Free Porn!!!
Have I got your attention ? Good. There is no free pron. For those of you that feel like sticking around, there is, however, the following post.
I’ve recently switched my schedule at the shop and kept the same bedtime. This has had a very odd effect on my waking habits, because now that I get five hours of sleep a night consistently, my sleep habits are as follows:
Go to bedroom.
Ask my wife to roll over so I can get into bed.
Kiss her gently and tell her to have sweet dreams.
Promptly pass the fuck out and sleep a dreamless sleep until that the damned alarm starts chiming.
That’s it. Makes things real simple, don’t it ? Ah, you’d think so. Instead, getting no sleep on a daily basis has completely transformed my waking hours. I often find myself daydreaming about a hundred things, all at once. These daydreams only consume a few seconds, but in those few seconds I find myself pondering the impossible, the querulous, and the things that can make the sanest of all men go absolutely mad. Here's a few things that kept me occupied for a handful of minutes....
I. Is it so wrong that I want to create an entire website dedicated to photoshopped babies as Spider Jerusalem, with word balloons spouting such filth as “Here was a time when I liked a good riot. Put on some heavy old street clothes that could stand a bit of sidewalk-scraping, infect myself with something good and contagious, then go out and stamp on some cops. It was great, being nine years old.” and “This is the chairleg of truth, Fred! Can you hear it? It says 'Shut up', Fred! Can you hear it?”
II. If you do a Google search for “duck farts” can you actually find a link with an audio clip ? And do I really wanna know what a duck fart sounds like ?
III. Will someone, anyone, make a game as good to me as the “Dungeon Keeper” series was ? Really, anyone ? Because we’ve had a couple of near misses over the last few years, but no one has really understood how much fun it is to set up the good guy and wipe the fucking floor with him….
IV. If I’m in Rome, and doing as the Romans are doing, why is it I always get arrested and have to explain that; No, I don’t speak Italian nor do I know where my passport is.
V. Is there an actual solution to the issues I keep having cross posting in FTTW articles in Vox, or am I simply attempting to smash a square peg into a round hole and not seeing an inherently broken system for what it is ?
VI. Who is John Saxon ?
VII. I will raise my child to be an honorable man. I can do no greater good in this short lifetime.
VIII. My god, this is terrifying. How do I get one and use it effectively to torture my enemies ?
IX. If it’s okay to laugh at a camel, why is it not okay to laugh at a midget ?
X. I really, really like the Pipettes.
XI. When I was a kid, I had Scarlet Fever. I had a 106 degree temperature for two days and all I can remember from that time is that the ants on the wallpaper were making the most curious designs.
XII. If I actually stopped to count all the times I swore I’d quit smoking, I’d have something to do until December.
XIII. I don’t have the right shape of face for a bowler hat ? Do I ?
XIV. I still have all my fingers and toes. Yay Me!
And that’s a small portion of my day. A few of the things that flit through my head when I’m not trying to determine why a particular piece of software didn’t land when it was supposed to or why I keep blowing out the DS3 to New York every damn night when there's only seventy sites.
How about you ? Anything good in that brain of yours ?
thefinn just needs a nap.
You can help us in a couple of ways:
Taurus – Stay Home. I know it’s a bit of a cliché to be told to avoid travel, but you’re screwed if you go more than a mile or so from home, at least until mid week. Don’t even watch travel programs on TV. Sloth is your friend. Buy microwave dinners and adult diapers. Wear a helmet to bed, just in case.
Libra – This would be an excellent week to correct that karma you’ve been fucking with lately. Spend all your money on your friends, assuming you have any of either left. Maybe you should borrow from family or roll a few drunks.
Broken down cars are the worst. Fucked up cars are hell. Sometimes you have to use them when you are just starting. It just happens. And some cars are broken down fun. Pure adrenaline O.D. fun.
Not by a long shot. We’ve hardly started and we’ve got a long way to go. And you’re coming with us. Ride With Us. You know?
Taurus – Sometimes you just need to put yourself first. Sometimes you just need to stay home, eat corn chips and masturbate. Sometimes this lasts all week, Taurus, so load up on the essentials before the video store closes. You’re going to whack it so much.
