your friends no matter what. No matter the situation. Otherwise, what else would you call them? I’ll make no mistake and offer criticism unless it is due. And if it’s my business.

Mr. Night Sky, I dreamed about running away.

I got in my car and drove a thousand miles to the desert. When I got to the desert it started to rain and I took my clothes off and walked straight through it all. The cacti smiled and the vultures offered me my share. But I walked straight through it all.

I kicked every sign of life I saw and pissed in every oasis.

I took the sand in my hands and swallowed it whole, excreting powder for days, not caring a bit.

I fought a Gila monster in a race against time.

I came out just fine, Mr. Night Sky. I came out just fine.

Finally, I came to a house that had been made just for me thousands of years before by people I never met. You called them Anasazi, Mr. Night Sky. I called them family, the same way I call you brother. And we are brothers, Mr. Night Sky.

You can call it walking away, I’ll call it surrendering. Surrender, surrender, but don’t give yourself away.

I’m waiting, brother. I’m waiting.


There are many places you can find desperate men. Many times you’ll see them lulling around gun stores. You can always tell the types. They’re the ones who look at the cheap handguns, because even though they want to kill someone or themselves, they’re frugal and want to do it as cheaply as possible.

Look for them sometime.

There will be an old man with Vietnam War tattoos behind the counter asking if he can help them find anything.

Know what they’ll say?

“Oh, I’m just browsing.”

Browsing? Please. Browsing is something that is done at leisure for nothing but the pleasure of looking at things you will never own or use. If you want to shoot someone or yourself, why would you just say, “Oh, I’m browsing?”

Because desperate men aren’t thinking men.


stewymcstewstew: is david even still alive?
TheRobotMonkey: no.
stewymcstewstew: ohh ok
TheRobotMonkey: not since I killed him.
stewymcstewstew: when was that?
TheRobotMonkey: a couple days ago
TheRobotMonkey: it smells pretty bad around here now
stewymcstewstew: where are you keeping him?
TheRobotMonkey: I started blending his body parts
stewymcstewstew: what are you making?
TheRobotMonkey: and flushing the remains
TheRobotMonkey: but the blender broke
TheRobotMonkey: and now I have half a corpse and a backed up toilet
stewymcstewstew: ouch
TheRobotMonkey: so I’ve just been shitting in Boo’s litter box
stewymcstewstew: i have a lime pit
TheRobotMonkey: don’t bother.
TheRobotMonkey: I’ll be in jail soon enough.
stewymcstewstew: someone misses him?
TheRobotMonkey: everyone became suspicious when I started returning his calls for him
TheRobotMonkey: and answering his phone
stewymcstewstew: who calls david??
TheRobotMonkey: I can’t tell you
TheRobotMonkey: you don’t wanna go down with me
stewymcstewstew: ok, deal


I heard there’s two ways to get out of this town: one is a uniform; the other’s a casket. I keep wondering when it will be my time to choose this or my time to be chosen.

Will they stamp my pass or punch my ticket? Will they send me packing?

A man at rest or a man with a knapsack, trudging through the mud in some godforsaken campaign across some godforsaken place.

It’s raining here right now. I love the rain. I love to lie awake at night with the rhythmic pitter-pat jazzing it’s way across my window.

I can hear it.

I can feel it.

It’s like Miles Davis is the god of thunder and lightning.

I stand on the front porch, arms spread like Christ with the rain on my face, running down my body. Enveloped, is what I am. My glasses are fogged and my shirt is damp. I don’t care, I’m a free man.

Have you ever watched a sun set in a rain storm? I’m trying to think if I have and I am fairly certain that the answer is that I have not.

I wonder what it would look like. I’m imagining an orange and gray sky that becomes redder and blacker at the same time. I want to watch a sunset in the rain.

I’m losing myself a little more everyday. To what, I’m not exactly sure, but I feel less and less like myself. Perhaps I’m changing into another person like I change into another pair of clothese. Perhaps I’m just getting older and even more cynical.

Perhaps I’m just giving up.

I want to sit in a room full of Holden Caulfield’s and Dean Moriaty’s and interrogate them one by one.

“Show me the phonies!”

“Thumb me a ride!”

“The bell tolls, but whom is it for?”

My joints are tired and sore and I feel like I could sleep for days or even years.

I want to hibernate some winter. I want to dig a hole in the earth and sleep for many, many months.

