[VERSE 1]

Wasabi, wasabi, wasabi, wasabi, wasabi, wasabi
Loitering in the work lobby is one of my favorite hobbies
My posse be Bobby and Robby and Favi and Javi and Rodney
Javi is Salvi, he rides in Mojave, Bobby’s got a Scottie and he speaks Punjabi
So sorry, I forgot to make copies and coffee so I got fired from jobby
I’m foxy, I cook on Hibachi, the old school I embody like I was Hitachi
Or back in the days of Atari approximately when computer disks were floppy
In Abu Dhabi, my money’s too wobbly, I’ll probably stop selling my body
Spun out my Ducati while racing Bugatti and watching Jumanji
Slid like ice hockey, rode the tsunami, next time I’ll get a Harley
I’m bobbin’, I’m mobbin’, I’m sobbin’, I’m robbin’, your mama’s a goblin
Hi-yo, Kemosabe, Have some Pocky and sake with Ken Watanabe

Wasabi, wasabi, wasabi, wasabi
Burn your tongue, man; we hot like tamales
Wasabi, wasabi, wasabi, wasabi
We get our jollies from watching your follies

[VERSE 2]

Wasabi, wasabi, wasabi, wasabi, wasabi, wasabi
I karate with Pilates hotties and oddly saw Paul Giamatti
Wore huaraches in Audis, I’m outtie with gaudy knock-kneed mommies
Polly pops Mollys in Raleigh with froggies and doggies and hoggies
Met Somalis in Mali, they said I was fobby and my back was too soppy
Boss said my first draft was sloppy and that my copy was choppy
So I drowned my sorrows in toffee and Yahtzi and beer that was hoppy
Returning this burger, this bun is too poppy and these fries are too soggy
Drinking Bacardi on tardy safaris, peaceful like Bob Marley and Mahatma Gandhi

Wasabi, wasabi, wasabi, wasabi
Wasabi, wasabi, wasabi, wasabi

[VERSE 3]

When I first heard “Versace, Versace, Versace, Versace, Versace…”
I went kamikaze on Kawasaki canaverseray, and moved to Karachi
That song is ungodly, part of me knew it was written by no literati
Too simple, too raunchy, too tawdry, too tacky, motley like Liberace
Medulla oblongata got foggy and groggy, So sick, I need anitbodies
These dudes wreck the art, all sloppy and shoddy, like a boxy jalopy
All cocky, sayin’ poppycock worth less than tchotchkes and botched keys
All that moxie got them off track like a volley of derailed trolleys

Godspeed.

Wasabi, wasabi, wasabi, wasabi, wasabi, wasabi
Artists, aim high like Lockheed. Watch out for traps set by industry Cosbys
You’re too creative to be lazy, grind in lobbies like mariachis
Keep your shit tight, in sequence like your name’s Fibonacci

Wasabi, wasabi, wasabi, wasabi
Wasabi, wasabi, wasabi, wasabi

The other night I played Russian Roulette with a firearm loaded with thoughts and dreams.
Pragmatic observation tells you it misfired.
The sooner I try to end the pain, the longer it stays.
But the world around me claims that it ain’t my time to die.
Wise others say otherwise.

Aquarius I am, water bearer to the world.
Why then am I thirsty?
Dehydration, I hear, ain’t the most pleasant of ways to go.
Glad I got some quarters in my pocket ’cause Lipton Brisk iced teas sell for 25 cents in Hell and I’m gonna need some.
Thank God.

God thinks. In God we trust.
But God doesn’t trust us. Just us.
I wouldn’t either.
Angels and Devils look alike to me.
Plus, the words “halo” and “horn” both begin with the letter H.
Hmmmm….

Driving.
I switch lanes accidentally between the occidental lane and the lane on the right.
I parallel park between good and evil.
But I still seem to get a ticket.
I’m always a little bit over the line.

