It’s 2:23am and all the furniture in your apartment has been overturned or moved. Mirrors, family photos and curios you once cherished have all been shattered. Cluttered counters are now naked. There’s a hole in the drywall left behind by the coffee mug you dodged just in time. You’re under the kitchen table.

Gasp! Suddenly you remember your $3000 flatscreen TV! You snap your head toward the living room. The flatscreen didn’t make it. It has fallen, dead, a corner of the coffee table lanced through its face.

Your heart beats rapidly, sweat trickles down your temple. You reach up to wipe it away, then realize it’s not sweat, it’s blood oozing from a small gash above your hair line. Maybe you didn’t dodge that coffee mug after all? You’ll never know.

You scurry from underneath the kitchen table and leap to your feet. You head toward the back hallway, your breathing becoming more intense. Your movements growing more animated and furious! You turn to the bedroom and kick open the door. Your ragamuffin deadbeat son sits on the edge of the bed, brooding. You scream at the top of your lungs, “I DON’T KNOW WHAT YOU’RE ON BUT I KNOW YOU’RE ON SOMETHING, GODDAMMIT!”

Next Tuesday night, when you find yourself in the same position you’ve been in week after week, trust the leader in home drug screening, First Check. First Check offers the most comprehensive home drug test kit, capable of providing 5-minute results on up to 12 commonly abused chemical substances: marijuana, cocaine, opiates, methamphetamine, ecstacy, amphetamines, phencyclidine (PCP), tricyclic antidepressants, barbiturates, benzodiazepines, methadone and oxycodone.

When, “I’M NOT ON ANYTHING, MOM! GET OFF MY CASE, YOU BITCH! GOD, I FUCKING HATE YOU!” no longer soothes your nagging maternal instinct that something might be wrong, let First Check provide you with the answers you need.

First Check.

[c] 2012 Russ of America

Ooh, well, la-di-daaa! Albert Einstein?! Physics, not philosophy?! You mean I was wrong? Shit! Thank you, enlightened Facebook friend for posting that quote!

I guess if you can find a super-smart guy saying the thing you already believe, you can really show everybody how stupid they are for not believing in your belief! Take that, nonbelievers! Suck on my turgid Noam Chomsky! Suck on Deepak Chopra, or Tupac Shakur or Chaka Demus or Chaka Khan, or Khan Noonian Singh, or Benny Goodman’s Sing Sing Sing. They say everything I’ve ever felt, but could never say, because I don’t understand physics! Thankfully, genius Albert Einstein has boiled it all down for us! And all you have to do is… wait, what the hell does his quote mean, anyway? “Match the frequency of the reality you want”. So the reality I *covet* has a frequency? How do I find it? What kind of receiver do I need? Is the reality AM/FM or shortwave? 900 MHz spectrum? Is there any frequency hopping? Do I need an antenna of a specific length? Will I need an oscilloscope, a piano, or a kid with braces who can whistle a 2600hz tone? Those seem like some really solid questions that might pertain to physics.

But assuming I know what the frequency is, (Kenneth,) all I need to do is match the frequency of the reality I want– to what? I should match the frequency of the reality I want to me? To my frequency? What frequency is that? How can I use physics to figure out my own frequency? Does he mean I should match it to my own intention? My own “wishbase”? (I made that shit up.) Is Einstein saying if I create the reality I want, I will have that reality? What the fuck does that even mean? Obviously if I create a car in my reality, I will have a car in my reality. That’s not physics, that’s Captain Obvious.

Anyway, none of that shit matters. If you haven’t figured it out already, Einstein didn’t even say this fucking bullshit. It’s a meaningless quote attributed erroneously (and probably deliberately) to Albert Einstein.

Now, it gets slightly more amusing, (to me,) because, of course, the quote freaks never perform due diligence! But when *I* first heard the quote, I was suspicious, so I looked it up. Because as Voltaire said, “Those who can make you believe absurdities, can–” fuck! They’ve got ME doing it!

As it turns out, other netizens were suspicious and discovered that the quote is attributable to some wackadoodle, who “channels” an extraterrestrial being. (Names redacted so as not to send the wackadoodle any traffic.) The original page at the wackadoodle’s website has been deleted, but thanks to Archive.org’s Wayback Machine, we have the answers we seek.

Since we needn’t beat a dead horse, I leave you with the following two related sentiments:

 

Inspirational quotations don’t magically change your life. Sometimes you have to actually DO something differently to affect change. But don’t quote me on that. No, seriously, don’t. Didn’t you get the point of this post?

