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Saturday, December 25, 2010

Update on the loser, Michael Phillips

I did a nine part series about a loser named Michael Phillips.

I have some recent information to report about this piece of human garbage.

He now owns Bukowski.net, where there’s an ad on his main page linking to a book on Amazon called Charles Bukowski's Scarlet, printed by a no-name publisher. Michael Phillips is the first to leave his comment on Amazon and, as one would expect of one who makes money off of the very product he is reviewing, gives it an excellent review. I would not be surprised if Phillips was involved in publishing this book. I have never read this book; I have no interest in assholes like Phillips who exploit Bukowski’s name for profit.

Other interesting facts that I’ve learned about Phillips are that not only does he sell his own book, alternative man, on Amazon, but he also writes a glowing review about it on Amazon. I feel bad for any poor bastards who might actually have bought this book. Phillips’ Bukowski derivative poetry really sucks giant elephant penis. I would show you some examples on the Internet, but Phillips seems to have removed these examples after I previously pointed them out.

Thursday, December 23, 2010

E-mail to an old friend

Hi Monique!

I'm still alive, and I still worry about you -- you were sort of like an adopted daughter to me.

Are you still in Boston, in law school?

I am not in Eastern Europe yet, but plan to go to Hungary in April for an EFL course. I still need to pass the interview. I am very good at botching EFL interviews, having botched two for the Boston course.

I have taken up being an alcoholic and buy beer not by the six pack or even case, but by the 30 can suitcase like a maniac. If they sold beer by the crate, I'd gladly buy it, as I need to drink in volume in order to stay sane so that I can study English grammar, which no one in their right mind would or should do.

How are you?

-Dickie

Sunday, December 19, 2010

Not runnin’ on Dunkin’

Dunkin' Donuts advertising that "America runs on Dunkin'" is an egregiously blatant lie! I ordered an extra large Dunkin' Donuts coffee in order to wake myself out of my zombie-like stupor so that I could get some work done. Drinking the coffee was like drinking a tall glass a water.

Thursday, December 16, 2010

On the reservation (mostly)

The Foxwoods casino in Mashantucket, Connecticut now lets me stay at their hotel for free, two nights a week. (The privileges of playing poker.)

View of the MGM Grand from my hotel room in the Hotel Grand Pequot Tower.

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This is the only hotel I’ve ever stayed in that I haven’t hated. It was quite fancy, clean, quiet, and everything worked.

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Two plump virgin toilet paper rolls – how often do you see that?

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In case you need to make a phone call while indulging in all the toilet paper they give you.

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That’s brass, baby!

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View from hotel room.

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Another view.

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Ceramic coffee mugs!

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Real glass cups! Was I in hotel heaven or what?

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Isn’t it cool how they stack ‘em?

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You can buy "The X-Files" on demand for $20.00. I love the "X-Files" ... but wait a minute, that's not Agent Mulder -- and if you look really closely, that's not Agent Scully -- and that's not really the "X-Files" - it's "The Sex Files." What a gyp....

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It really makes me nervous that people have watched pornography in the same bed that I'm sleeping in....

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Pequot Museum, near the casino; still on the reservation. I loved the crap out of this place!

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I spent three hours here and ran out of time; I didn't get to see a lot of the museum. I really, really loved the crap out of this place.

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View of casino from the museum tower.

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Shadow of museum tower.

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Another view from the museum tower.

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View from museum tower.

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This is one of the few places in the museum where they let me take photos.

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Shot off the reservation, coming home; I'm pretty sure that this guy didn't vote for Obama.

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Wednesday, December 15, 2010

The other Bridges

I worry about Jeff Bridges' brother, Beau Bridges. Unlike Jeff who is a handsome, well-respected, and well-known actor, Beau has scary eyebrows and is only vaguely remembered as Jeff's brother in "The Faboulous Baker Boys." I worry about Beau; I worry about his mental stability. If I were Beau, I would need some hard-core pharmacological agents in order to stay straight.

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Tuesday, November 30, 2010

How ‘bout speaking some English, Hil

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Today on Democracy Now, Secretary of State Clinton said the following:

"If anyone reading the stories about these alleged cables thinks carefully, what they will conclude is that the concern about Iran is well-founded…."

anyone is a singular pronoun; accordingly, only singular pronouns may be used with it. Clinton says, their, a plural pronoun. This is, how shall I say it -- fucking wrong! Below, I correct her fucked-up English:

"If anyone reading the stories about these alleged cables thinks carefully, what he or she will conclude is that the concern about Iran is well-founded…."

