“I look you dead in the eye,
Then I spit.
I tell you to your face,
Punk, you ain’t shit!’”
- Eazy-E / Two Hard Muthas

“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

Oh for fuck’s sake, when someone asks you, “Hey man, how ya doin’?!” would you *pleeeease* stop sighing and whining about how BLEHHH you are?

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

8)
Winter’s coming, and you know what that means, don’t you genius? It means that it’s gonna get cold. I’ll give you a moment to collect yourself for not having known that winter = cold.

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.

Instead of hurrying up with her purchase so that *I* could be helped with my purchase of bullets, because I’m all about ME ME ME and was in a real rush to get my hollow-point ammunition, a petite, dotty older lady at the gun store told the clerk a rambling story about how she’s stocking up her food reserves and emergency supplies for the future. There was a hint of 2012 apocalypse in her voice. It wasn’t Mayan doomsday, but more of a New World Order/Illuminati-flavored apocalypse, with a twist of moral decay. She said that when she mentioned her survival plans to her neighbor, he allegedly replied, “I’m stocking up on guns and lots of ammo.”
“I asked him if he’d use those guns on me,” she said. He didn’t answer.” There was genuine concern in her shaky voice.

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

This might seem like a no-brainer, but it’s enough of a brainer that I’ve seen hundreds of people fucking this up time and again over the course of my short, but rich life.

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

Now that some fast food chains have begun to post nutritional info on their menus, I’ve noticed that I’ve been making different, healthier choices. When I go to Subway, for example, I don’t get the tuna anymore, because it’s easily got TWICE the calories of a turkey breast sandwich. WHAT THE LIVING SHIT, TUNA?! I THOUGHT YOU WERE MY FRIEND! IT’S THAT GODDAMNED JERK MAYONNAISE YOU’RE ALWAYS HANGING OUT WITH!

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

It is an affront to reason that an illegal immigrant can’t earn citizenship in the United States by serving honorably in our nation’s military. The DREAM Act suggested 2 years, but I propose a full 4 years. That should be the fast-track to citizenship! And I’m not talkin’ ’bout a romantic sunset beach patrol at Point Mugu, I’m talking about bare-knuckle blood-and-guts combat in one of those countries that writes in pothooks and curlicues!

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

When I walk down the street late at night, which is quite frequently, I often spy someone walking towards me just a few dozen yards away. Usually that person will cross the street to avoid walking past me on that dark street. I can understand why they do that, because it’s scary at night and the news says that you can’t trust a stranger, and I’m definitely a stranger, but that fearful attitude really pisses me off! So I’ll cross the street at the same time they do, just so we’re still walking toward each other again. This makes them uncomfortable, so they’ll turn around and walk in the other direction. But that just encourages me to walk faster so I can catch up with that person! Silly-billy! I mean, hey, you’re an interesting person, right? And you’re walking away from me? That’s weird. Anyway, I’ll cough in an obvious way just to get their attention, so they know that I’m behind them and closing in.

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

This Thanksgiving I’m very grateful for teeth, specifically my teeth. Nothing’s wrong with my teeth. They’re all still there, I just think you have to appreciate the things you have BEFORE you lose them, like your teeth. Otherwise you’re just another one of those people who whine about their crappy life and their stupid missing teeth.

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

If I had a time machine, I’d change my name to Chevy Chase. Then I’d travel back in time to a 1970s taping of Saturday Night Live. And when the news updates began, and Chevy Chase quipped, “I’m Chevy Chase and you’re not” I’d leap to my feet and scream at the top of my lungs, “You wanna bet, Chevy Chase?! I *am* Chevy Chase!” And I’d run onto the set with my ID and I’d show him. And he’d sit there looking all flummoxed and embarrassed because he was wrong, and then the crowd would applaud and cheer “Bravo!” and I’d be a hero, immortalized forever in the annals of television’s most awesome events!