[c] 2012 Russ of America
(minus the stuff that’s not actually mine)

Sorry Philippines, this will never, ever satisfy a bacon craving. Nope. Never, ever. Not even during the obligatory zombie apocalypse.

[c] 2012 Russ of America

On your last day at work, you’re allowed to try out some those great ideas you had all year long.

No one knows how Sofahenge was built. Some suspect the intervention of the great wizard Merlin, some believe the Druids constructed elaborate ramps and levers to raise this mysterious structure. Yet a small, but growing faction believe it was the work of one man, who happened to be insanely strong for his height, age, and occupation.

[c] 2012 Russ of America  

I asked for a breakfast burrito with salchicha (sausage,) and got this evil, monkey-like monstrosity with hot dogs.

Why do they even *have* hot dogs at a Mexican restaurant?

And why did I eat the entire thing?

Shame on everybody involved!

[c] 2012 Russ of America

“I do defy him,
And I spit at him;
Call him a slanderous coward
And a villain!”
- William Shakespeare / King Richard II

I wish I could remember the name of the person who first brought this bizarre parallel to my attention, but I can’t. However, I first learned of it circa 1996, so I’ve been aware of it for at least a decade and a half, and I’ve always appreciated the intellect that was able to bring these two circles together in this weird hip-hop/literature Venn diagram. Thanks, stranger! And honestly, if you’re looking for something to punch up your cardio workout, I’m gonna suggest you go with Eazy-E. If you’re looking for something to make your hips and/or brain bigger, go with Shakespeare.

[c] 2012 Russ of America

When someone asks you how you’re doing, in that fraction of a second that it takes you to think of which one of your bullshit woes you want to complain about, you should quickly evaluate all of the good stuff that’s going on for you, or god forbid, be grateful to be alive for fuck’s sake! Maybe even take a breath and say confidently, “Ya know, I’m doing pretty good!” You’re goddamn right you are! And if you can’t do that kind of quick math in your head, here’s the super-fast answer: “I’m great!” It doesn’t matter if it’s true or not because *I* don’t care, and neither does anyone who makes the mistake of asking your miserable ass how you’re doing.

And anyway, what’s with trying to bring *me* down? What the fuck did *I* do to you?! All I did was feign concern for your well-being! Does that make me a villain? I hardly think I should be punished by being forced to be your counselor when I’ve got far more interesting frivolities to attend to.

[c] 2011 Russ of America

This year, instead of being a Greedy Gus** and wasting precious coal and gas and oil and electricity to heat your ridiculously huge McMansion or whatever tiny shithole you live in, why not just suck it up and crank the thermostat down as far as it can go? Why does everything have to be 72 degrees with you? Why are you such a “temperature queen?”

It’s time to face some facts. If you are an American adult, there is a 60% chance you are either overweight or obese. (Actually, it’s higher than 60%. I just said it was 60% to make you feel better.) Here’s another fact: you can burn up to 400 calories per hour just by shivering! So the new plan for energy conservation and fat loss is:

* Set your thermostat to 33 degrees.
* Shiver for at least three hours per day.
* Wear sweaters and blankets to keep warm until Spring. The colder it is, the more blankets you’ll have to shlep around the house and that equals exercise!

This year you’re gonna stop being an energy hog like that Greedy Gus I mentioned earlier and stop being a blight upon America’s reputation for its sexy people!

[c] 2011 Russ of America

** No offense to my real life friend Gus, who is not greedy at all. To be honest, I don’t know why I picked his name. It’s totally not fair and I could have removed it during the editing process. But I guess transparency is important to me.

She went on to express a specific fear that as long as Obama is in office, she can’t be certain that she will be safe in her own home or that she’ll be able to eat. So she tucked her newly purchased 12 gauge shotgun under her arm and left, ostensibly to wait out the remainder of Obama’s presidency in shade-drawn paranoia.

Enjoy your hardtack, ma’am.

