My friend Jeremy Rosenberg and I decided to join local street gangs today. I wasn't sure where to send my resume, but Jeremy assured me that all I needed to do was walk up to a group of guys hanging out and say, "Fellas, I'd like to be jumped-in to your chapter."

Then I could put in some work for the 'hood and proudly wear my colors.

I've identified a market segment our local streetgangs aren't exploiting. As the forces of gentrification swallow up our respective neighborhoods, and the real estate prices rise into the millions for houses in what were slums a few years ago, the yuppies move in and the homies move out, but the potential for jackin' fools and bustin' caps rises exponentially. You just need to be in the right places for jackin' the said fools.

I'm going to get myself invited to art openings in Chinatown (the beer is free) and wine tasting events (the wine is free) and when I get there, if I see someone from another set I'll be all, "Check yo' self, lest you wreck yo' self." And I'll claim the gallery/wine-tasting-party in the name of my set.

   [ POSTED BY Steve Johnson @ 5:41 PM ] |

According to George Bush's innaugural speech, "We have a calling from beyond the stars."

I agree. Aliens, baby. Grays are pulling the strings up in this bitch.

   [ POSTED BY Steve Johnson @ 3:02 PM ] |

Here's me an my co-stars accepting a Golden Globe for Sideways. I fucked them all.



Twice.


Especially Thomas Hayden-Church.

   [ POSTED BY Steve Johnson @ 1:06 PM ] |

Who Nana Mouskouri Is...

A pioneer of World Music, Nana Mouskouri was born in Athens, Greece in 1934. In the early 1960s, Mouskouri's White Rose Of Athens album helped spur an International revival of interest in Greek music. Since then, Mouskouri has released over 35 albums and has earned 250 gold and silver records in 65 countries.. SHe still performs to this day to adoring crowds of fans all over the world.

And she wants to murder John. You can see it in her eyes.

   [ POSTED BY Steve Johnson @ 10:15 AM ] |

CORRECTION:

A recent post on suspensionofdisbelief.net turns out to be in error. There was no milk-truck crash. Everyone is fine.

In order to maintain our place as the paper-of-record on the Infobahn, SOD's fact-checking department takes great pains to verify each and every item we post, but in this case, mistakes were made. I must have been drunk.

But Nana Mouskouri really is dead set on murdering my friend John.

   [ POSTED BY Steve Johnson @ 9:50 PM ] |

"John? I'm going to kill you..."




"There is no escape, John...I'll chase you to these ruins and murder you like they murdered Socrates."




"Merry Christmas, John. In HELL!"




"Don't let my sensitive-chick glasses fool you, John. Murder is on my mind."




"I'm coming to kill you."

   [ POSTED BY Steve Johnson @ 11:15 AM ] |

Dear Mike D'Alonzo:

I've read about your recent collision with a milk-tanker. I'm sad your car is smushed, but I worry about your crisis of faith, so I'm taking the advice of the editor of lunewsviews.com, who suggests I share the story of Celestine Tate with you.

Celestine Tate was the paraplegic who played the keyboard with her tongue in exchange for pocket change from tourists in Atlantic City. Many was the day I walked by her spot on the corner of Boardwalk and Arkansas (Pronounced as it's spelled) and heard a cheap portable Casio playing beautiful, classic Melodies like "Born Free" and "Somewhere over the rainbow."

I didn't appreciate Celestine Tate at the time; I was too busy being 17 and working in a record store and being all, "This place rots. I hate this city. I think I'll listen to Bauhaus and get a funny haircut."

Ms. Tate chose my record store to buy her cassette tapes--this was back when people listened to cassette tapes--but I was never happy to see her and her children enter.

Here's why: All the cassette tapes were stored in locked, glass cabinets, and she and her children insisted on "just looking" at many, many of the top releases of the late '80s. So hapless, Bauhaus-listening white boys with funny haircuts were forced to open many cabinets and stand around being all glum while the children brought Ms. Tate tapes to just look at.

Ms. Tate was not very nice to her children, either. She'd yell at them and threaten to "whup" them... but it seemed like an idle threat to me, as she didn't have functioning limbs with which to do the whupping.

When she'd finished wasting a large chunk of my day (a chunk better spent eating pizza from Sbarro's in our squalid breakroom) she'd buy many, many cassette tapes featuring the top R&B artists of the day, including (Monell, this is for you): Nice and Smooth, Keith Sweat and Pebbles.

I guess the owners and managers of Record World--this was back when they still sold records--were pretty happy with our handicapped customer. But I was like, "What the fuck do I care what she buys? I still get paid 5.05 an hour." and then I was all, "I think I'll listen to The Smiths."