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

When I lived in Echo Park, the Jehovah’s Witnesses would knock on my door every few months on a Saturday morning at 10:30 on the dot. Doesn’t matter what month they showed up, they ALWAYS knocked on my door at 10:30am on the dot, and always on a Saturday. I used to suspect that their canvassing of the neighborhood started at *my* house, on their assumption *I* was the one most in need of help in my neighborhood. Occasionally as a child I had to sell chocolate bars, jewelry, and kaymak door-to-door, so I’m a smidgen sensitive to their plight. And it’s gotta be a rough gig to be rejected 99% of the time, so as a rule I try to be courteous to them, even though I’m not interested in their dogma and I’m eager to get back to whatever sinful thing I was doing just before they interrupted me. I would also try to be polite when the Mormons came by. The Mormons didn’t come by as often as the Jehovah’s Witnesses did, but the Mormons did make an occasional appearance. When either group would knock at my door, I’d usually say something like, “I appreciate your presence in our neighborhood, but I’m not interested in augmenting my theology.” It was a gracious sentiment, but it also allowed me to flaunt my mastery of the words “augmented” and “theology”, and that was a very attractive reason to use that phrase. Generally, I’ve always found Mormons to be pleasant to deal with. That’s a stereotype that works in their favor, I guess. The good thing about Mormons is that they travel in such a non-clandestine, honest way. Unless you’re brain-dead about what’s going on in your neighborhood, you’re gonna notice the clean-cut, (usually Caucasian), bicycle-riding lads in white, short-sleeved, dress shirts and black ties, and then think to yourself, “Mormons are in town. Better hide in the basement!” I never hid in the basement, because I didn’t have a basement. And also because the Mormons tend to be pleasant to deal with. (See above.) I appreciated that The Mormons gave me fair warning. I can’t fully parse their dogma, but I can totally appreciate how they don’t hide. And how they bravely enter neighborhoods they are unfamiliar with.

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

Did you ever pass out, then wake up an hour later, realize that you left a load of laundry in the washing machine and that you’ve gotta wait another hour for the dryer to finish drying the clothes because you don’t want wrinkles, so you have to stay up while the dryer dries so you don’t forget to get it, and then you pass out again and wake up at 5 in the morning and go out to the dryer and your clothes are dry and totally cold and you stuff them into a bag and get them back to your house and dump them on the couch and haphazardly spread them out so they don’t wrinkle, but it’s too fucking late because your clothes are totally wrinkled and you’re tired and ready to pass out but you know you’ll never get a good night’s sleep because of all that laundry shit and all the other stress in your life but on top of it your clothes are wrinkled too?! Yeah, that happened to me again tonight.

[c] 2010 Russ of America

I attended my Bebbeboo’s nephew’s Tee-Ball game a few weeks ago. The team was comprised of kids 4-7yrs old. I don’t know how to describe the experience other than as “frustrating hilarity”.

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

I was reading an article on CNN.com today and I made the mistake of browsing the comment section. Some dude posted, “There is no compromise with any Terrorist organization until they are fully eliminated from the world, then we can have a peaceful life.” [sic] I assume that he wrote these words with a straight face. There is no doubt in my mind that the poster believes it is possible to remove all terrorist organizations from the world.

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

John Travolta is in a new movie called From Paris With Love and he plays a tough guy or something. “A WHAT?! John Travolta as a tough guy?”
I guess. I dunno.

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

The entity known as The State of California is nuts. They’re mad at me because, I guess, in 2008 I didn’t declare my tax refund as income. I’m not sure how it qualifies as income. I didn’t have to work for it. I didn’t have to hustle or fight for it. I just typed in some numbers and they sent me a bunch of money. That qualifies as income? How do I do it again? Is there a website I can go to where I can keep typing in numbers and the State of California will send me more income? I don’t mind. It took me about an hour to file my taxes and they sent me a cool thousand bucks. I’d DEFINITELY do that again.

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

I don’t understand this tip-your-mailman-at-Christmas shit.

The mailman never brings me any good news; He only brings me garbage and bills. Sometimes he brings me the latest information about local savings on fresh chicken thighs, but that’s hardly his fault.

I know, I know, I shouldn’t shoot the messenger. So I won’t! I will NOT shoot the mailman. But if you can’t SHOOT the messenger, you also shouldn’t have to TIP the messenger.

Anyhow, I have a moral objection to tip any government employee who can’t either get me out of jail or legalize something, and who has a retirement plan and full medical. Maybe I’ll give him some chicken thighs.

