By dusty (January 30, 2010)
just a matter of time before the bomb explodes
For the purpose of this article, we are going to pretend to believe in a gentleman named Henry. Henry is pretty good at mathematics. He knows how to solve very complex problems in his head. Most guys are not quite as good at mathematics as old Henry here.
Henry smokes about a pack of cigarettes a day. Usually he buys Marlboro Lights, but he will smoke a Camel Light if need be. He gets carded every now and then. You see, Henry looks rather young. He tried to grow a beard a few months ago, but it looked somewhat patchy, so he shaved it off. He uses a Gillette Mach 3 for shaving, by the way. You might be interested to know that he actually got that Mach 3 for free in the mail on his 18th birthday. I guess the folks at Gillette thought that Henry was a grown man now and would need to be shaving regularly. Anyway, Henry likes mathematics.
One day in Math class, Henry was daydreaming as usual. I have no idea what he was daydreaming about, probably a girl he saw earlier that day. Named Judy, I’d imagine. Henry thought about Judy a lot. Well not a lot, I guess; he just saw her for the first time that day. But already, he’d thought about her a lot. Oh, I forgot to mention the weather: it was a cold day in January. For point of reference, we’ll just say that about 15 inches of snow were packed on the ground.
Henry was not aware of this, of course, but he was about to meet someone.
By dusty (June 4, 2009)
shooting a raccoon in the face at close range with a 12-gauge shotgun
I am often asked what it was like to grow up in the bowels of the midwest. The answer, as you can probably imagine, is pretty simple: there was a lot of shit. Everywhere. That’s not a metaphor: there was shit — literally — everywhere. Cow shit, pig shit, dog shit (on our lawns), some bird shit (our cars, the sidewalk), and more cow shit (on top of other cow shit).
Driving to the ol’ workhouse with the windows down was always a surefire way to find out what the local farmers were up to for the week. Spreading cow shit on the fields! Positively delish!
Surprisingly, though, I’m not aversed to that shit-smell. I still love steak, still love bacon. Still love the midwest, love the flies and mosquitoes. The cow shit, the pig shit, it’s all just a part of the aura. Take that away and you might as well be in California, amidst the steaming piles of human shit, festering and rotting away like the dreams of passersby.
By dusty (January 9, 2009)
there is a pedophiliac hungrily staring at me as i write this
This story is a true Athenean tragedy. When I was seven years old, baseball cards were pretty much the only thing that mattered to me — and because The Universe is a dick hoping to break my bank and leave me homeless, it invented the greatest set of cards ever made in that very same year: ’89 Upper Deck.
Upper Deck was the Arabian Prince of baseball cards. Its exotic aura, its unmistakable glamor, was bedazzling. And I bought every single pack that a seven-year-old who didn’t know the inner workings of drug dealing or child prostitution could possibly afford.
That set in ’89, the first ever produced, contained a glorious card. An unbelievably glorious card. A card salivated over by every bike-ridin’, G.I. Joe-collectin’ youngster in the nation: the rookie card of Ken Griffey, Jr.
Here is where the tragedy lies; I NEVER FUCKING GOT THAT ROOKIE CARD.
Not once did I ever open a pack of those deliciously glossier-than-Topps cards to find the much sought after Ken Griffey, Jr. rookie card staring at back at me. The photo was weird — there he was, looking as if he had just been raped at gunpoint, wearing a turtleneck(!) and a strange assortment of gold chains, holding his bat over his left shoulder like an utter pussy — and it was all bordered by a pedestrian designer’s attempt at creating a baseball-field texture running down the right side. The border itself itself was resting atop a simplistic footer containing Upper Deck’s logo and Junior’s own name. Oh, and there was also a big “rookie” stamp plastered somewhere on the bottom right (in case you wanted to know if Junior was: (a) a rookie, or (b) not a rookie).
Yet that card was worth upwards of one hundred dollars, which to my seven-year-old self was enough money to buy slaves who could buy packs of Upper Deck for me.
Once I was at my best friend’s house (he lived about a mile out of town on a farm that wasn’t really a farm but still smelled like a farm and also had tons of cats and flies), and we were opening our freshly purchased baseball cards as usual. We had just biked the mile-and-a-half-on-gravel trip to the town mall and bought several packs of Upper Deck for ourselves (and one for his dad, who despite giving my friend a few bucks for one, did not avidly or even non-avidly — this was the first pack of cards of his adult life I am pretty sure — collect cards).
