Just ran across this quote...

"Keep your thoughts positive, because your thoughts become your words. Keep your words positive, because your words become your behavior. Keep your behavior positive, because your behavior become habits. Keep your habits positive, because your habits become your values. Keep your values positive , because your values become your destiny". -M. Ghandi

Tom and My Sanity

Do you think I first lost this last piece of sanity when I melted the candle over my carpet? I didn’t really mean to. It just started to spill over. Then the colors seemed to mesh so well. I thought, “Hey I’m artistic,…” It turned out that this decision was less than acceptable.

So how do you manage the initial knee jerk reaction “fuck those assholes that don’t shit from shit”. After all, isn’t it their admiration you’ve been seeking or at the very least trained to seek.

I brought this up at dinner the other night with my relatively new friend Tom. His response to the whole issue was not surprising. He is much less an alarmist than the narrator. Tom holds himself in a particular way that perhaps only a middle aged long bearded Jew could. At first glance, he blisters as some unfortunate leftover from the summer of love. But his intellectual commentary relieves him from excessive inane judgment, even for those unwilling to listen. And if pressed, you can really only fault Tom for being a bit too excited about Tuesdays. He fucking loves Tuesdays.

The excitement continues

Don Pedro et al,

Much should be said in response to JJ's e-mail. But I will restrict myself to the following snipe. The balls must glisten. Shave them and all anxieties will vanish. Just ask the J-bird about this!

Wedding Bells

Yes, on November 3, 2007, the P-Dog will finally be domesticated to the ever lovely and assertive, Priya Montgomery Chatwani. I've been hearing a lot of buzz about the big day from ATGR readers, including from our biggest fan, and part time contributor, J.J. Hart. J.J. wasn't sure whether he should attend the wedding or the bachelor party; he was only given the option of coming to one event for reasons that should be apparent from the following:

"Peter, First you failed to respond to my first request regarding flight times. Second, it will not be too hard for me to watch you get married -- good riddance. Third, do I have to go to the wedding, or can I just go to the party? Fourth, it's mean to say things like 'women are always horny at weddings' and then follow it up with 'I wouldn't count on it.' Fifth, even if there are horny women at the wedding, they will probably want no part of me after I throw up on my shirt. Sixth, even if there are horny women at the wedding and I manage not to throw up on my shirt, my penis will be nonfunctional after I've finished reacquainting myself with my friend John Daniels. Seventh, even if there are horny women at the wedding, I manage not to throw up on my shirt and I manage to stay functionally sober, I have sexual anxiety. Eighth, should I shave my testes or leave the woolen coating? These are all the statements and questions I have for now."

All good points J.J. Unfortunately, I have no advice regarding whether you should shave your balls.

Notes on "football"

Before I post on the "The Phoenix Also Rises" and ZJ's new thread, here are some thoughts on seeing Beckham live and in person for a complete 90 minutes plus stopages (or whatever they call it) against Chivas last night:

1. Beckham was clearly the best player on the field . In fact, he and Landon Donovan were the only Galaxy players who seemed to move the ball with any purpose. Beckham also looked more polished and controlled than anyone else on the field; he reminds me very much a soccer version of Jason Kidd in the way that he sees the field and always executes the right play at the right time.

2. Beckham is much scrappier (although more diminutive) than I would have guessed. I sort of invisioned a washed up pretty boy, but he was damn tough out there, not taking any shit from anyone despite being tripped repeatedly and pushed around. He even sparked a fight after getting absolutely taken out from behind. The most surprising thing to me was that Beckham's already the leader of the Galaxy. In fact, I think they've already made him the captain, which sounds crazy considering he's only played a couple games, but not crazy once you watch him play.

3. The rest of the Galaxy suck. The defense gave up two ridiculous goals in the 2nd half, which resulted from bonehead plays. The third goal was basically scored after the game was over. They need to revamp.

4. Beckham looked more frustrated with his teammates than Kobe Bryant playing with a team full of Smush Parkers. He also limped rather severely for most of the 2nd half and basically couldn't run at the end of the game. His ankle is obviously still hurting and I doubt the Galaxy can keep playing him for entire games until he gets better. Of course, they are paying him 3 billion dollars per game, so I can see why they want him out there. Of note, Beckham is very quick when he's not limping.