[c] 2009 Russ of America

Recently, former Alaskan Governor and future presidential wannabe Sarah Palin was spotted in Hawaii wearing a 2008 McCain presidential campaign visor with McCain’s name blacked-out. “Incognito,” Palin said, was the look she was going for. Because there’s nothing visually peculiar about a woman with a giant blotch of magic marker on her hat, right? Nothing that would make you do a double-take and ask, “What the fuck does that shit say?” And it’s not like Hawaii has any gift shops where a wealthy, famous person could buy a new visor or anything. But she wasn’t dissing John McCain — that’s a fact. When *I* cross out the names of *my* friends, it’s cool because I’m from the WEST side and you’re probably from the EAST side and we both do things differently, right?

Anyhow, I’m not certain Ms. Palin knows what incognito means, so I will take it upon myself to help elucidate through sarcasm, satire and condescending language.

If Palin had completed her first term as Governor of Alaska, it’s conceivable that her undercover state troopers would be super incognito driving this:

And undercover Juneau Police officers might look like this:

“I’m just a regular man in a solid-black outfit driving a regular Crown Victoria with decals of mountains on it….
KEEP YOUR HANDS WHERE I CAN SEE THEM! GET ON THE GROUND! DO IT NOW!” [taze taze taze]

And if Mayan doomsday predictions don’t come to fruition and we’re all alive in 2012 to vote for Palin, what might her cryptographic presidential correspondences look like?

And finally, I’m a helpful lad, so here are two disguise recommendations for Sarah Palin’s Project Incognito. How about this attractive visor?

See? It says quite clearly that you are NOT going rogue, so nobody would assume that you are Sarah Palin. And then there’s my favorite:

Palin hates varmints, right?

[c] 2009 Russ of America

Tiger’s got 99 problems, but unlike Jay-Z, women seem to be all 99 of his problems. This is my official acknowledgment of the whole Tiger Woods affair — Excuse me, I meant situation — The whole Tiger Woods affair situation:

“Blah blah Tiger Woods, blah blah, rock star?! Blah blah he think he is? Robert Plant? Blah blah Eazy-E? Blah blah, golf? Are you kidding me? Fuckin’ golf?!”

Tiger’s women troubles seem to have been foretold by a “Make It Shine With Brawny” billboard at Disney’s California Adventure, which my Bebbeboo happened to notice. Now I understand why Tiger Woods always looks like he’s about to cry!

Photo provided by Monkeyjenn of Flickr via Creative Commons License. Thanks Monkeyjenn!

 

[c] 2009 Russ of America (and Monkeyjenn)
Note: The following photo has been Shooped. You can tell by the pixels. I added the Nike logo and I
Caucasized the woman in the foreground, because Tiger prefers it that way. She looked bi-racial, but I figured that
for this post she could stand to get closer to her Caucasoid roots for a minute. I know that’s socially illegal and
potentially ethnically insensitive, but I also think my good Photoshopping is deserving of praise.

Esteemed television actress Meredith Baxter, who portrayed Elyse Keaton on 1980s hit sit-com Family Ties, recently revealed during a slightly awkward Today Show segment that she is a Lesbian. But for those of us who have been following her IMDB history over the years, this is no new revelation. Why, just looking at the names of some of the projects she’s worked on over the years, it is clear that she has been trying to tell us something for a very long time:

Bound by a Secret (2009)
“Half & Half” (2004)
The Wednesday Woman (2000)
Let Me Call You Sweetheart (1997)
“The Rosie O’Donnell Show” (1997)
Betrayed: A Story of Three Women (1995)
My Breast (1994)
A Woman Scorned: The Betty Broderick Story (1992)
Bump in the Night (1991)
Jezebel’s Kiss (1990)
The Kissing Place (1990)
Kate’s Secret (1986)
The Two Lives of Carol Letner (1981)
Little Women (1978)
“Police Woman” (1976)
The Impostor (1975)
The Stranger Who Looks Like Me (1974)
Stand Up and Be Counted (1972)

But LULz aside, congratulations Ms. Baxter for having the courage to talk publicly about your private life. This blog and its sole writer wish you and your partner success, happiness, health, legions of support and good fortune.

[c] 2009 Russ of America

This post is a derivative, friendly RIP-OFF and a tribute to Garfield Minus Garfield.

Russ of America