So I traded in the ride for a pen and some paper.
But what good is that gonna do?
Is jotting down some words on a flat piece of processed wood gonna make my life better?
Writing poems to myself or others supposed to save me? Reverse the downward spiral my life’s taking?
Don’t think so. So don’t think.
2 heads are better than nothing. And I mean nothing.
2 heads only equal twice as many headaches and mental clutter.
I can do bad by my damn self.

I go off the beaten path, hoping to blaze a new trail of innovation.
Ending up only in the Neverglades with empty tanks of gas, momentum, and inspiration.
Incineration would probably be the best thing.
Might as well. I’m already burnt out.
From thinking how I could better society in my little way.
But trying to better society in little ways has the same effect as trying to raise the water level by crying in the ocean.
Or blowing into a hurricane so that it’ll change directions.

This blows. The list grows. Dismiss woes.
Society laughs last and loudest at those who don’t matter.
And since my progress regresses, this poem is really worth less than the piece of paper it’s written on.
Matter of fact, the only fact of this matter is that this whole thing doesn’t matter. Neither do I.
Trying’s like dying.
And I just don’t care anymore.

//  May + Sept. 16, 2003  //

We thought there was enough time
We were fools from the start
Moths attracted to a fickle flame
We’re gonna die young

Beautiful tragedy, sweetest poison
Killing a piece of me every day
Forever’s too short for love
We’re gonna die young

Songs of the immortal swim in air
Plush promises soften all hearts
Listen for eternity’s empty boast
We’re gonna die young

Remember when we were carefree
Shooting holes in the night sky til it bled sunshine
The new day dawns upon a setting sun
We’re gonna die young

Peering into your piercing eyes
Tracing your palm with my fingertip
Clock’s hands mold wrinkles in time
We’re gonna die young

Hope doesn’t live in this space
You can tell by the void in this soul
The bond we share has to sustain us
The more we love, the more we lose control

Speeding through past lives
Slowing down to breathe in all of you
Exhaling reflections and introspections
Scenic routes of you on lazy Sundays

Through all the good times
Through all the years, old and gray
I wish we had even more days
We’re gonna die young

When I go to post office, it seems like I’m always stuck behind someone who has never been to the post office before. They don’t know how to mail locally, domestically, or internationally. They don’t know where the tape is to seal their packages. They don’t know how to fill out any of the mailing labels or customs forms. These people are about as useless and outdated as…the post office.

Taken me a few years to figure this one out, but one of the people in my building smells like a racehorse zebra copulating with a gorilla that’s been doing jumping jacks for 5 hours straight while consuming a deadly mix of corn chips, vinegar, ass mildew, and 3-week-old egg salad.

Is it me, or do a lot of cat people have hair down to their ankles?

A few weeks ago, someone in California won the $1.6 billion Powerball drawing. There were 6 winners in Cali, Florida, and Tennessee, all receiving $528.8 million before taxes if they take the 29-year annuity, or a lump-sum payment of $327.8 million before taxes. The night of the announcement there was a ton of people cheering and going nuts at the Chino Hills 7-Eleven where the winning lottery ticket was sold. Why are all those people gathered around that 7-Eleven? They didn’t win. That’s like everyone going to Jerusalem and cheering and partying around the manger. That don’t mean you’re going to heaven, fool!

Can you have a headache when you are a headache?

I love how people bring their kids to work like we’ve never seen kids before. It’s almost like they’re saying, “Here, people, this is an example of a perfect, beautiful, obedient child. Take notes.” Sometimes there’s a smugness that accompanies these particular attention-seeking types. I don’t mind parents bringing their kids to work every now and then. Sometimes a parent has to. Baby sitters and the grandparents aren’t always available. However, if you’re going to bring your kid just to show off that measly runt in front of everyone because you’re insecure and you need a trophy to flash around to prove to us all that your sex organs and piping still works, then leave that kid at work so a real, more humble, more appropriate person can raise that kid up to be a decent human being, hopefully diverting the predestined route of his or her unfortunate gene pool.