And my friend’s dad — that asshole — got the Ken Griffey, Jr. rookie card. Have you ever wanted to kill someone? Like, really kill someone? Because that’s the feeling I distinctly remember. The unmistakable feeling of murder. I had spent an entire summer looking for that card — wasting every allowance; dreaming of it; wondering what it would be like to touch, to make love to, to practice kissing on. He was my favorite player! Possibly the greatest baseball player of all time. My friend’s dad didn’t even like Griffey — they were a Frank Thomas family, those bastards. I devised several plans to get the card: plans that ranged from outright murder to arson to poison to trickery involving the likes of a bad Mrs. Doubtfire parody.
But I couldn’t do it. I was not a murderer, not an arsonist, not a con-man. And I couldn’t do it.
I never got that card.
By dusty (January 5, 2009)
last year i wrote a letter to the ambassador of poland, and he never wrote back
I shaved my beard.
This must be what it’s like to give birth, to bring new life into this world, to push a 7-pound mass of fluid-smeared organs-and-bones encased by a fragile skeletal shell through a vaginal canal roughly six times too small.
It’s a strange feeling, giving birth. My beard has been a part of me for over nine months — a large part of me. I have taken care of it, felt it kick, stroked it, cleaned it after eating, flat-ironed it when it looked ugly, took pictures of it, showed it to my friends, showed it to my mom, put it in pretend ponytails. But now I feel lost, feel without purpose.
True, I now have this amazing 70s porn-stache & almost-connected-to-it Chops™ that bring vintage John Lennon or Andy Kaufman to mind. True, I feel more powerful than Superman, walking around looking this awesome — this retro. And true also that if I owned a ’79 Firebird Trans-Am with a T-Top and a giant-fucking-Firebird-logo on the hood I could go full-circle and probably explode with irony. But, I will never forget that beard, never forget what it felt like those nine long months — those strange hunger cravings, inexplainable mood swings, the kicking, the doctor’s appointments, the clothes shopping, the picking-of-names, the daily progress pictures, the unfounded worries of miscarriage when I found blood in my stool that one time.
But life goes on. And unlike Corky, I still look fucking awesome.
By dusty (January 3, 2009)
a razorblade of kindness or a decapitated head in a greyhound bus
I used to delete all spam comments, because: fuck you! But I have had a change of heart. I feel like these people are really interested in reading my musings, really interested in my life, and genuinely serious about suggesting ways for me to achieve that giant skyscraper in my pants that I have always wanted. I am being honest here.
Georgina Sanchez told me: “p2tauhodlitnx2nj”. Would it really be fair to Georgina if I were to delete this? She obviously cares more about me than any other shitbag that reads this blog. Whether sentient or not, Georgina cares about me. I mean, she genuinely cares! She also showed this blog to at least one of her friends (the IP address was nearly identical — they must have been sitting in the school library or computer lab), who also commented! Her friend Lesley Guy (who already seems alarmingly transsexual despite my never having met him/her/it(?)) said this: “ezasv8fwmr1lxia4”. I am not sure exactly what language this is, but I can tell you surely which language it is not, and that is the language of apathy. So with that said, I just wanted to give a big thanks to Georgina and Lesley for commenting, to the big man upstairs for letting this all happen, to my casting director and agent, my director, Jared, who trusted in me even without always trusting me, to my publicist Lisa, my family (most of all my mother), my crew, the many production assistants and interns and stagehands for coming in every day and making sure everything worked, to black people for inventing chicken and waffles as a co-entity, to G.I. Joe’s, Legos, Construx, Mini Micros, Hot Wheels and the early 1990s lineups of the Montreal Expos, Cleveland Indians, Seattle Mariners and Atlanta Braves for giving me such wonderful childhood memories. And last but not least, to all of you who pay your internet bills every month, allowing you endless taken-for-granted opportunities and joy that hunter-gatherer tribes in South America, Indonesia, et al will never see.
By dusty (August 1, 2008)
A VERY CRITICAL UPDATE AND ANNOUNCMENT:
I am dying in this hellhole of hotness over here in Arizona. Like the Venus (or anus, depending on your definition of horrible heat) of America, the air conditioning is never cold enough and the sun’s cancerous deathrays are relentless and even moving at all makes me sweat the fiery sweat of satan.
But perseverance trumps perspiration and I am soldiering on in my own little soldiery way (laying in front of my fan; aka God’s cold wondrous breath) and I am saying to the sun: “I hate you”, but it does no good. Monsoon season is pretending not to exist and the dogs are shitting all over my floor and pissing wherever there isn’t shit.
