TWOP'd

Sooo, what have you been up to?

I Won't Look At You, Even If You Are A Bear

As a rule I don't look people in the eye when I talk to them. I realize sometimes people have a problem with it. It doesn't go over so well on dates, for example, or during my extensive one-on-one counseling at post-partum depression centers. Actually come to think of it no one has ever not had a problem with the fact that I hate looking at them squarely in the eye. They think I'm being shifty, dishonest, unsocial, or a dick; these people are racists.
So for most of my tortured life my personal crusade of not fucking looking at you has been like most worthwhile crusades a tremendous burden. And while other mild expressions of social phobia, say not shaking hands with people for instance, have been given carte blanch thanks to Donald Trump, eccentric Hollywood producers, and the Japanese my own personal Jesus of "I don't really like looking at you. Any of you," has remained in my personal life an explanation waiting its demand.
That is until I nearly got jumped by a bear.
Amid taking a hike through Rogue River National Forest (that's southern Oregon for you geological sediment enthusiasts) I stopped and unwrapped my fourth honey and ham sandwich of the day. As with the others I chucked the wrapper and the crust (bleh!) as well as part of the meat over my shoulder. Turned out I wasn't very hungry since about the second sandwich in but I let the natural capacity of my stomach tell me those sorts of things rather than the mind which as we all know can not be trusted, particularly when judging appetite. As I continued to walk quietly over the previously undisturbed pine needles of mother earth with only the shrill hark of the whistle I was keeping firmly planted near my left cheek breaking the silence all around me I began to hear a rumble of bushes just beyond the small layer of growth in front of me. It was the bear. Of course I couldn't have guessed at it with an iPod playing track 3, "Song 2", Best of Blur but I would soon find out.
This bear - I don't know bears, let's say it was a Kodiak - this magnificent, brutal creature whose slippery wet nose was scrunching and whiffing in a straight ahead manner must have picked up the scent of part of the ham still coyly resting on the tip of my bedroom slippers because one of its great paws took a cautious swipe at the air and a guttural moan came from the core of this gigantic specimen wholly outdoing anything coming out of Damon Albarn's twisted mouth. Gorillaz? Try Bears! The great beast had an intense funk and its fur was slightly wet but shimmered slightly from the peaking in of sunlight...actually you know what? Let's call this thing a Polar Bear. Again, bears- I don't know 'em. Polar Bears seem more dramatic though and this is after all a story even though IT HAPPENED! Plus that Pepsi commercial just came on the TV for some reason (that's like from 3 Super Bowls ago. Could've been Coke actually). Wrapping up.
The Giant talking Polar Bear descended his paw and sat rather luxuriously in front of me blocking my path forward. I'd actually more closely characterize its sluggish descent to the ground as oddly seductive. I know the only animals who have sex for pleasure are humans, dolphins, and monkeys but maybe put bears on that list judging from the way it flashed me it's package all of a hoot, polar bears anyway. The big bear stared at me for what felt like three hours but The Universal was the last song I remembered playing so it couldn't have been quite so long. But for however long this went on for I never looked it in the eye. Consequently, it didn't attack me.
Actually that's not true. It beat the hell out of me after about hour two. For no reason at all. It just really fucked me up for about ten minutes. I don't know how I survived but I did. Thank you Reese for typing this. Reese works at the post-partum center with me and is a really caring Vietnamese fellow. He likes it in the States even after the war and everything and I know that was a long time ago but still. Agent Orange my family and I'm not doing memos for some yellow in a Bangko....
Reese kinda took of. Surry. Had to get straw and some tapee ta finis dis. Kep short. Fuck Beers. Luk in eye, don't luk in eye...don't fuking matter. Sweet Jesus. Hurt all ova

Things to have nothing to say back to...

That's gonna take a lug nut.

I see you

and I know you're looking.

Professional wrestlers, you keep my world spinning

Booker T. Washington, the other one

Gary Busey Advice to Three Year Olds

Busey Abuse

Never express guilt. At some point in your life, maybe even not too long from now, some- well let's just call them "weak people" are gonna go 'round and 'round with you giving you the business about how you don't treat human beings like animals or maybe that you're not supposed to leave someone locked out of the hotel room and penniless in foreign countries. This is called a guilt trip. It's something women learn from their mother's which is why I call guilt "pussy science."

Don't be afraid to get biblical. Imagine yourself at one of your cities finest restaurants. The girl you're with has to this point in the relationship only submitted to handjobs and phone sex but you're betting two plates of Organic Scottish Salmon and an endive salad that that's all about to change.

"Excuse me sir. I don't see you on our list," comes out of the mouth of the half-gay maitre'd. You explain to him you're role in Predator 2. Nothing. Go biblical.

Tom Sizemore is a dick. Capital D.

Hollywood is dirty with snakes. If they ask you to do a guest appearance on Entourage and you agree to it but then you don't get invited to the wrap party because Mark Wahlberg has a new agent who fears the power of the ministry of the Promise Keepers- who fears the new Christian male that now bathes in righteousness and glory, so much so that this new agent to the show's executive producer believes the lies of his conniving skank girlfriend who has taken it upon herself to accuse you of vomiting down her back some years ago at a similar wrap party for Walker, Texas Ranger through no fault of your own since Chuck Norris's outfit wouldn't splurge for the top shelf shit and you got stuck 8-balling Gordon's vodka with a grip from King of Queens trying to ignore the prostalatizing half-Arab brother-in-law he kept company with all the while...while- okay...okay, I forget where I was going with this one.

A Poem about waiting in line for the Basquiat exhibit on the second to last day and then seeing the movie with David Bowie in it two weeks later

The above makes this self-explanatory but awhile ago I saw the Basquiat exhibit at Brooklyn Museum with vampire from hell, otherwise known as rock you amadeus, otherwise known as Marty and I spent the better part of my breakfast writing this in iambic pentameter (not at all) so eat it up because it deserves that much:

Are there not Negroes who write grafitti
Of whom Madonna did not go down on?

For surely if there bees that poet
Half of Brooklyn will not know it.

Look at the blouse on that quiet girl mouse
When in repose she dreamt Hollywood Negroes

King on the top of my head not sufficient
That guard in the lobby could be more proficient

genius. roach. wish i had dreads.