Heard this joke from Deon Cole recently. Comedic gold:
“When I moved out to LA they told me I had to work out. I was, like, I don’t wanna do that. They gave me this trainer, and the dude was, like…The most important thing is, you can’t eat late at night or you’ll get fat. And I’m, like, forget that, you supposed to eat late at night. He was, like, No, you not. I’m, like, Well, why they put a light in the refrigerator?”

Girls don’t drink coffee with one hand. They tend to hold cups of coffee with both hands, which is weird because the cup ain’t that heavy and it’s 88 degrees outside.

Irony. Chapter 11 Books filed for Chapter 11 bankruptcy in 2005.

My friend’s grandfather was famous for saying, “It’s not the cough that carries you off, it’s the coffin they carry you off in.” Ironically, he died of a coughing fit/natural causes.

One day, I plan to meet a Filipina Girl Scout and order some Tagalongs in Tagalog.

Half-ass is always a funny term, as opposed to whole-ass. How about quarter-ass? Eighth-ass? Sixteenth-ass?

There’s an insurance agent in LA called Fred Loya. With that last name, you’d think he was born to be a lawyer.

Aspirin: It’ll heal your pain and kill your brain.

A midget giraffe is still 10-feet tall.

I need stronger pillows. My head flattens them all. There’s not a pillow in existence that can withstand the crushing, slow beat-down my head deploys on these soft, cottony clouds of sleep. I wear them all down. Down feathers, memory foam, whatever. This head of mine is a brown bowling ball, and pillows don’t stand a chance.

If you’re racist toward everyone, then you’re treating everyone fairly. Therefore, being racist toward everyone is not being racist.

My friend told me that he and his girlfriend went to a Latin dance club over the weekend. He remarked on how everyone was dancing Bachata. I’m familiar with Bachata from a trip I took to the Dominican Republic, so I asked him was it popular in Honduras, where he’s from. He gave me a puzzled look. I gave him one back. Later on, I found out that he didn’t hear me say Bachata. He heard “patata.” So we had spent about 5 to 10 minutes trying to explain and understand — in his broken English and my broken Spanish — that I was interested in the popularity of a dance in his home country, and not the popularity of Honduran potatoes.

Just where do you expect a walking, truck-driving skateboard to go?

The word cuisine rhymes with the word green and mean. Everyone knows this. Despite this, I think cuisine, on occasion, should adopt the long-i sound in place of the short-i sound. This should occur in special sentences, such as “I shall dine on this fine wine and sublime cuisine.”

I write.
I write just because.
I write for the hell of it.
I write for the smell of it.
I write for love and hate.
I write for war and peace.
I write for kale and bacon grease.
I write for grace and mercy.
I write to fight for rights.
I write freely to free everybody.
I write because corrupt cops can’t arrest words or my development.
I write because I don’t always feel like talking.
I write when blind justice peeks from behind her blindfold and plays favorites.
I write to get out of poverty while chastising the rich.
I write for my dirt-poor people living on dirt roads.
I write for those in dirty shacks with dirty intentions of getting away cleanly.
I write because I feel like saying something.
I write because I feel like saying nothing.
I write because it’s 4AM and I need to start making words.
I write and read because my ancestors were hung if they tried to read and write.
I write so my ancestors can speak through me to the unborn generations of us.
I write because I feel like hearing laughter and seeing smiles.
I write to piss off those who need to be pissed on.
I write for the brothers and sisters who ain’t make it, forever in our memories.
I write for the people.
I write for the knowledge.
I write for the ignorant.
I write for the silent.
I write for power.
I write because I’m bored of the world.
I write because I want to be godlike and create new worlds.
I write the rules only to break rules.
I write to deconstruct nonconstructive social constructs.
I write for my life because day jobs suck.
I write to meet my muse for drinks at that rooftop bar.
I write at night so my pen scribbles out an aurora borealis for all to see.
I write in traffic jams so at least the story in my mind moves forward.
I write to have an excuse to drink coffee, eat fried dough, and watch people.
I write because a lot of talkers call themselves writers.
I write for us even when they try to stop me.
I write because it’s too hot outside and nothing’s on TV.
I write to keep myself from strangling assholes.
I write when I feel nostalgic about future events.
I write because I feel like growing a beard this year.
I write in reaction to your reaction.
I write now to give my future self notes.
I write because I imagine a world where JFK, Lincoln, MLK, and Malcolm X shoot back.
I write I want to skydive so I can skywrite.
I write because I proofread graffiti.
I write outside the margins marginally to mar gens that don’t suit the agenda.
I write on the page to watch it come to life on the screen or stage.
I write because it’s 1AM and insomnia’s got me in a rear naked choke hold.
I write to focus my energies on synergies with my fellow creatives.
I write to meet the green fairy on absinthe-fueled evenings.
I write because I rather be down with the literati than the glitterati.
I write because the sky is blue and the grass is green.
I write to pay bills.
I write to display skills.
I write because there needs to be a record.
I write because I feel like it.
I write because I can’t imagine not.
I write to be.
I write.