5. This goes without saying, but Beckham makes women crazy. At least half the crowd was teenage girls. Whenever Beckham touched the ball, a group of girls sitting directly behind us would start screaming at the top of their lungs. It nearly blew out my ear drums. I kept looking back at them hoping they would notice me staring at them with annoyance, only to find a bunch of giggling girls. More disturbingly, Rita, Priya's friend from work, kept saying things like, "Oh my god, Beckham just bent over, I wish we were closer," and "Oh my god, Beckham just adjusted his shorts."

6. Lastly, I was surprised to find that the Galaxy were giving out staw sombreros to mock the Chivas team, which I guess has a mostly hispanic fan base. I found this to be both tasteless and charming at the same time. You would never see that sort of thing at a mainsteam sporting event. I guess it's not as shocking as fans shooting off fireworks in the stadium after every goal, seemingly without any reaction by the security. I think that would land you in jail if you did that at a baseball game.

All in all, it was a very enjoyable experience. If every MLS game were as heated as that game, I would consider becoming a regular soccer fan. Until then, I'll leave it to Jason Hart and the hispanics.

Forgive me for starting something new, and completely ignore it if it's awful. I really haven't a clue...I'm drunk!

I guess I can really only go pee when she sings. Loud vibrant singing. I have her whole damned album on my ipod. In case I am caught out in public. At a wendy’s or starbucks I can blare her “Gentile is the Urchan”, and let out a might fountain at near maximum expedition.

Gary accuses me of mental conditioning. Not just with the bladder thing. Apparently he has been keeping track of seven or eight different things that are supposedly ‘neurotic’ pathological behavior. So what if I like to gargle Kern’s fruit punch in the morning while absorbing Paula Zahn and her news updates. It suits me. I feel more compelled to conquer. Although – and quite admittedly – I am not quite sure what the hell it is just yet.

But don’t you worry my estranged audience member. Your dues will come. Not in the typical form. Rather, you will be perfectly surprised by what happens next. In fact, I can’t imagine that you are anywhere close to figuring out what Gary is going to do after I tell him that they have discontinued his favorite reality show: “the simple life” with Paris Hilton.

And then there’s the tea. I don’t really care what anyone else thinks about this one. It is just proper! If a man wants to have his tea after precisely four minutes and seventeen seconds past the moment he introduced the barely scalding water to the dried leaves, then so be it. According to many Tibetan monks this is within three seconds of the optimal mediation time for attaining moksha. Don’t know where I heard that but I remember thinking that I could trust the girl who told me. And enlightenment does sound nice.

I haven’t been working on that a lot lately though. She (the lady of the 5th thru 11th dimensions according to modern superstring theory) seems to have encumbered me with psychological premonitions. The inornate and nondescript unease that usually chases after you in the mornings after a sequence of unpleasant dreams. I spend most of the day reconfiguring my brain to believe that everything that just happened actually didn’t, and I really shouldn’t be that angry at any of the unfortunate actors. I guess it’s just most disturbing that the most common emotion is anger. Why aren’t these non-sequitur premonitions filled with delight. Just once I would love to have savage romps with the faintly clad austere group of ladies living under paradise’s roof in Malibu.

But at last I must recognize my own torturous demons as they arise. It is not their cross, really nor mine, that must be born. We are just hallowed embryos of an archaic society churning out new recipients for the daily award show. Yes, we spawned this cosmic aberration. Ironically, in attempt to cleanse ourselves of what little we knew about the shitmounds growing around us, we have entrenched ourselves in further disrepair (at least so from the great cosmic eyes previously referred to).

Good Christ I wish I could have as easy recipe for taking a dump as I had when I could here her song for pissing. But no such alchemist has presented themselves….and I struggle. Day after day I spent hours soaking in the birch blond walls, a veritable contingency of overconfident men describing their latest conquests, and by most accounts, the remaining embers of a thriving business practice.