If you’re asleep for months and months, are your dreams more real than reality? Are they more tangible? Can you learn from them? Can you fall in love? Or do you wake up with a headache and feel like you’ve been hungover for four months?

I heard there’s two ways to get out of this town: one is a command and the other’s a sentence.

Which one will you get?

Five will get ten.

Ten will get fifteen.

I’m in for sixty but I’ll be out in twenty, and the lifers won’t tell you any different. Mr. Warden, Mr. Warden can we be friends?

The circus came and went.

Winter turned into spring.

I grew two full beards and shaved them out of spite and disgust, while memories were spinning on the turntable in my bedroom into a pile of clothes sitting on the floor.

I drank every night all winter long and didn’t even think about it.

I passed out every night all winter long and didn’t even think about it.

I’ve been thinking about that a lot lately. More than I’d care to admit.

I heard there’s two ways to get out of this town: one is rejection, the other’s acceptance.

I used to be angry. Imagine that, an angry young man. It almost seems laughable. It always seems predictable. And every now and then I’ll go back and visit.

Is that apathy or acceptance? Or is it both? Am I just tired of kidding myself?

I am tired.

I’m so tired sheep are counting me.

What do you think you would dream about while hibernating? Escape, maybe? The past? Sunsets in rainstorms? or would you maybe just sleep and not dream at all?

I’d like to know, I think.

Escape would be dramatic. Written in blood and told by fire, I imagine. Escape would be thrills. Escape would be chills. Escape would be kills.

I’m going to drive nails into the walls when I leave. I’m going to paint all the doors black. I’m going to stand on the roof and scream into the night.

Then I’ll be free.

I heard there’s two ways to get out of this town: one is a uniform, the other’s a casket.


I’m an American.

You’re an American.

We’re Americans.

It’s kind of like that maybe God exists and he’s got a bastardly sense of humor. Communion becoming hot dogs and beer in paper cups, forgiveness a four letter word. Father, forgive me, I have sinned.

We’re Americans.

What if there is a heaven and when we die and get ready to enter the pearly gates, God points his finger at us and says “HA! I got ya!”? Wouldn’t that be perfect? After all of the time spent worrying about the nature of God and meaning of life, all he’d have to do is point his finger at us and laugh. It’s a great cosmic joke.

It makes a lot of sense to me. It truly does. And I’m an American.

I was drinking at a bar the other night, talking to a 70 year old man. He was smoking camel filters and drinking vodka and tonic.

Do you want to know what he said to me?

He said, “I’ll never live to be as old as my father. I just don’t take care of myself.”

He was 70 years old. He had a grandfatherly smile, and a hearty laugh. He seemed to be a very gentle old man. I bought him another drink and we talked about storming the beach at Normandy.

Before you can ask, no he wasn’t there. He was not a veteran. We were talking about storming the beach at Normandy for a second time in history. A follow up as it were.

As it was.

As it will be forever and ever Amen.

I’m an American.

I say that the same way I say “I like coleslaw” and “this room is cold.”

It’s not an oath. It’s not a statement of pride. It just is.

And I just am.

Isn’t it funny that people created God, the assumed creator of people? People created Mickey Mouse. People created Bugs Bunny. The only difference is that no one gave them any credit.

God damn, God. Is that even possible?

I’m an American. TAG! YOU’RE “IT”!

If you could have any terminal illness of your choice, which would you choose? I’d want something brought on by too much sex and too many drugs. That way, at the very least, I could reflect on the fun times I had.

I’m an American.

Charlton Heston resigned as President of the NRA. He has Alzheimer’s. I have a hard time remembering how to spell that word, an irony which I assure you, does not lose itself on me. Let’s just save the confusion and call it “Old Timer’s”. It makes sense after all. The thing that frightmens me the most is that perhaps Charlton Heston won’t remember what he’s shooting at.

That makes him very dangerous.

I’m an American.

I shoot first and ask questions that are not the correct ones for the occasion.

I’m an American.

I’m a small time con-artist at the unemployment line.

I’m an American.

I hear voices in my head.

I’m an American.

I voted for Tony Blair.

I’m an American.

I drink beer from paper cups.

I’m an American.

I refuse to quit trying, because I want you to start paying attention.

I’m an American.

You’re an American.

We’re all Americans.

“HA! I got ya!”