Also, my house was robbed and my laptop was stolen by a too-tall-to-be-a-Mexican with no front teeth and a tattoo on his chest that says “Gumby” in Old English.
Reader, I have not updated you on my life for what seems like a decade but that is all changing because I am back and I am ready to kick some ass and take some names (seriously, what is your name? Let’s be friends). I am lion, hear me roar. I am man, watch me kill.
Let the past not be any indication of the future, though. I promise, things will be different from now. I will change, I can change. Just please, please don’t leave me.
By dusty (August 1, 2008)
an online chat transcript between dr pepper and an unkown acquaintance, mid-summer 1999
I have still not shaved my beard because I am awesome.
By dusty (May 6, 2008)
three deaf and soon-to-be-dead astronauts are circling our planet in sun-drenched silence
DR PEPPER: haha ya i hate aol
psalty69: y dont u have a period btw?
DR PEPPER: because im a man
DR PEPPER: i dont have ovaries
DR PEPPER: get it?
By dusty (May 2, 2008)
probably more than enough ice skates and food for a thanksgiving day feast and hours of family fun
I love a well-manicured lawn more than most things. If I were to compile a list of things I loved, a well-manicured lawn would be very close to the top — sandwiched between the likes of music, It’s Always Sunny In Philadelphia, the 2008 Arizona Diamondbacks, myself, neon colors and so on.
Earth’s emerald-green, pantyless pubic region; a beautiful taste of forbidden fruit, such a lawn demands my respect and calls out to me in sun-soaked song. Its short, freshly-trimmed blades glistening in the summer heat, gently waving in the gentle breeze — as if posing for the Sports Illustrated Swimsuit Issue or a Creed music video. Its perfection so unmatched in matters of perfection, it quietly makes its way into paintings and photographs and our perceptions of idealistic-utopian beauty.
I want to marry such a lawn — to frolic with it, and eat ice cream sundaes and go to a drive-in movie. (Maybe afterwards we could neck in the backseat of my Chevy at Lookout Point.) And every time I see this lawn — this ravishing slew of bugs and dirt and seeds and grass and dogshit — every time I see it, a pang of lust drives its lusty spear straight through my lusting body, reminding me that no girl will ever be as unequivocally amazing as a fucking lawn.
By dusty (May 1, 2008)
Imagine I am on an island with Dawson Leary (dreamy Dawson Leary, who was not dreamy at all when he was being a whiney, lovestricken bitch), and there is a fire behind us. The fire of a thousand suns (just one, though, technically). And I am telling Dawson Leary my deepest, darkest secrets. I am telling him this: That cockroaches are horrible, horrible dwellers of hell sent from Satan himself (or something worse than Satan, if such a creature of evil exists), and also that I am in love with The American Dream.
Neither of those are actually secrets, but nevertheless, I was telling those things to Dawson Leary in my dream this morning, that smug bastard, and now I am telling them to you because:
I FUCKING HATE COCKROACHES. I HATE THEM. I AM WRITHING AND PUKING MY INSIDES JUST THINKING ABOUT THE DEAD COCKROACHES I SAW IN MY KITCHEN AFTER THE EXTERMINATOR FINISHED EXTERMINATING. I HATE THEM, I HATE THEM. (I FUCKING HATE THEM.)
Those vile, hellion bastards-of-life have probably touched the things I have touched (not including my privates, hoping to God), licked things I have licked (the floor?), eaten things I have eaten. I will never watch Joe’s Apartment the same way again. In fact I will never watch Joe’s Apartment again, period.
“In about 10 days, they will all come out to die,” said the exterminator.
“I will be spending that weekend vomiting and pissing and shitting on myself and the floor in terror — likely an invitation for more cockroaches,” said I.
The American Dream does not include cockroaches. It includes mountains and The Wild West and probably drugs and girls and freedom and no-job and trains and ghost towns and tumbleweeds. But not cockroaches. Cockroaches are not in the list of possible things The American Dream is supposed to consist of. Cockroaches are what my ex-girlfriend is, or what Criss Angel and Dustin Diamond are. They are not welcome in my house, just as AIDS or cancer are not welcome in my house. In fact, I would rather share a nice dinner and a glass of wine — preferably Cab-Sauv or Pinot Noir, I’m a bitch — with AIDS, or play a friendly game of golf with cancer, than ever see another cockroach again for as long as I live.
Hey Satan: Hey
’sup? Yeah? Cool. Umm
not much, I’m good. I would like to live The American Dream sans-cockroaches, please. No seriously. Okay, thanks for understanding. Also fuck you.