Noam Chomsky came on later and refuted Clinton’s claim, saying, basically, that King Fahd was a dictator and that his feelings about blowing up Iran are not representative of public option among ordinary people in the Saudi-Arabia and the Middle-East.

I think that before Secretary Clinton tells what people who “think carefully” should think, she should stop fucking embarrassing me by thinking more fucking carefully about her English.

Thursday, November 25, 2010

Grammar and the ridiculous

Which sentence is correct:

You are acting ridiculous.

or

You are acting ridiculously.

I thought that the first sentence, which uses ridiculous, is correct. In this instance, acting ridiculous appears to be a phrase, perhaps a gerund phrase, which acts as a complement to the linking verb be. Accordingly, you would use the adjective ridiculous and not the adverb ridiculously.

I called numerous grammar hotlines. All except for one said that the second sentence, which uses the adverb ridiculously, is correct. These people are convinced that act is the main verb and can’t even entertain the possibility that be is the main verb. They all seemed lacking in grammatical terminology. One woman finally agreed with me, but I think that she only did so because she felt bullied by me and didn’t want to deal with me anymore.

The one grammar hotline, which seemed to have some clue about English, offered me this advice, which seemed the most viable: Both sentences are correct. The first describes the person, and the second describes the behavior of the person.

I am still not completely sure what the answer is, though I am pretty sure that there are few, if any, grammarians alive.

Stuff that you do when you have too much time on your hands….

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Friday, November 19, 2010

Scary-as-fuck, abandoned mental hospital in Preston, CT

This place scared the hell out of me; I was so glad to get my ass back into the car and get the hell out of there. The place seemed familiar to me because I’m pretty sure they shot a low-budget horror movie there. You can find this God-forsaken place on Route 12 in Preston, CT.
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Wednesday, November 17, 2010

Animals that I saw while in Connecticut

I saw some dwarf camels…

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…and a giant chicken…

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Tuesday, October 05, 2010

Conjugate the verb, motherfucker

I heard Donald Trump blabbing away today on Morning Joe. During Trump’s tirade of inane reeking bullshit, he conjugated the verb sing wrong. He used the past participle form sung without preceding it with the auxiliary verb be or have. And this shithead, who went to Penn, has considered running for president. Why don’t rich, right-wing fuckwads learn to speak fucking English before they buy their own elections?

Sunday, October 03, 2010

The wake-up caller

It was a few weeks ago. The existential horror of my existence keeps me up until daylight, so the call I received at about 11 a.m. was like a call at 5:00 a.m. for a normal person. The call was coming from my cell phone, which I had forgotten to turn off.

The caller was a woman with a funny accent; I thought the call was probably emanating from somewhere in the Indian subcontinent, and that she was someone from my credit card company trying to verify a suspicious charge. It could also be some scumbag asshole headhunter asking me if I was interested in a job in which I was completely inappropriate for because they didn’t bother to read my resume.

The woman kept asking me to verify who I was. She had mixed up my last and first name. (Many people do, because if you axe the finally consonant off of my last name, it could be a first name.) “Who is this?” I kept saying. I couldn’t hear her because I was so tired and disoriented from being woken up at what, for you, would be 5 a.m.

“It’s Nancy,” she said.

It was the last person on earth I thought would call me. My Romanian Internet girlfriend from Dubai who was interested in breeding with me but decided against it because “I was not safe.” (What this meant was, I didn’t have enough money to support her brood.)

It had been two years since I had last spoken to her. I was pissed at her for not even getting my fucking name right. I thought about saying, “Oh, I remember you, you’re that Romanian woman from Dubai, right?” But then I thought against it because it would have sounded stupid. And then I thought about saying, “Oh, hi, how’re you doing?” But I had too much venom in my heart to say this with much enthusiasm, so opted not to say this as well. All that thought took up a lot of time. Finally she said, “I didn’t wake you up did you?” I had to take a piss really badly and was in no mood to embarrass myself by having to come up with an explanation for why I was asleep at 11:00 a.m. I was obviously fucking unemployed – and she obviously had no use for scum like me, as do all women, unless they are obese. She wanted something. She was not calling me because she missed me. I know this because she had made it very clear to me that she would not even waste her time to be friends with me if I didn’t serve her practical needs of fathering and supporting children and fulfilling her lofty dream of owning a home on Long Island.