Libra – All you are going to do for the first half of the week is fight with loved ones. And you will lose a lot of those fights, and you will be perceived as a sore loser every time. This being misunderstood will affect every part of your life for the remainder of the week. Do not eat at any restaurants, including fast food joints. Asking someone to go to the drive through for you is cheating. You will be punished by the universe. Eat out and you will be eating spit.
As I am sure a lot of you people know, I have a favorite TV show. Yes, it is a weird TV show, but it has influenced me in many ways. It was a happy show with wholesome memories for me. Today, I learned of some sad news and I thought I would share it.
The Garage was behind the driveway at another friend’s house, this guy Jason. His parents didn’t give a shit what went on out there. The Garage could comfortably hold about 15 or 20 people but usually managed to accommodate about 30 or 40. The first night I was there, I asked my friend how many people could fit in this tiny little room with the woodstove. He called out to Jason, “Hey man, how many people fit in here last New Year’s Eve?”
When I was working at the record store, the better part of ten years ago, this kid about 17 or so comes in to buy Punk O Rama 2 or 3… the one with that stupid Epitaph headed monster pissing on the wall anyway, whatever. 5.99 or something.
I've never heard of the practice of taking your kids "pretend" shopping for their birthday presents, parading them down aisle after aisle of toys, leading them to believe that the toy department is their own personal shopping mall and if they wish real hard, mommy and daddy will make their Barbie dreams come true! Mr., that's what commercials are for. 
You keep a harsh edge to your voice. And just wait for it. As if on cue, they howl, they cry, they pout and throw themselves on the floor and kick you in the shins and scream that they never, ever, ever get to have ANYTHING good or fun or new.
Miri is a bustling, noisy and somewhat crowded city of about 300,000 people. The air is steamy and oppressive, especially when you’ve just left home and temperatures below zero, in December. After a few hours of sweating like a professional wrestler in a cage match (I really don’t believe pigs sweat), you finally come to tolerate the heat and constant 100% humidity. The puking also subsided after a few hours and only then could I venture out to explore the city and all it had to offer. Big mistake.
wrong. I slowly lowered my head to drink, but kept my eyes on the jukebox and saw it begin to slowly raise a gun. My mind raced. I quickly scanned the room looking for an escape, but the jukebox had a clear field of shooting across the entire bar. He was well placed. I was being hunted by orangutans and had walked right into their bait pile! Slowly I began to walk at right angles to the orangutan in jukebox camo, nonchalantly allowing my gaze to slide across him, halting the slow rise of his rifle. I had a feeling that once that gun drew a bead on me, it was over. I sipped my beer and surreptitiously eyed the door, angling toward it as much as I dared without raising suspicion. I knew my nose quivered and my ears were pricked. I knew he knew that I knew I was being hunted and we both moved as if we didn’t. My heart was ready to burst and adrenaline coursed through my veins. I involuntarily crapped my drawers and kept moving. Ten feet from the door, I hear the click of the hammer as he pulled it back. Pure instinct and sheer terror sent my legs into overdrive as I dropped my beer and bolted straight through the door. The muted boom of his rifle reached me one step onto the sidewalk and I instinctively ducked, while feinting to the right, then tearing down the street to the left in a move that would have made Barry Sanders shake his head in awe. I didn’t stop for 6 blocks and it wasn’t until then I realized I had been shot. It was only a flesh wound, a small furrow across my left shoulder that would soon stop bleeding and eventually heal. I looked behind me and seeing a blood trail, immediately loped off down a side street with my shirt bunched up against the wound to stop the blood and end the trail that would lead the orangutan straight to me for the finishing shot. An hour later, winded and shaking, I entered my hotel, fairly certain he had lost my trail. I phoned my travel agent, demanded a ticket home and flew back out that evening. I now avoid that part of the world, whenever possible and pay better attention to every jukebox I come across. 
And in the ten years of my absence, some more subtle things have changed. I remember when DC first launched the Vertigo line. With that move came the advent of adult comic books. Not that there hadn’t been comics around for adults before, but this move really brought it to the forefront. Then, being a grown man in a comic store was kind of weird and a little creepy. Now, it’s perfectly normal.