#5 (by JJH)

The monocle was the object of constant derision, which frustrated the boy. The denser of his classmates found its peculiarity simply “weird”. Those more aware felt it to be a pretentious affectation and taunted him with cries of, “Hey, Mr.. Peanut!” To him, however, the monocle was an item of practical necessity. His vision perfect in his right eye but failing in the left, the boy saw no need for a complete set of glasses. Glasses were expensive, and one lens would be a smaller financial burden than two. After months of saving money by sacrificing his daily Astro-Pop at lunchtime, the boy amassed enough to correct his vision. Ridicule he could endure, but physical damage to his eyepiece he could not risk. His brothers threatened it at every opportunity, calling the lens, “a piece of gaywad bullshit” and “fagtastic”.

He shivered as he approached the front door of his house, hoping his brothers wouldn’t notice him. However, as he neared the door, the cacophony of steel, wood and howling boy emanating from the shed grew intense. He suspected that whatever preparations were being made within, they were being made in his honor. A sudden crack from the shed confirmed his suspicions.

The shed door had been flung violently open and standing within was his younger brother Erogenous. Erogenous was wearing work boots, leather gloves, a welding helmet, and an athletic supporter (complete with protective cup) over denim pants; this was what he referred to as his “Battle Dress Uniform”. The boy doubted the likelihood it would pass a military muster.

“Laszlo, you queer fucker! Get your ass over here. We need your help with something.”

Young Laszlo pivoted and shuffled toward the shed, understanding that compliance would hasten the end of the ordeal.

#4

What he admired in Fraulein Eberhardt was simple: deliciously large round breasts and smooth curves around the bottom. Years later, he would think back and realize that she was not an overly attractive woman. In fact, she had wide, square teeth that looked like crude dentures. The teeth of a primate, he thought. What's more is that Fraulein Eberhardt would unwittingly accentuate her large teeth by opening her mouth and running her tongue along the outside of her lower gums -- a gesticulation that caused the liquid in her mouth click and pop in a tedious and unflattering display.

But now he was thinking fondly about Frau Eberhard's strong thick legs and how tightly she could squeeze him. When his thoughts were interrupted by shouts from behind the old shed, he clutched his monocle to make sure it was stowed safely in his pocket.

#3 (By JJH)

These concerns gnawed at the back of the lad’s mind throughout the day, accompanied by a constant uncomfortable tensing of the lower abdomen. He sat reclined in the back row of his classroom, one eye squinted, the other staring dismissively through his pewter rimmed monocle. His eyes glimmered only with the passing of his German teacher, Fraulein Eberhardt. As he glanced slowly up from her navy blue pumps to her grey woolen skirt, his eyes widened and the left corner of his mouth took a sinister turn upward. Then, as she inevitable would, the buxom German glanced downward and shook her head as she gazed at the clammy hand tucked beneath the waistband of the boy’s green sweatpants.

None of the boy’s classmates noticed this interaction, as they didn’t notice him at all. Despite this obvious truth, he felt all eyes in the room searing his nearly translucent skin. Most painful were the eyes of the Lord Baby Jesus bearing down from the manger scene depicted behind him. If only he could convince the Christ child that his innocence was in fact, intact, he thought. The pain in his gut worsened.

The bell rang, the boy tucked his monocle safely in his shirt pocket, pulled his athletic socks over the elastic cuffs of his sweatpants (to guard against ticks, of course), hefted his monogrammed backpack upon his shoulders, and began his journey home. As he waded through the swamps that guarded his home, the reflective thread of the initials LKQ shimmered on the boy’s pack as he dreamt of his commode and his journal. Little did he know his brothers his awaited him and had no intention of allowing the boy the peace and relief of his afternoon bowel movement.

#2

Entry after entry was filled with a detailed commentary on his peers and their interaction. He was reclusive justice at its finest. An hour, two hours, even three passed before he realized that he had spent his afternoon wandering the cumbersome labyrinth of social perception and diagnosis.

As talented as he was, or at least thought himself to be, the young man felt most awkward in his own palpably tense skin. “A proverbial matter” was his most common response to this unfortunate self-awareness. Yet this lackluster response always ached and rattled around his ‘universal understanding.’

The question whose answer eluded him most, however, was whether he was responsible for what had happened or even what ought to happen. How obligated should he feel to both determine his role, and follow thru with that responsibility? Again, these questions were sheltered from serious consideration under the simple “too cliché” defense. "Instinct," he admonished, "has a manner of self-preservation that makes the curious mind immediately uneasy."