[c] 2011 Russ of America

If you have a big plan for the future, immediate or otherwise, shut the fuck up about about your big plan until your plan is in some phase of action. And I’m not talking about a phase of action that begins with the word “someday.” There’s nothing worse than a person who rambles on about how one of these days they’re gonna open up an XYZ store and make tons of money selling XYZ. Okay, I guess murderers, thieves and rapists are worse, but people who boast about XYZ are pretty bad too! And annoying! And chances are, you’re never gonna open that XYZ store because you’ve never accomplished anything! What makes you think you’re gonna be the king or queen of XYZ if you can’t even remember to do ABC? Just because you’re okay at DEF doesn’t mean you don’t totally suck at GHI! That’s why you should shut up about it, because you sound stupid talking about the alphabet all day, and everybody hates you and your stupid dreaming.

“Someday I’m gonna lose all of this weight.” Really? That’s a great fairy tale with no story arc and a complete lack of escalating peril. (SARCASM!) Maybe when you finally get off your ass and step foot in a gym, *then* you can talk some shit! And that brings me to my next warning:

If you’ve recently made a big change in your life (started exercising, quit smoking, decided to suck more dicks, etc) shut the fuck up about your new life change until you’ve been doing it long enough that it is actually a life change and not just some knee-jerk resolution you made in a sobbing fit of remorse after a painful night of hard drinking. Whining about how sore you are after your first day of dick-sucking (or exercise) is a pathetic self-indulgence. You need to suck dicks (or exercise) for at least six weeks before it becomes a “thing” that you do, and nobody needs to hear about this shit until you become a de facto dick-sucking guru (or maybe an exercise guru?) and you have mastered the art of sucking dicks. (Okay, I’m not talking about exercise anymore.)

Anyway, I guess I’m trying to say that I’ve learned my lesson and I apologize for all my recent braggadocio about dick-sucking.

[c] 2011 Russ of America

Mark my words: The journey to beauty begins with a complete waste of my motherfucking time.

Here’s a link to the video, should you actually wish to make one of these. :D

[c] 2011 Russ of America

As other fast food venues deliver nutritional facts, or as I like to call it “harsh reality” to their customers, I believe we’ll eventually find that we ALL make better choices. And when that happens, those emergency visits to McDonald’s will be like taking steps down a nutritional walk of shame.

“Uh, Hi. Yeah. Gimme a Super-Tiny tap water. No ice.”
“Okay, so you want a Super-Tiny tap water, no ice. Would you like a saltine with that?”
“OH DEAR FUCKING CHRIST NO!”
“That’ll be zero dollars at the second window.”
“Thank yooooooou.

[c] 2011 Russ of America

“But mummy, which one’s *my* hat?”
“It’s the one with your name on it, love.”
“Wot?”
“It’s the one with your name on it.”
“Then is my name Peterbilt?”
“No dear, it’s Beatrice!”
“Then is my name Heineken or Green Day?”
“No dear, it’s Beatrice!”
“Then is my name Von Dutch or San Diego Padres?”
“No dear, it’s Beatrice!”
“Well then which one’s *my* hat, mummy?!” <stamps foot>
“<sigh> Just take the ugliest fucking hat, princess.”

We’re !!

[c] 2011 Russ of America
Image stolen from HuffingtonPost.com

What’s the better alternative? We should ask them to fill out a form, wait 20 years and PRESTO! — they suddenly become valued citizens, but are now older and ready to collect Social Security? No, I say! Let illegal immigrants join the military. Young ones. As young as the law will allow! Or even younger, if they’re willing to lie about their ages. We’ll send them overseas to fight for our right to party, and they’ll have to *earn* their right to rock and to listen to Elvis Presley records! And when they come home in pine boxes, we’ll let them finance high-interest tract homes in Stockton. And as long as it’s okay with the Homeowner Association, these revered, solemn patriots can proudly raise their American flags on the 4th of July and Cinco De Mayo, weather permitting. But probably not on Cinco De Mayo, because this is America, not your Mexico, goddammit! God bless the United States of America!

[c] 2011 Russ of America

I can usually tell when it’ll happen because I’ll see his or her head turn around and look at me with a touch of concern, but within a few tense moments of my arrival, the person will start jogging, then break out into a full run to try to get away from me.

This totally pisses me off! So in revenge, I run after them, shouting, “I’ve got excellent cardio! I can chase you all night!” And I’ll sprint faster and faster until I’m nipping at their heels. They’ll panic and drop their cell phone, unable to summon help. And because my cardio is so good, I can chase them while staying juuuuuust a step or two behind them, which gives them the impression that they still have a chance to get away! That’s always fun. Finally, they exhaust themselves and become totally fucked with fear. Demoralized, they have to come to grips with whatever silly death they are imagining I will cause them, but still they always make that one last <groan!> cliched, feeble attempt to climb a chain link fence to get away from me! PFFFT! How many times have we seen THAT old chestnut? <groan!> HAHAHAH!