My point in all this is, in 1998, Celestine Tate was struck by two cars while crossing the street. In spite of the miraculous courage, insight and spirituality she showed throughout her life, she still died.

Now she is decomposing. Soon, everyone she ever met will be dead too, and all that will be left of Celestine Tate are a few notations on websites and leftover copies of her self-published autobiography.

Hope this helps.


STORY NOTES:

1) Lunewsviews.com is some sort of news filter services for people who work for the United States Post Office. Why it hosts Celestine Tate's story is a mystery.

2) Celestine's Autobiography, Some Crawl and Never Walk is available on Amazon.com. In it, Celestine reports that she could type 60 words per minute. Not too likely. No matter how skilled a person was, I can't believe he/she could type that fast with his/her tongue.

3) Her obit doesn't say whether she was crossing with the light or against it.

4) Yo' arms too short to box with God.

5) I have never faced any adversity even close to what Celestine went through, but I'm still alive, and depressed most of the time.

6) Soon maybe I will tell the story of John Feehan's aunt and uncle, a homeless couple that used to bother my old pal John Feehan as he tried to assistant manage Record World.

   [ POSTED BY Steve Johnson @ 1:23 PM ] |

My associate Robyn Simms ran across the following ad on a site devoted to casting calls for actors and actresses:


Seeking an ensemble of great-looking people dancing/posing/flirting with the camera.

[FEMALES] 18-22, all ethnicities, great bodies/personalities. Sensual, upscale and glamorous, a high rollers kind of woman. She’s a diamond wrapped in a bikini. Talent should exude the mystique and glamour of Atlantic City. Only someone this beautiful can be living the life like this… Rate: $300/10 hr. day

[MALES] 18-32, all ethnicities, Adonis on the Boardwalk. Will be appearing in swim trunks. Great body and great personalities. Obligatory beefcake. Rate: $250/10 hr. day

As a native of South Jersey, I'd like to point out that my last encounter with the "mystique and glamour" of Atlantic City involved a crack-whore offering to blow me in exchange for a salad.

That's a true story. An emaciated homeless woman offered me sexual favors in exchange for my lunch. I gave her a couple bucks instead and elected not to induldge in the esoteric pleasures of street-person-sex. She wasn't really my type and she was filthy.

What the hell is a "diamond wrapped in a bikini?" Who is obliged to provide beefcake? Am I this beautiful to be living the life like this?

   [ POSTED BY Steve Johnson @ 11:38 AM ] |

Cabin Fever

The terrible rains have come.

The good news: Robyn and I are not trapped in our car in a horrible blizzard in Big Bear, waiting for the onset of hypothermia. We aren't being washed down a storm culvert either, but we haven't left our home in 19 months.

We're concerned about mudslides washing away the overblown Malibu mansion we are going to buy when we turn into rich assholes.

I'm going mad from being locked up here. It's like prison, only worse.

Yesterday I went to the movies to see Kinsey, and it was bullshit, but other than that, I'm trapped.

In an effort to cure the ceaseless boredom, I ate this:



The name is disturbing. Why "Pepp'a-roni"? Why an apostrophe AND a dash? And it's made by "SnakKing." SnakKing, why must you spell everything wrong?

I asked talking Yoda whether I would enjoy this product, and he said "The force is cloudy on this question. Ask later, you must."

I ate Pepp'a-Roni anyway, and it tasted okay at first... but the aftertaste... oh, God. It tasted like burning. A greasy/spicy coating like boiling oil you can't spit out. Why must you torture me, SnakKing? I ate half a bag.

Then I drank some Dr. Skipper. The prune flavored cola washed the taste of fake pepperoni away forever. That's a delicious drink, even better than Dr. Pepper AND Mr. Pibb.



I reorganized my CDs. Everything is in Alphabetical order now, so when I want to listen to Celine Dion I know right where she can be found. My heart WILL go on.

I also installed some track-lighting for my CDs to enjoy.



This place is like the Overlook hotel. All the ghosts of our apartment are manifesting themselves in the form of bloody tableaus... or it's the Dr. Skipper talking.

Robyn is sewing an ark.

   [ POSTED BY Steve Johnson @ 1:12 PM ] |

Robyn has been pestering me to update lately, and she's right. I really should.

I like Robyn a lot, so I'm going to direct her to a website I think she'll enjoy. It's everything you could ever want to know about squashed pennies.

We are dorks, and collect smashed cents from everywhere we visit. If there's one thing the Internet Machines are good for, it's for bringing dorks together.

   [ POSTED BY Steve Johnson @ 4:29 PM ] |