The Phoenix also rises #1

From a young age, he was a suspicious and decidedly pessimistic boy. Most notably, he saw pretension everywhere, even among infants who could seem "over-coddled," as he liked to say. Once, in the third grade, a little girl noticed him staring at her painting, which had won a first place award in the school's recent art show.

"I see through your proverbial bologna," he said with a sneer. She didn't know what that meant, and neither did any of the other children standing around him. Nevertheless, the apparent insult made the little girl cry and run to the teacher for comfort.

Similar comments led to him being known as "weird," and, moreover, mean. However, once in high school, his disdain for his peers subsided as his detachment from school and family grew. He was soon an invisible young teenager, of little interest to anyone, including his own mother who had two younger and more promising children to tend to. At least that's what he liked to think as he scribbled into his journal -- a spiral bound notebook that he kept behind the toilet of all places.

Upon Reconsideration...

I hereby renounce C. Billups and T. Prince and remove them from my NBA starting five. What a terrible showing in the Eastern Conference Finals. Prince couldn't score or guard anyone, and Billups made some awful decisions in the clutch. I'm replacing them with Steve Nash and Iguodola. Although, could you imagine Lebron running the fast break with Steve Nash? Just don't see Lebron and Kobe coexisting.

My prediction for best five, two years from now:

PG: Chris Paul (very narrowly over Deron Williams)
SG: Wade
SF: Lebron
PF: D Howard
C: Oden

From SG to C, this is the most physically imposing team ever assembled.

POEM #4 (Wrestling with an Amputated Limb)

having taken on a life of its own
and burdened with self-awareness
it strikes with ferocity

it feels its open wound
and thinks about the torso it left behind

truly self-loathing
it wants you to put it down
but only so that it can strike again

America Here I Am

America here I am
Old me drifting away to a dirty plan
Let me hold myself between my knees

The acrid candor grows
And the proud seek gilded goals

A tried minority screams out loud
As the shelters run down

The feeble minded die
In combat boots, but some are still alive

No one seems to care who they are
As they meter justice weighted by carnal tar

Bloody scabs dot the land
Forgotten soldiers fearless as they stand
America let me hold myself between my knees

Children grow up on the streets
Homeless and the meek grow week

Times are rough but it’s the revival
And fuck I’m sick (of the leveraged bible)

Clergy preaches to the strong
Just don’t forgot to hold on

You vomitous foul gut wrenching abomination.
Feckless imperialist masterpiece of inexcusable stagnation
America, let me hold myself between my knees

Requisition

Indeed I am also tempted to stare,
but it appears that there is nothing there.
nothing that I should see.
Everything else is unfortunately beneath me.

I climbed the tree but hope had left
there was nothing there.
I looked back down but the ground had gone
alas I wish I had my death.

POEM #3 (Blue Musk)

For he is my beloved queen,
A golden light in dreams serene.

Yet above his knees I dare not stare,
Admiring soft, white ankles fair.

It is his eyes that warm the sun,
but of that light, my eyes see none.

My eyes see none, my body lies cold,
A frozen gray mist, a broken clay mold.

POEM #2 (The Secret Crimes of J.H. Murray)

How 'bout it?
You and me, in a tree.
Flipitty-flop, watch me drop.

A liar on a branch,
A liar all his life.

Let it rot in your heart until you die.

Written while listening to intro of "Andy, You're a Star"

Don’t ever hate me bc of what I did...
Don’t ever love me bc of who I am.

I have just done what I needed to do to say...
To say that I wasn’t here for you.
And now I’m sorry.

You wanted to know what it was all about...
We grew up and left the shed door
swinging on rusty hinges.

Hold me tightly bc he’s coming back!

Don’t ever regret it.
Don’t ever regret it.

That’s the life we lived and we didn’t mean nothing but what we said...

And hold me now. Now cuz I think I’m dead.

I AM A GREEN WALLACE

when you cut my belly, I squeemed. irking about the hot plate. no escape. but at last the slender cord filled my hallowed yet corpulent scaling. and then fingers. multiple fingers massaged the creatures out. ha! the trick's on YOU this time!