“Can I call you back? -- Can I call you back?” I said with some desperation. All I wanted to do at that point was take a fucking piss; I did not want to deal with this shit. There was a long pause on her part. She told me she’d call me back in a half an hour.

I waited for a week for her to call me back. Part of me did want her to call me back, part of me didn’t. What was so odd about her call was that she had called me on my cell phone. Nobody knows this number. Nobody should know this number but my inner circle. I had thrown away her number, but I considered contacting her through Skype or facebook, as I still remembered her last name; although it was Romanian, it was a beautiful name and I will probably always remember it. How did she even get that number? The curiosity was killing me. (Actually, not even the credit card companies have this number – at least they should not.)

I first did a google search on her, found she was married last year and probably working in the hotel industry in Washington D.C., which is what she did before went to Dubai. Last year I had looked at her facebook profile pic, and it was her in a jewelry store with a guy. She looked happy as shit as she looked down at a necklace which was presumably bought for her. At the time, I asked Heather (a former friend of mine) whether this guy in the pic with Nancy was more handsome than I was, for I was struck by how a woman who was as beautiful and intelligent and worldly as Nancy would go for a man who was so dull looking. I always assumed that Nancy would hook up with someone James-Bondy. Heather said that I was more handsome. “Don’t you think he looks kinda ugly?” I asked. “No,” she said. “He looks fine. He looks like my brother.” (I had sort of stuck my foot in my mouth.) Heather, on the other hand, reacted with amusement at the sight of Nancy, for I had written volumes in my blog about how beautiful she was. Heather said she looked terrible – and she was right – she looked bloated and like shit. Heather claimed that she might have been pregnant, that women tend to look sickly when they are pregnant.

After learning about Nancy’s marriage to a superior man, it made me shudder. She had perhaps created offspring with this man, divorced him, and wanted me to care for her brood. Maybe this guy had all the money in the universe but shot blanks. Maybe she was after my sperm as well as the prospect of my money. Maybe she needed citizenship help. Whatever it was, it gave me the heebie-jeebies and I lost all interest in contacting her. I probably would have not contacted her anyway, even if I hadn’t learned this information. How she got my cell number will remain one of the eternal mysteries of the universe. (The credit card companies shouldn’t have this number either; I was just too disoriented to realize that when I got the call.)

What I’m not sure about is why she called me at 11:00 a.m. It could be because I had been forgetting to turn my cell phone on; it could also have been because she wanted to test my employment status or that she was unemployed. I hope she is unemployed. I hope she feels unemployment’s oppressive weight, its humiliation and unjustness. I hope that she never bares children. I know that her powerful thirst for children is at least as great as my own. I hope that she hasn’t and never will bare children. I hope that she feels my pain for the rest of her days. Fuck Nancy; the bloodsucker. Fuck her. I mean, really, really fuck her.

Sunday, September 26, 2010

“My Son, My Son, What Have Ye Done”

I saw “My Son, My Son, What Have Ye Done,” directed by Werner Herzog on DVD as soon as it hit the streets. I'm sorry to say that it sucked.

I don’t think living in L.A. or working with Hollywood actors has, for the most part, been a good influence on Herzog. While Herzog’s “Rescue Dawn” (2006) was awesome, I miss the heady days of the Herzog experience, which featured Bruno S., Klaus Kinski, the beautiful Eva Mattes, and daring shoots in the middle of the Amazon jungle.

Saturday, September 18, 2010

Aren’t I lucky to live off the dole?

I think the letter, below, that I received from my public housing office pretty much speaks for itself; however, I would like to add that this letter was slipped under my door at around 4:00 p.m. on September 16, giving me only a few hours before they (maybe) barged into my apartment the next day (on a Saturday) at 8:00 a.m. on September 17 in order to ensure that I haven’t made myself rich by pawning their twenty year old oven and refrigerator. Also, September 17 happens to be Yom Kippur, the holiest day on the Jewish calendar.

I posted a note asking them not to disturb me on Yom Kippur. The note has mysteriously vanished. Maybe they fear a Jewish uprising.