Hey Reader,

Obviously, you have nothing better to do. I’m guessing you just finished binge-watching your favorite show, and now you need something to occupy your time while your muster up enough strength to rise like a fat phoenix from the couch. Or maybe you’re just surfing online, went down a wormhole, and crashed onto the shore of this here blog. Either way, or whatever your reason for visiting, welcome.

As this blog enters its tenth year of existence, I felt it was time to reflect and just type something other than my typical fare. I don’t really have a mission statement for this thing. If you were to take my first post as an indication (“Guess I’m the only writer on MySpace that hasn’t blogged a word yet. Maybe I should start soon, huh? I will. Just not today.”), simply making a statement was a mission.

Yep, that’s right. This blog started in 2006 as a MySpace blog. I eventually transferred it over to WordPress. Had to. By that time, MySpace was garnering a reputation as a mecca for pedophiles and ne’er-do-wells, so your boy had to bounce. The blog was created for two reasons: 1) to give my mind a canvas to wander and roam in order to not go completely manic worrying about my baby brother who was losing his fight with cancer, and 2) because a friend convinced me that as a writer I should, you know, write. I was hesitant about writing on this digital format. I was old school, for real. Scribbling on notepads, napkins, and on the back of receipts was more my speed. But that speed was proving to be too slow. I had to catch up and get with the times.

I didn’t want to do a typical blog. You know what I’m sayin’? The kind of blog where the author talks about what’s on her or his mind EVERY DAY. That wasn’t for me. I’m going to be real with you. I don’t have that much to say daily. Nope. Sorry. Can’t do it. What I tend to do is jot down observations and thoughts over a period of time, usually a month or so, and then I introduce them in a single post. That’s about it. Nothing fancy. No frills. There are hardly any pictures. Hardly any hyperlinks. It’s 99.99% text. So if you didn’t like words and/or reading, then you wouldn’t dig these monthly brain farts. It doesn’t matter. These days, I’m too nonchalant to raise my blood pressure about someone’s dislike of something written here. You can’t see it, but I’m shrugging.

I don’t always have the most popular, hippest, most sensitive, or aesthetically pleasing viewpoint on certain topics. I seriously joke and can be jokingly serious. Shouldn’t matter. We’re all on this planet for a short time anyway, so enjoy yourself. Learn to laugh more. It makes the road a little less bumpy. Who knows? Maybe this thing will go on another decade. However long the journey lasts, wherever it takes us, I can promise you one thing. I’ll continue to blog about stuff that’s weird, insulting, dumb, and useless as long as you 3 readers out there keep on checking it out. Thank you for your continued support and whatever else I’m supposed to say at the end of a letter like this.