Since my cardio is so good, I’m always right up on their ankles, tugging playfully and tittering as they scream and try to vault over the fence. But they always fail and fall to the ground, blubbering for mercy as I giggle demonically. Then, in a show of inspired benevolence, I’ll tickle them until they hyperventilate and then I’ll leave them with a $75 gift certificate to Barnes and Noble, which I think is very generous of me. And I do this because I want to leave them with an indelible impression of how good and fun and spontaneous and playful and generous the creatures of the night can be!

I’ve got excellent cardio.

[c] 2010 Russ of America

SOPHIE: “<sob sob>”
ME: “Aw man, Sophie’s crying again. I bet it’s about her fucking missing teeth again!”
YOU: “Hi Sophie…”
SOPHIE: “Hey everybody. I’m grateful that I used to have teeth. I miss all the fun stuff I could do with them. ”
YOU: “Oh, that’s sweet of you to reminisce about your teeth.”
ME: “Yeah, that’s rich. Could you please pass the corncobs and candied apples?”
SOPHIE: “I DON’T HAVE TEETH ANYMORE!!!”
ME: “Yeah, yeah. Cry me a river, princess.
YOU: “Hey man, that’s uncalled for! She doesn’t have teeth!”
ME: “Look, nobody wants to hear her selfish bullshit around the sacred Thanksgiving bird.”
SOPHIE: “<sobbing into the sweet potatoes>”
ME: “And stop crying into the fuckin’ sweet potatoes!”
SOPHIE: “They’re yams!”
ME: “No, they’re fuckin’ sweet potatoes! Look it up! If you had any fuckin’ teeth, you could at least do that much!!”

Happy Thanksgiving!

[c] 2010 Russ of America

Then I’d travel back to now, and change this blog post to read, “Remember when I time-traveled to the ’70s and made Chevy Chase my bitch?”

[c] 2010 Russ of America

The Jehovah’s Witnesses were fairly visible in the community. I saw them most often when I was standing at the bus stop on Echo Park and Sunset on the way to work. They too were fairly easy to spot because they wore their best Sunday clothes, walked leisurely down the street in groups, carried leather book bags, stopped frequently to talk to other people, and to hand out lots of copies of Watchtower and Awake! I rode the bus for quite some time, so fairly often I’d spy some Jehovah’s Witnesses walking in my direction, I’d sigh to myself and think, “Oh great. Here we go! A bunch of those Jehovah’s Witnesses are going to gang up on me and try to save my soul. Yep. Those overzealous proselytizers are gonna walk right up to me, interrupt my whole book-reading thing with some cheesy opening line like, ‘So, I see you like to read — have you read The Watchtower?’ And then they’re gonna segue into a sermon about how my soul is impure, that the earth is going to end in a few years, and that there are only 144,000 spots alongside the big man, so I’m doomed to nothingness for eternity! But then they’re gonna tell me that if I act now, I might be able to save my soul, impress the heavenly overlords and score myself a spot in paradise, or if I’m really good, one of those rare 144,000 seats. Yep. Better lay low.” And then those Jehovah’s Witnesses would walk right up to where I was standing, and then continue walking right past me without a pause or hesitation in their step. And each time that happened to me, I was TOTALLY offended! “What?! I’m not good enough to save?!”

[c] 2010 Russ of America

[c] 2010 Russ of America

One tee-ball kid was OCDing over a patch of dirt. I’m pretty sure that he was sorting pebbles alphabetically. Every time my eyes would check up on him, it was obvious that he had zero interest in the game that was going on around him. His dispassion fueled lengthy debates about his commitment to the sport and triggered arguments speculating as to his ability to perform the sport. At some point, because of his intent gaze and furious digging, I became certain that he was trying to dig himself out of the game from pure embarrassment, possibly attempting to seek sports asylum in China.

Saw two kids get beaned in the head with baseballs because they weren’t paying attention to the game. Each instance made me laugh out loud. Yes, I might be a bit of a sadist, but each event was genuinely funny. Neither kid was hurt. Or I should say, neither kid received a concussion. One was wearing a helmet, and the other wasn’t paying attention when she was beaned, so instead of crying outright, she looked around to see if it was worth bleating about. Since nobody was paying attention, she opted out of crying and went on about her day. That was a fun psychological process to witness!