In the moments of reflection, I'll usually put on some music. Something light like Slayer's South of Heaven or Coltrane's A Love Supreme(Pursuance!) or, as was the case this morning, a little Queen. Before the late Freddie Mercury debauched himself into an early grave (Pot, meet Kettle), Queen were a truly superb bunch of smarty-boots who started a little combo for the express purpose of thriving in the music business. They succeeded, even with Brian May's degree in infrared astronomy, in a long stay at the top of the charts and in the hearts of their countrymen, here and abroad.
So I lost the bet with Ernie and now, thanks to Turtle, I have to write a glowing review of the Fergie Album The Dutchess.
She wants us to start using boys the way they use girls, turning the tables on their mysogynist ways. 
She is obviously losing control of herself and it won't be long until the dude has her in bed doing all kinds of crazy things to her and she'll wake up in a strange place saying "this is not my beautiful house." This song is a warning about the dangers of accepting drinks from strangers in sleazy bars. I applaud Fergie for taking on such a serious subject. 
It's about shoes and how The Man keeps us women down by telling us we need to wear high heels all the time. Most workplaces have dress codes in effect that dictate that a woman pretty much has to wear dressy shoes with heels. You know why they do that? So we can't run from them when they are grabbing our asses. There's something about drinking in here, too, and how men are all ugly unless we have our Vodka Goggles on. 
After an hour of coloring and a half hearted attempt at doing a craft, I decide to move time forward. I turn the clock ahead, tell the daughter it's midnight, and we celebrate the new year with a toast of sparkling grape juice. I make plans to go cry myself to sleep while thinking about the misery that is my life (cue tiny violins).
10:00 rolls around. Fuck this. I'm going to bed. I call my parents to wish them Happy New Year and I sneak in a few passive/aggressive twinges of self-pity, hoping they'll tell me to pack up the kid and come on over to celebrate with them. But my parents have a long-standing tradition since all of their kids were old enough to be out without a curfew that New Year's Eve, being my father's birthday, is their special night and no one was allowed to interfere with it. My father makes this gourmet dinner and he and mom sit in front of the fireplace and sip wine and enjoy the evening alone. We all comply with their wishes because it's our understanding that this is the only night of the year that my father is able to get some from mom. At least that's what he tells us.
was the one who’d hired me a few months earlier at the bookstore. She and I had been getting pretty friendly at work and apparently I was getting friendly with her brother, too. We all laughed once the initial shock wore off and you know how the rest of that story went. 
Needless to say, the entire experience was uncomfortable. Things had been shifted around in the house, like the silverware drawer, so I couldn’t find anything when I went looking for it. The entire place didn’t feel right and more than once I drifted past or into a conversation that related to the size of my balls for even showing up. I quickly grew tired of the whispers and forced smiles that were made my way, so continued to refill and drain my highball glass and make sure that the happy couple was doing okay. I kept drinking more and more, but the simple fact was that this whole situation was incredibly surreal and it kept killing whatever buzz I tried to tie on. After an hour or so, I told Aidan I was going out back for a cigarette. He knew that I had every intention of leaving, so he hugged me and said “Thanks”. 
As soon as she was gone, I called my mother. Don't ever trust me with a secret like that. She should have known.
Seriously people, what is this? Not every word needs to have four or five syllables. Toleration is the worst. What the fuck is so wrong with tolerance? It's one letter shorter, and it's been around MUCH longer. Why do you make me hate? Any vocabulary that has its own generator (No, 
i'm sure we looked like a clockwork orange clown car when we pulled up at 930 f street and skinheads started piling out onto the sidewalk.
Joe: Yeah, good old Atlanta, it’s raining like shit out here but it’s 62 degrees. But I’m from New Hampshire so it’s warm here, it’s not bad weather to me.
It wasn’t because they were off, it was because they just weren’t a good band. I mean, they had that one song that was kinda catchy, but… Green Day came up out of the trenches. They were just schlupping around in their van and just rockin it, you know? And that was the experience, it wasn’t just some band that had been put together and known each other for six months. 