POEM #1 (Never Again...will I eat at that Restaurant)

upon opening the plated fish
tiger shrimp remained
cold and gray
with heavy cream
that hung like drapes
from the hollow crevice

this is a test

of the emergency broadcasting system. you all will have two marshies for lunch. Goodbye!

Solid moves below!

For your viewing pleasure! And I think Iguodala does need to prove himself in the post-season.

MORE NBA MAILBAG

After the Gold Rush co-founder Zupan Jam weighed in on my NBA starting five:

"The only weakness really lies with Mr. Prince. I would consider replacing him with Shawn Marion or Gerald Wallace. They are (nearly) as good defenders and they have more offensive firepower."

ZP, I like your picks of Shawn Marion and Gerald Wallace. Both are great long-limbed defenders with lots and lots of ups. I thought about both of these guys for my starting five but settled on Prince because his skills are a better fit for a half-court offense. In my estimation, he's the superior passer, ballhandler and shooter of the bunch (though he doesn't shoot enough). Marion is an exceptional finisher, and Wallace is absolutely fearless in taking it to the rack, which is why he gets injured so much. But, I just don't see them being as useful in a structured offense.

Iguodola is an interesting choice, and may end up being the superior player to Prince on both ends of the floor. Some would argue that he's already there. But he still lacks a consistent jump shot and hasn't proven himself as a winner.

Mr. Hart,

Thank you for your feedback. I appreciate your interest in the blog. First, I want to make sure that you understand that I have picked guys who I think would make the best "team," not which guys I think are the best players at their respective positions. I agree with you that Nash is the best point guard in the NBA (although he's not young like you say -- he's 33, almost two years older than Billups), and that Lebron is the best small forward. Here's why they didn't make my team and Prince and Billups did:

1. Defense wins championships. I have assembled what I view to be a lock down defensive unit. Prince (and his seven-foot wingspan) is one of the two or three best perimeter defenders in the league, with Artest and Bowen. But, he presents less of a risk to commit murder than Artest, and is more offensively skilled than Bowen. He would be assigned to the opposing team's best offensive player, which would allow Kobe to focus more on his offensive game...much like the Scottie Pippen did for Michael Jordan. Duncan and KG are both 1st team all-defensive players on the inside, and Billups is the best defensive point guard in the league, without question. Kidd is comparable, but is hampered by bad knees. This group would simply demoralize teams on the defensive end.

Lebron and Nash are average to below-average defensive players for their positions (check out their scouting reports on ESPN.com). This team has plenty of offense (about 90 points) with just Billups, Kobe, Duncan, and KG. Adding another offensive dynamo has drastically diminishing returns, and would only screw up the chemistry.

2. On that note, chemistry. Since Kobe (as much as I hate to admit it) is the greatest offensive force/clutch performer since Jordan, I decided to build the team around him. Of course, he's not an easy guy to play with, so I had to pick players with whom he would jive. Billups, Prince, KG and Duncan fit the bill because they are unselfish and would never gripe about Kobe's 30 shots. At the same time, none of them would cower under Kobe's dominating personality a la Lamar Odom.

Again, Lebron, T-mac, Pierce, and Melo would have problems with Kobe's alpha dog persona and would want to see more of the ball.

Granted, I can't exclude Mr. Nash based on chemistry issues. He brings instant chemistry to every team. But I still don't think he'd be the right fit for this team. Why?

3. Offensive System: With five high IQ ballers and tremendous passing ability at every position, this team would be perfect for the triangle offense, which has brought Phil Jackson nine rings. Nash's unique and creative playmaking skills would be wasted in a structured half court offense and he would be a negative on the defensive end as compared to Billups. Billups is also a very comparable shooter to Nash from 3 point land and the charity strip, and with his size and strength, he can get to the hole whenever he wants. Make no mistake, he is a beast of a point guard.

This same analysis applies to Chris Paul and J-Kidd, who are better fits for run and gun style teams.

4. Experience: Kobe (3 rings), Billups (one ring), Prince (one ring), and Duncan (three rings). While KG has only been to the Western Conference Finals, he plays with homicidal intensity because he wants a ring so bad. He would really drive this team. Anyway, all of these guys would be confident against any team in any situation, and any one of them could step up and hit a big shot, or get a clutch block or steal.