Until next time…

Someone was talking a lot in a meeting at work the other day. During this time, this word randomly popped up on another attendee’s screensaver:

ECHOLALIA:  In psychiatry, the uncontrollable and immediate repetition of words spoken by another person.

—

That awkward moment when you’re having a conversation with someone and they’re going on and on about their family and dropping names here and there and then midway into the conversation you realize that they’re talking about their pets.

Have you ever seen gloves in the glove compartment these days?

Overpackers are almost the worst people on planes. Only behind screaming babies, loud people, smug parents, first timers, old timers, and terrorists.

Are canine teeth on canines still called canine teeth?

It’s only fair. If you almost hit me with your car and then give me that obligatory “oops, my bad” wave, then it should be perfectly legal and socially acceptable for me to pull out a gun, fire off some rounds at you, and give you an obligatory “oops, my bad” wave.

The stereotypical SoCal/LA/OMG/Valley accent must go. It’s one of the worst things about this country. After nearly 12 years of living on the West Coast, it still is the verbal fingernails-on-the-chalkboard for me. In that period of time, I have trained myself to go temporarily deaf whenever I hear it so that I won’t hear it.

I once overheard a group of girls talking about their health issues. One of them said that her doctor suggested that she get an IED implanted in her uterus. I’m pretty sure she meant to say an IUD. An IED is an entirely different thing and would hurt more than she could imagine.

Using that logic, Fallopian tubes would be renamed Fallujah tubes.

So I downloaded this law firm’s car crash app for to see if it would work. It crashed.

One-ply toilet paper is worthless. It’s like trying to jumping on a trampoline made of cotton candy. You’re gonna bust your ass. And possibly scratch it.

Why the hell do we call it goosebumps? Ever seen a goose with bumps? I think not. Pretty sure that they’ve conquered and evolved past their acne problems.

Saw a painter drinking malt liquor on the bus one morning. Wherever he’s working today ain’t gonna like look he did a very good job.

I once heard someone say, “No, don’t nobody speak no English no more,” thus accomplishing the rare, triple axel, bunny hop, Quintuple Negative.

I’ve watched all The Hunger Games movies on a full stomach.

What is it with techies and food? The names of various food items are littered throughout the tech industry. Cookies, bread crumbs, Apple, cupcake, doughnut, eclair, froyo, gingerbread, honeycomb, ice cream sandwich, jelly bean, lollipop, marshmellow, byte, chip, BlackBerry…I’m getting hungry now.

Dick is a nickname for Richard when we all know good and well that it should be a nickname for Dichard.

Ever hear someone’s sneeze that sounds like a vacuum cleaner starting up?

Things I’ve actually said to myself:
“C’mon, stupid phone. Connect to this damn WiFi.”
“Tears are salty. Too bad they aren’t sweet. We’d all be crying on purpose so that we could taste those sweet, sweet, sugary tears rolling down our cheeks.”
“E.coli sounds like the name of a rapper.”
“Legend…Leg End…shoes?”
“This potato salad is uppercutting my stomach.”
“Whew! That one was stanky. Lay off the asparagus, D.”

Why do we say that pregnant women are expecting? Do we think that the baby has different plans? You expect dinner guests to come over dinner. We expect it to rain tomorrow. We expect the evening news to come on at 5 or 6pm. It’s pretty much a done deal that the baby will be coming out of you, ma’am. It’s not like your baby’s going to come out of someone else. “Those poor Johnsons were expecting a bouncing baby boy this weekend. Too bad he decided to come out of Mrs. Whittenberger down the street instead.”

The term copycat is strange. When’s the last time you saw a cat copying another cat? Speaking of cats, this is so desultory.

What happens when you say “jinx” after two people have said “jinx” at the same time? Does the world explode? Do planets’ orbits reverse? Or do two loudmouths just have to STFU, according to playground rules?