“That reminds me of the singer from Journey.” I mean, when we did it in a punk band at first it was a parody, and he’s a parody of a parody and he doesn’t even know it. He’s back to Journey. They don’t get the fucking joke. And those guys, Lord forbid that you should fucking stand up and say anything, because you make a big target in this day and age…… It’s like when you read a book and there’s a character who goes through an experience from beginning to end and learns something by it…. Your whole agenda can’t be just to go to a show with a purple Mohawk and say life sucks, fuck you, I want to beat people up. I mean, do you learn anything by it? This thug mentality shows that we’ve not learned anything from punk rock; I mean maybe the music has been done so much that there’s just not gonna be another really great punk band, I don’t know. I mean, we’re not great; we’re a good punk band, but we’re not trailblazers. But I will say that we have a sense of humour. 
We have a new album coming out, a DVD coming out, and we’ve been working on a tribute album, I’ve got to get a few more bands together, and that’ll hopefully be out in May. I think we got The Dwarves, The Parasites, Screeching Weasel, New Bomb Turks….. some good bands there. 
Now I'm in Ohio
The phone sucks. But the thing is I am excited for you and I want to share all of that stuff with you. But you caught me at a bad time.
I read journals of other writers who hold down full time jobs (like I do) and run their families (like I don’t) and still manage to keep their output up. 
You need to make a decision about your writing and you need to stick to it. 
Sometime during the making of The Matrix: Reloaded Larry Wachowski left his wife, started dating a dominatrix, wearing women's underwear, and from all appearances...started taking women's hormones.(click the picture to see the larger image) This movie is not about political revolution, it's Larry Wachowski's cry for sexual acceptance. This, I believe, is why Alan Moore ran away from this movie so fast that flames shot out of his ass. The Character V is the master of the movie. He wears a stylized gimp mask, has a secret dungeon where he keeps people, and he likes inflicting pain up close and personal, which is why he carries knives instead of guns. The second most important tertiary character, the TV station manager, is a gay masochist. The entire movie is about people outside of the sexual norm striking out against the sexual standard. I really don't care what fetishes people have. If you want someone to tie you up and shove popsicles up your ass...well good for you, it's just not for me. But if I wanted to watch a movie about someone's cry for sexual acceptance I'd go watch brokeback mountain or my own private Idaho, not something that is sold to the masses as a popcorn-munching, summer, action flick.
I wasn't always like this. I bought the damn game expecting (like many of you) to pop the thing into my PS2 and experience the End of All Things Good About Final Fantasy. I was buying this game merely to complete my collection, and would at least start a game as a formality, with no commitment to finish the thing. I had harbored this notion since I first saw what the battle system was about. It looked like the thing would actually play itself with minimal input from the player. For those "non-gamers" who may still be reading this: imagine it was as if you were about to sit down to play solitaire, and suddenly you realized all you had to do was shuffle the deck and then the cards would start dealing themselves, and you became a spectator of your game of solitaire while the cards themselves carried out the game. In other words the game was Destined to Suck. In the package with Dragon Quest 8 ( a fantastically awesome old school RPG--NES whores represent) there was a totally incomprehensible FFXII demo. My fears had been confirmed.
Then they killed My Guy.
I don't know when I made sense of the battle system and suddenly found it fun and efficient, and not really dumb at all, because after all, in any party-based RPG it's not like you can do anything you can't do with this system. Did I REALLY have total control over all my characters in FF9? No, not really, and battles did degrade into repetitive button-mashing. This just makes things faster and less annoying. One thing I DON'T like about regular RPGs are the random battles. You're in an empty countryside, getting where you're going and then--for no reason whatsoever--there are now up to 8 enemies, some of them HUGE, in your way. Why? Where were they hiding? In FFXII the enemies are always visible and therefore they become another obstacle to overcome. 
The rain comes down it's pouring hard
cross the mountains hit the flats
By in large I don’t think I’m a jealous person. Seriously; I’ve had boyfriends who’ve accused me of not caring about them because I didn’t get upset when they went out with the boys. I trusted them and they weren’t used to a girlfriend who didn’t need to know where they were 24/7. God, I don’t want people knowing where *I* am all the time, why would I want the responsibility of knowing where *they* are – Tell your mother, not me… (maybe this is why I’m single? THAT’s another post *eyeroll*) 
The pragmatic part of me looks at the above paragraph and wonders what crack that side of my brain is smoking, but it will still see the lessons when it needs to. 
Somewhat edgy sounding customer: Well, here’s the problem. I completed the offline version of my project down in Miami and now I’m back in New York and I need to finish it. 