Two outfielders played a rousing game of soccer with a baseball mitt. Another kid just threw his mitt into the outfield for no reason. One of the coaches had to retrieve it. It looked like a typical test of authority to me. In an instant, the coach became that little kid’s bitch. The little kid stood there looking at him as if to say, “Hm. It took you 13 seconds. Unimpressive…”

One kid ran from second base directly to home plate, avoiding third base completely. Efficient! Instead of bringing the ball to third base and outing the batter, the outfielder chased the batter to home plate. But in a twist, the batter juked the outfielder, ran back to third base and slid in safely with no more threat from the outfielder. WHAT THE FUCK?! You can DO that?!

Apparently in Infant Tee Ball, even if you’re tagged out, you are still indulged the privilege of running to home plate. And you get to slide into any base you want, as much as your heart desires. If you want to slide into first when the ball is in deep left field, you can. Wanna slide into the pitcher’s mound? Go ahead! The dug-out? Nobody gives a shit! One kid slid into the nacho concession stand. They tagged him out with extra jalapeño. I understand why the kids are allowed these indulgences. It absolutely makes sense to me. But maybe they could make it a little more fun by adding a water slide or some mud or something?

My Bebbeboo and I were clapping more than any of the parents. It wasn’t a competition, the parents just didn’t seem to care. That was really depressing considering how elated the kids looked when they heard people in the stands clapping for them. They displayed an insatiable hunger for attention and it was emotionally gratifying to give it to them that day.

It’s gotta totally suck to strike out at tee-ball. On the other hand, it’s gotta feel soooo good when there are people clapping and cheering for you when you do something good. Or even if you just got tagged out. Kids need that.

If you’ve ever played Nintendo baseball (and I’m talking old 1985 NES,) that’s how fast the kids run. Tek tek tek tek tek. Anyway, it was a lot of fun and I’m glad I got to witness it. Here is a visual representation of Infant Tee Ball, minus the awesome catches and 96mph fast balls.

[c] 2010 Russ of America

3 minutes 46 seconds. (3.45 megabytes)

Features samples of:
Lenny Bruce – Don’s Big Dago
James Brown – The Boss
Average White Band – Pick Up the Pieces

[INTRO - Lenny Bruce]
Culture changes wherever you go…
Los Angeles…
And very innocently too.
You’ll see big signs.
And think nothing of that kind of a sign.
Now I picture a poor guy who was raised in Los Angeles;
“Ya bastard!” >POP!<

Verse 1 (a la Eminem pastiche)
Ooh!
Fuck Silver Lake,
There’s disease in your wake.
Please give but don’t take
And honor the sake of the residents.
‘Cause that’s why the increase in dissidents like me
Who eschew every muthafuckin’ thing about you.

In your retro-nasty clothes and expensive cars,
Just because you drive an SUV don’t make you no movie star.
You’re just a low-life muthafucka scoundrel with good credit,
Certainly don’t earn no respect and you never get it.
And work is for the working class?
A kick in your ass, you think you suffer?
Shit, I fucking wish *I* had it that good, motherfucker.

And while you ponder the ramifications of your deeds,
I contradict the perceived benefits of your poetry readings.
Fuck bohemians,
Your big-ass cars, and your blow-up dolls.
Your casting calls, and your shopping malls.
Your Lisa Loeb glasses, Taebo classes,
Your quaint boutiques.
Your lifestyle reeks of overprivileged trust-fund bullshits
And silicone tits.
Now if the shoe fits — wear it.
You ain’t got no spirit and you know I don’t wanna hear it.

Verse 2 (Resume Eminem pastiche.)
You trickle into Echo Park and you drive up the prices.
Raising the base cost of the myriad of vices.
Niggers aren’t welcome, ’cause the honkies have made investments;
Jacking up the rentals of even the sleaziest of apartments.
And while I try to find a place to stay,
I’m wasting away,
‘Cause someone said that being poor is fashionable today.

Went to the thrift store to get myself some slacks
They were out because some Push King fans had cleaned out all the racks.

“Let’s go have some coffee –
Will it be Starbucks, Starbucks, Starbucks, or Tsunami?
I think I’ll have a crumpet,
Or barring that, a scone.
Look, I’m really into you,
But I have to take a call on my cell-phone.