By the way, Nash, Kidd, Lebron, Melo, Pierce, Dirk....zero rings. And Dirk absolutely choked in the finals last year. Nash has never even taken his team that far. One of those two may prove me wrong this year, but until they do, I'm sticking with my 8 rings.

5. Don't buy the hype. The Suns are a joy to watch. Steve Nash is a virtuoso with a basketball in his hands. But the Lakers took them 7 games into the playoffs last year (as did the Clippers). Granted, the Suns were missing Mr. Stoudamire. But the Lakers were starting Smush Parker, Kobe, Luke Walton, Odom, and Kwame Brown. That's right, Kwame Brown. Imagine what Billups, Kobe, Prince, KG and Duncan would have done to that team, or even this year's Suns or Mavericks. It would be ugly. Why? Because defensive is more important than offensive and you need a team that can get stops when it counts.

Hope that helps.

P.W. Howell
Senior NBA analyst for After the Gold Rush

P.S., I'm going to be sipping malt liquor and shooting off my handgun in the
streets of Los Angeles when O.J. Mayo leads USC to its first NCAA Championship next year.

FEEDBACK ON NBA POST

There has been an overwhelming amount of feedback regarding my NBA starting 5. Here's one example from reader J-Hart in Vermont.

"Peter, I was reviewing your blog while bored at work
today and came accross a posting regarding the best
starting five in the NBA. Tayshaun Prince is a
fathomable choice, but a poor one nonetheless (see:
LEBRON JAMES,T-Mac,Paul Pierec,Mello). Your choice of
Chauncy Billups at point guard is baffling and
inexcusable. Nash is the obvious choice, and you
could certainly make a case for either J-Kidd or Chris
Paul. How you could choose Billups over Nash is past
my capacity to understand. I would imagine you make
some argument about winning championships. One ring
does not a legend make, and Nash is young. Plus,
there's no way Billups could run an offense as fast
and creative as Phoenix's. I'm very disappointed in
you. --Hart

P.S. Fuck OJ Mayo"

The Clouded Sage

I can’t imagine being upset. You get mad. Then sad. But why sad? It seems that we’ve mutated. Our emotional constitution requires that we reconsider every interaction from the other’s point of view and calculate, with some unfortunate parameter of precision, how the other party probably felt.

The old cantankerous sort has configured this wretched device to have a minimal pulse. And the morbidly astute suffer as they see sorrow beaming from their friends’ eyes. And yet the reasonable man is unable to corner the appropriate degree of concern to be used as regular machinery.

A crass tale fills context empty atmospheres just as well as a grimace or scowl. But the recipient must decide to what extent these impulses should be filtered. And why is the recipient so responsible? Simply because she must discern the nature of the story teller or shape shifter – what was their intent. And again the blasted vision the recipient holds is to be considered time and again. All as part of a regimen precipitating the matter of choice and consequence.

Wouldn’t it be lovely if everything was instinct? But then what would friendship mean? And don’t forget the opposite is starkly evident. The smile and laugh bear some semblance of attitude and personality. Motion and commotion generate ferver within a bleeding cortex.

In sum, it is a matter of credibility! Outcome based preferences are easily redefined to be all-inclusive.

Yum Yum Land

If only every weekend were so nice. On Friday night, the jubilant J-Bird took the train up to LA with his special lady friend, Marina. I picked them up from Union Station at around 11:00 p.m. and brought them back to the homestead where we shared a couple bottles of red wine. On Saturday morning, J-Bird and I spent an hour or so at the golf course before picking up a pork loin and mojito fixings. Waiting for us at home was 2 dozen steamed blue crabs, cold beer and pink wine. For the next four hours, we picked crab, ate bbq and drank, all the while sitting on our deck in beautiful 85 degree weather. By 7:00 p.m., everyone was in a food coma and ready for bed. It was at that time that J-bird and Marina bid their farewell. I slept for the next 12 hours and woke up to another beautiful day. Priya and I ate pork loin and egg sandwichs for breakfast. The sound of our kisses filled the canyon until the sun set again.

These are the days that make all the rest worth living.