You know, it’s about an eight hour drive from LA to Sacto. One of us decided it was time to run up there and go fishing. Sure, like all things, it seemed like a good idea at the time. Someone “borrowed” a rubber raft. Everyone took our hits of acid and we all crammed into Cara Lee’s Jetta for this trip. What were we thinking… In the front was the driver, Mark. Then me and Billy in the passenger seat. In the back, we had Wally, Cara Lee, Eric, and probably Veg, and in all liklihood someone else stretched across them. Someone small. Chris or Germ. I really cant remember. And there was another car full of people, too, a yellow firebird, with Dirthead Steve driving. 
bathroom. But I don’t get it. I looked around for someone to help me, but I didn’t see anyone. I totally did not fucking get the card thing on the bathroom. Then down the hall came Cara Lee. I’m all, “help help!”. Everyone else was pretty much done tripping by now, except me, and I’m right in the fucking middle of the gnarliest bit of it. “help help” is all I can say to Cara Lee. I sort of waved my arms at the doors and said something about taking a wizz. “help help”. She figured it out for me and I did what I was there to do, and then went back out to the car. 
Dirthead Steve was outside and somehow messed with the motel owners Doberman, and we were promptly booted, cops and all. Still tripping, y’know, so all of this is totally unbelievable to me. We decided to inflate the raft and get to the lake we were going to. That’s another tale in itself. Nevermind. 
Those days of "economy" , however, are over and long gone. Terre Haute today is a horrible mutation, recalling the mythical chimera. Terre Haute is a combination Hick Refugee Camp and College Town. The Hick Refugees (being older, more permanent citizens) actually run the town, so very little accomodation is made for the college students, and because of that the town makes so little money from the students that the Hick Refugees are running the city into the ground. The city has become The World's Biggest Truck Stop, and along the main drag of the town, 3rd street (better known as US Hwy 41) every form of petroleum and junk food imaginable is available. 
Since we were Freshmen in College and thought that at any time we might "run into some Honeys" we made a quick change of clothes. I put on my slightly foppish purple rayon shirt and Runny donned his Authentic Kilt (built to exactly match the uniform of the one Kilted unit in the US Civil War)and matching 100% Authentic beret. I would have pictures showing what this outfit may have looked like, unfortunately the information about this unit is so incredibly obscure it doesn't exist on the internet.
The Beast roared out of the Parkhurst Hall parking lot at 55 mph and climbing, and by the time we reached the highway, my ass was numb enough for me to actually sit back and enjoy the ride. We were riding around with no direction and no destination, Classic Rawk blaring on the radio ( I distinctly remember "Sweet Home Alabama" playing that night) and suddently it came to me-- I was on a road trip. I was in college, on a road trip. My mother had NO IDEA where I was or who I was with. These were heady times. The testosterone of Spring suddenly hit my brain and I had the urge to commit a felony while having anonymous unprotected sex. I was feeling good.
A bumping in the back of the store turned all heads in the direction of the peep show booths. A tall fellow with a rat-tail and a mop was knocking on one of the booths. 
He was gearing up to whiz past when, suddenly, a small, pink form darted right into his path, followed by a snot-nosed Gypsy boy.
I look both ways. Then a cop comes up behind me. I’m ok - I’ve been legal to drive again for three years, I got nothin' in the car I shouldn’t have, I’m insured. Bitchin. Tags are good on the plates. But I’m in a quandary as to how to proceed up the hill with this cop behind me. 
Redd Foxx parties became something of a legend in the houses Jonny D. and I lived in. All in all, we only had five of them. And honestly, I think we might have had four too many. Because sometimes you’ll end up at a party that you remember forever, and some parties end up living in infamy. A Redd Foxx party was different though. These things took years off your life and left you a huddled-in-the-corner mess for a week afterwards. Something that much fun and physically devastating could only be sprung from the mind of Jonny D. 
one by one, the rest of the people I lived with would disappear into the crowd and I knew I wouldn’t see them until the morning. Near the end of the evening, when it was just a few people hanging out and I was wondering where the rest of the housemates had buggered off to, Jonny’d put on the Redd Foxx standup albums that he’d copped off his old man and we’d sit on the floor and howl. The handful of people would eventually shuffle off and Jonny and I would survey the damage. Which was usually considerable. 