Wanna get some sushi?
I’d like to just relax.
We can make out in the back seat of one of my three El Dorado Cadillacs.
No, not *THAT* one, the one with the MOOSE-skin interior.
The cow-skin and the sheep-skin are,
Well… Quite inferior.”

Verse 3 (You act like you’ve never seen a bitter person before.)
I can see the scenario so clearly in my mind,
Some hippie said,
“We don’t have Greenwich Village out here
And that’s what we need — something more refined!”

The hippie-types started moving in and improved upon the scene
As they had done in many cities time and time again.

Well the hippies got older, and as they aged their minimalistic needs grew –
Eventually abandoning their ideals to party with jerkoffs like you.
Trying to break into the biz and play the Hollywood game,
No sense moving out of their cozy wood-sided A-frame.

Up went the satellite dish,
And in came the Escalade
And >BOOM< went the class of the culture
They eventually betrayed.

Incense turned to scented candles,
Wingtips replaced their sandals,
Their lanky frames developed sexy Jack-in-the-Box love-handles

Holden Caulfield was correct,
When he called you straight-up phonies.
Don’t give a damn about the working-man,
Only your lingams and your yonis.
Sippin’ on your single-malt and ice –
Need proof?
I hear your nigga Zack DeLaRocha lives in a Martha Stewart paradise.

Verse 4 (Wind down this Eminem gag already.)
She must be down-to-earth ’cause she recognizes DK,
But now she’s DKNY and claims allegiance to Green Day.

P’shaw girl,
You’re not as cool as you would lead me to believe,
Because I seen you doin’ rails of tweak
And wiping snot on your sleeve.

And your boyfriend,
The one who was always hounding you for sex,
His greatest contribution to your personality
Was introducing you to NOFX.

Well, Silverlakers,
I guess with all that free time on your hands
You’re good at shopping,
And decorating,
And jocking crappy bands.
And lounging,
And parking in those disabled person zones,
And running the only remnants of Angeleno culture out their homes.

Way to fucking go!

A pat on your back.
A pipe full of crack.
Your chin on my sack,
Now please go the fuck back.

I said it before,
And it ain’t no mistake.
From the bottom of my heart,

FUCK SILVER LAKE!

FUCK SILVER LAKE!

FUCK SILVER LAKE!

In approximately 1996 I moved into a hovel in a small Los Angeles enclave called Echo Park. A human rights activist friend of mine from high school invited me into the structure, my first home apart from my parents. At the time, a lot of things were right about Echo Park: I was paying slightly less than half of $450/month rent and the neighborhood was chock full of salt-of-the-earth Latin types. Yes, there were some drawbacks. A new friend of mine, a former computer felon, peered into my bedroom and commented, “This room is about as big as my cell.” He was right. It was ridiculously small and overstocked with unnecessary memorabilia from my youth. But otherwise, living in the barrio was cool. Sure, every third time I’d go shopping at Pioneer Market on Sunset, there’d be a shopping cart carelessly abandoned behind my motorcycle. I fuckin’ hated that! But that was the charm of the neighborhood, I suppose — Old-sk00l apathy plus low prices, great dollar stores and cheap booze!

Over time, the booze got more expensive, and so did the rent. And I was quickly becoming infuriated at all the shopping carts that were being left behind my motorcycles. Mi hermano moved out of the hovel, and a few years later, I had to move out of my cozy cul-de-sac shithole after the newest property owner attempted to raise my rent by more than 40%. But before that went on, the shift in the neighborhood was becoming more obvious. Instead of having to ride my bike past a platoon of gangsters fifty deep, I now had wear hip-boots to wade through a sea of douchebag hipsters who had begun to pollute the streets, in their tight courderoy pants and “unique” eyeglass frames. But were they really doing anything interesting or refreshing, or was it all derivative of ancient style, ancient clothing, and ancient eye-wear? One day it occured to me how ludicrous it was that I was more uncomfortable passing through a gauntlet of inconsiderate hipster jackoffs than I was about passing through a flank of violent gang members. At least the homeboys would nod their heads at me in recognition. Very peculiar.

Also at the time I was writing. I wasn’t writing anything that you were reading, but I was writing. I was logging everything. And I eventually logged a song called “Fuck Silver Lake”, which was meant to thumb my nose at the gentrification, and at the types of people who were doing all that gentrifying. Also, I thought it important to mimic Eminem, because 1) his voice sounds funny to me, and 2) my “normal rapping voice” is atrocious.