BEKDAW, BAKDAW, BIKDAW: when a non-English speaking person yells to the bus driver to open up the back door

VICEA VERSA: the wrong yet very common way of saying “vice versa”

What’s the point of toll roads? Are we paying for this road to be built? It’s already built. Heard it can be as much as $20 to get into NYC these days. Is NYC a nightclub now? Am I paying cover to get in this bitch? Is there a two-drink minimum? The toll booth guy’s gonna hand me some Scotch? Then I’d be drinking and driving. He better not expect me to tip him. My tip is in that toll fare.

Unmentionable firsts and world records: The first woman to have sex with a male member of the Chevrolet family in a Chevy probably didn’t realize that she was the first to have a Chevy inside her inside a Chevy.  Also known as Inception Conception.

No topless strippers in NOLA. Yup. It’s true. Well, at least not in the French Quarter. New Orleans is universally known for being a mecca of topless visitors and flashers who make the exodus there for Mardi Gras. So this policy makes zero sense. I can imagine the mayor or club managers saying, “Now all you perverts keep that evil booby-flashing stuff out in the street, not here in this a-here fine respectable establishment.”

Promiscuous sounds like what you would call someone who makes way too many promises.

Was thinking about starting a blog or site called DeLane in LA. After a quick bit of research, I scrapped the name. Looks like there’s an escort service with the name DeLaine in LA.

One of my favorite sayings for utter nonsense is stating that something makes about as much sense as a screen door on a submarine. I’ve never seen a submarine with a screen door, but I have attempted to hurl a half-eaten sub through a hole in a screen door, like a quarterback throwing a football through a hoop at the NFL Combine. What? I was bored.

After discussing an article about the number of commonly used words that are actually trademarked by some company or corporation, a friend of mine, fed up with corporate silliness, replied, “I’m going to trademark “trademark”. And the ™ symbol…which means from now on: trademark™™”

The only difference between humans and animals is that humans don’t think they’re animals.

It was so hot I just looked in the mirror and wept. I was sad, but I also needed the tears as moisture to cool down my face.

People think I’m crying in this heat wave. Nope. That’s eye sweat.

After a sweltering night of humidity and heat, I decided to get a swamp cooler for the bedroom. I was definitely getting a swamp cooler. Or something. Something that blows cool air. Anything. I don’t care if it’s a small chubby Swiss boy trying his best to whistle with an ice cube in his mouth.

I understand that driving long distances can be exhausting. You’re staring out into what seems like a never-ending strip of tar and asphalt for hours on end. But you’re not doing that most of the time. When I hear people complaining about driving short distances like they’re cross-country trips, I just lower my head. Hearing gripes like, “I’m sooo tired. It’s sooo far away. Why do I have to drive downtown?” or “OMG! I’ve been in this traffic for 20 whole minutes. Whhhyyyyy?!” First of all, how can you be tired? You sit down when you drive, which means that you’re pretty much resting while you’re doing the activity that’s causing you so much grief. Once you get home after your “long” drive, what are you going to do? Sit down on the couch. To rest…again! So now resting is making your restless?! I rest my case.

Just saw a business called Freedom Insurance. If there were ever an oxymoron…

How do you sit in the wrong seat on a plane? This guy had seat 9A, but he sat in 22E. Saw a guy sitting in 3A when he should’ve been in 3F. What the hell is the matter, man? Your inability to read your seat designation is an indicator of 3 things, 1) you don’t know the alphabet, 2) you don’t know numbers, and 3) you have to be an absolutely horrendous bingo player.

A petticoat is an underskirt that women can wear under a dress. Soooooooooo…why isn’t a petticoat a coat?

Does it seem sometimes that your butt is too big for the toilet seat? Maybe it’s just me, but there are times I encounter what seems to be a toilet built for miniature humans with bantam bottoms. You have to sit on it at an angle, usually between 45 and 55 degrees. Anything less could result in disastrous consequences.

Worst drivers in the USA? If you ask me, it’s Florida drivers, hands down. Well, mainly because they drive with their hands down.