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Thursday, August 26, 2010

The Man Purse

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Occasionally I see men walking around with a man purse, and every time I see them, I say to myself, “You go, girl!” I want a man purse. There is simply too much crap a man has to carry around with him in his pockets in the modern world. I need a man purse! Yet I cannot have a man purse because I fear being ridiculed, harassed, and beaten up.

I am simply not man enough for the man purse.

I applaud the brave pioneers of man pursery, paving the way for cowards like me to some day carry a man purse.

Tuesday, July 13, 2010

Harvey Pekar, Dead

Perhaps my last hero, Harvey Pekar is dead. Amy Goodman announced the news on Democracy Now. She mispronounced his name, calling him “Pecker." Goddamn her!

Saturday, May 15, 2010

The well traveled woman

I have criticized women in the personals for years for trying to pass themselves off as well-traveled and sophisticated because they have been to Paris or London or some big Western European capital. Big whoop. But finally I have found a real, truly international woman who has even been to Bali. Anyone who is cool knows that Bali is a must see. She is the real deal. But then I keep reading and I see this shit: "It's very hard for people to be happy, but if you can achieve that in your life, you have succeeded." This is such bourgeois crap. Happiness has nothing to do with success in life. This woman is deluded, perhaps even shallow.

Saturday, May 01, 2010

The Cosmopolitan Hotel-Tribeca -- The Worst Hotel in The World

The Cosmopolitan Hotel
95 West Broadway
New York, NY 10007

http://www.cosmohotel.com




I stayed at The Cosmo for one night because I had an interview in the vicinity the next day. The total cost, with tax was $204.33 USD.

I could sense something was not right the moment I stepped foot in the hotel room. This is how the toilet paper was when I got there. It had of course been used by someone, and I felt little as if I were in a bus depot.




The room was a little musky and cramped, but it's Manhattan so I shouldn't complain:




When I attempted to take a shower at night, the shower tub got clogged up:




They sent someone up to look at it. He came back with a plunger and plunged and plunged and plunged. It was getting late, very late. I needed to be at an interview in the morning.



I happen to have experience with clogged bathtubs, and I knew that no amount of plunging on earth was going to unclog it. It needed to be snaked. But they kept plunging.

Finally, after 2:30 a.m., after a lot of bitching and moaning, they granted me another room, right next door. This room had a toilet with a broken fill sensor, so every half minute or so I'd hear annoying water sounds, which was very unsedating. I regret now even giving the maintenance guy a dollar tip for carrying my bag (which I could have carried myself) into the new, shit room.

I had asked for a wake up call before all the shit came down. Of course I never got it, because the fuckers probably never made a note that my room was switched.

In the morning I opted not to complain to the manager because I had an interview and I didn't want to upset myself. They didn't knock a dime off my bill.

The worst hotel in the universe. Stay at your own risk:






From Family Guy to Sex Guy

I have been on OkayCupid for a long time. Too long. In the past, when I had some money (though never nearly enough), I tried to look for a women that I could potentially start a family with. But the recession dried up the already shriveled money teat. I refused to let the dream die, and I plotted and planned to go overseas to find employment -- even devoted several hundred hours to the study of Russian. Recently, I botched an important interview, which derailed my immediate plans of going overseas and put the whole mission plan into question.

There was no use in saying that I wanted a nuclear family in my profile if there was no money to fuel this with, so I went "Sex Guy," and selected Casual Encounters, and deselected Long-term and Short-term dating. Though I like sex a lot, I am not a "Sex Guy." I was just tired of being probed about my assets. It's oppressive. At least a fuck buddy would want me for me, and I wouldn't have to waste my time and energy on women who want more than I can give.

I was horrified to learn recently that I had not fully transitioned my profile from Family Guy to Sex Guy. There was still a remnant of the old Family Guy stuff:

"My dream is to find a (non-crime) partner who loves children and desires, as I do, to create a loving family."

God knows how long it was there. It probably seemed very confusing to people.

So now I am fully and completely a Sex Guy. I never dreamed that I would be reduced to being a Sex Guy. I'm sure it could get worse. It probably will...

Thursday, April 22, 2010

Our Presidents...

Our Presidents, after smoking some seriously good shit.


Sunday, April 11, 2010