Now, I’ve never had any ambition to be a rapper, so you won’t find me selling demo CDs in the parking lot. What’s important is that I can write a little, and sometimes that skill, plus some rudimentary audio editing skills make for good, rhythmic spoken word pieces, which by now you’ve already heard. Hope you enjoyed it.

[c] 2001 and 2010 Russ of America

Cool. So how does that belief system work exactly? How do you fight terror? With guns? If someone’s terrorizing you, and you go kill them with guns, aren’t you terrorizing them back? Haven’t you now doubled the terror in the world? Before you rage on me, you should know that I’m just processing the argument literally. I’m not placing a value judgment on revenge, because hey, I think revenge is pretty awesome. I often practice something I call “pre-venge” in anticipation of you screwing me over. So like if I have a reasonable belief that you’re about to do something uncool to me, I might pre-venge you by doing something uncool first in order to prevent you from doing it to me. A-HA! Tactics!

Terror is an emotion, like anger or hate. No matter what progress you make, there’s always some yahoo who’s angry at something or who hates something. Like me. I hate lots of things. The smell of puppies is a good example; I hate the smell of puppies. Puppies are fun, puppies are cute, but I hate the way they smell — bitter and dirty. It’s not a rational hatred like the hatred of western civilization, but it’s a hatred nonetheless. So how do you fight an irrational hatred? Yeah, you could force me to attend puppy odor sensitivity classes or you could bomb my house, but does that solve the problem? There’s always going to be someone out there who hates the smell of puppies.

What the hell was I talking about?

[c] 2010 Russ of America

But it’s kinda difficult to accept him as a bad-ass when he looks like a cross between hairstylist Paul Mitchell and toilet-scrubbing Mr. Clean. He’s even got a hoop earring just like Mr. Clean! A middle-aged John Travolta’s gonna come to your house and clean your toilet — with a bazooka! Oohsoscared!

People like myself, who have plenty of time to speculate on unimportant things, wonder if the bald look is going to become his new look for a while, and if he is abandoning the much mocked hair plugs or wig that he’s been wearing for a few years. Then again, I really don’t care to invest too much thought in John Travolta’s hairline, so I must politely excuse myself now.

[c] 2010 Russ of America

I call The State of California nuts because they’ve put me in a really stupid position. When I filed my taxes in 2008 everything was cool. They liked the information I provided, they said that everything was kosher, my tax preparation software didn’t send up any red flags, California accepted my e-file. But now California is mad at me. If the State of California wanted a portion of that refund money, they should’ve just kept the shit. This is why I think you’re nuts, California. It’s crazy to give me back a bunch of money that I don’t owe you, and then get mad at me because you think that you’re entitled to a portion of that money that I didn’t owe you to begin with.

I can only imagine the consequences if we treated our loved ones this way.
“Here you go, baby, I bought you a burrito.”
“Ooooh! Burrito! My fave! Here come the fresh burps! Thank you so much for the burrito. Nom nom. MM, that was good.”
“You didn’t eat the entire burrito.”
“You’re right, I have some leftovers. I’ll tell you what: I want you to have the rest of my burrito.”
“Wow, that’s a pretty hefty chunk of burrito. Are you sure you don’t want it?”
“Oh my love, I’ve eaten my fair share of this burrito and I am happy to let you have the rest, as you clearly bought me a burrito too large for my needs.”
“That’s very sweet of you, baby. Nom nom nom nom. That leftover burrito was delicious!”
“Wait, you ate the rest of the burrito?”
“Of course! You gave it to me because you said you’d already eaten your fair share.”
“Well you could have offered me a few more bites.”
“You’re fucking nuts. Get out of my goddamn house.”

Or another scenario at McDonald’s:
“Okay, that’s a Quarter Pounder with Cheese, a medium fry and a medium Diet Coke. That’ll be $15.37.”
“Here’s a twenty.”
“Okay, out of twenty, your change is one, two, three, four, five sixty-three.”
“Excuse me ma’am, you gave me an extra dollar.”
“Oh, you’re right. I’m sorry. Thank you for returning it.”
“You’re welcome.”
“I notice that you haven’t left yet. Is there something else I can help you with, sir?”
“You gave me an extra dollar.”
“Yes, and you gave it back to me. Thank you very much.”
“That’s income. Now you have to give me twenty cents.”
“Are you out of your fucking mind?”
“Yes. I’m the State of California.”

[c] 2010 Russ of America

[c] 2009 Russ of America