Dreams? Yes dreams. Mostly mine are too disturbing to pass along. I can’t properly embellish the sensible features of them without invoking goblined imagery too obscene and grotesque for most sensible folk to suffer thru. But here’s a dream I had the other night.

I sat in the living room. The walls had been covered with striped felt. Maroon. Then green. And again maroon. Something from the bohemian markets in San Francisco. Two children burst from my abdomen. They were screaming in garbled and synthesized voices. The torn flesh and stretched membranes covered parts of their bald heads. Anger and angst forced them to clench their fists around my dangling interior organs.

All the while I sat. I drank cognac from a large snifter and gently rocked when the fan passed. Really I was enjoying the trumpet music she had brought back from India. The door opened. She had returned. The children shut their eyes and dove back into the gaping wound at my abdomen. The flesh sealed and the scar melted into the remaining portion of my tummy.

In three words or less I would describe the dream: Fucking beautiful.

WORK SUCKS

In this strange dream I had a while ago, I looked down and noticed that my member was just a wispy flap of skin, only slightly thicker than a hair. Panic set in when I realized that I wasn't wearing any pants and that I was in a room full of people who were staring and laughing at me. I tried frantically to cover it up and pretended that what they saw was just a pubic hair and that my actual member was hidden from their site. This was only the second most frightening dream I've had involving my penis.

The worst dream was as follows: I was at a dinner party where waiters in tuxedos were serving hoar-devours on fancy silver platters. One of the waiters came over to me and asked me if I would like to try my own penis. I looked down to find my own limp Johnson on his tray. There might have been a couple others there as well. So I picked it up and wondered how I was supposed to eat it. Then I woke up and vomited in my mouth.

The point is that some weeks are so awful that I would rather eat my own severed penis than go to work.

chaaaaaaarrrrrrrrrrrrlie ;-)

NOT DONE YET...

"You hear that sound? That's the sound of your
bullshit hitting the whirling dirvish [sic] of anger that is
my fan. You are about to find out what happens when
you piss of [sic] 145 pounds of bitterness, rage, and semen.
You are entering a world of pain.

Mr. Dickface Know-It-All Lawyer, I'd like to know how
to post things on that self-indulgent, masturbatory
piece of shit you call a blog.

Mr. Pretty Boy Everything Is All Pink And Squishy
Economist, Make your damn music video. I'll get
famous and bang Playmates and shit. Plus, I like
Ziggy Stardust. Some of us still listen to rock and
roll music and not Eurotrash synthesized techno
bullshit.

In the immortal words of Wyatt Earp brilliantly
portrayed by Mr. Kurt Russell, 'YOU CALLED DOWN THE
THUNDER? WELL NOW YOU GOT IT!!!!!!'

Eat shit and die, Hart"

MORE MUSINGS FROM THE HARTSONG

"Dear Motherfucker, I don't recall giving permission
for you to prostitute my innermost thoughts and
feelings, to say nothing of my covert machinations,
for all to see on the interweb. Take this as notice
that you are temporarily relieved of your duties as my
attorney while I engage a rival attorney to obtain
restitution for the theft of my intelectual property.
After I have taken posession of all your belongings
and assets you will then resume your duties gratis for
the remainder of my life. Also, if you publish any
further communiques, I will castrate you before you
have a chance to sow your conjugal oats."

HARTSONG WEIGHS IN

"It is wise of you to send me an invitation to your
wedding. I was planning to attend whether invited or
not. However, if not invited, I would be forced to
lurk in the rafters of the church until the
penultimate moment of the ceremony at which point I
would swing down to the altar tarzan-style wearing
nothing but hot-pants,cowboy boots, and a backpack. I
would then remove an infant goat from my backpack and
quickly slaughter it with my Rambo knife, spraying you
and your bride with the warm blood of the pure to
demonstrate my indignation with your discourteous
social slight. So, clearly it is in your best
interest to send me an invitation, or a "save the date
card", or whatever gaywad thing you are calling it. I
hope I can join you and Priya on your special day
without bloodshed. Kisses, Hart Attack"

BEST STARTING FIVE IN NBA RIGHT NOW

PG: Billups
SG: Bryant
SF: Prince
PF: Garnett
C: Duncan

This is what has been decided and it is final.