Hmmm.

Well it's been over two years since I've been here on SG. I checked a long abandoned email address today and found that apparently someone reactivated my account for me back in March of this year... so here I am, if it was you let me know.

Cellblock.com lets you upload pictures and videos from your camera phone and adds them to your personal slideshow, you can then add the slideshow to sites like myspace. I find it very nifty. Here is mine.

http://cellblock.com/watch.htm?id=1359

This is how I spend my days.



It's the calm before the adventure. America, here I come.

Last night I show up to work and decide to head into the gyro shop to talk to the owner Tommy for a few minutes. Upon walking in Mikey the famous Hawthorne Blvd Godfather of Soul (he wears headphones and sings at the top of his lungs into a fake microphone for change) looks at me. The fire behind his eyes was wild, I could sense that something was up.

"Icebox. I got Playboy."
"No shit? Lemme see that mother fucker then Mikey"

Mikey goes to his backpack and pulls out a magazine. When a man says he has a Playboy you're thinking about softcore porno. Women in highly produce photoshoots, maybe one or two full on vag shots in the whole thing. Well that sure as shit isn't what Mikey pulls out. He produces from his backpack one of the most hardcore porno mags I've ever seen. That shit is saying a lot too, trust me. It was titled Raw Sex for fucks sake.

Then he pulls out all these Hustler trading cards and starts telling me how he's going to sell them to someone to make some money. He says he thinks he can get $2.50 for them. That's a mighty damn fine price for this kind of porno.


An hour later he was back in front of the gyro shop singing his ass off. Here he is throwing up the horns to me because not only does he love porno, but he loves the devil too.

So things are hectic, but it's sort of cleansing.

There was violence at work and I damaged a man well. His face was maimed. I once again saw the inside of a jail. Now I don't know where things are going. I'll possibly move to Chicago. As a friend told me "Portland is full of artists trying to make it. Chicago is full of artists making it".

We'll see where I end up next. I've been living as a nomad for so many years that this event is almost welcome. Something to stir me out of my comfortable apartment and routine of walking to the coffee shop and bookstore.

Another chapter in the book.

Things I hate:

- When live studio audiences go "woooooooo!" when people kiss.
- Sober men hitting on drunk women
- Harry Potter
- The Da Vinci Code
- having bagels but no cream cheese
- having cereal but no milk

So last night I watched Rocky Balboa and I cried. Not once, but three times. The last time being during the credits, and I wasn't just crying, I was blubbering like a baby. Sobbing. The only thing that got me to stop was doing push ups.

If it's okay for a man to cry it's because of the following things:

1. Something to do with Johnny Cash.
2. Heartbreak + Whiskey.
3. When his dog dies.
4. Rocky movies.

That's right and if anyone wants to say I'm a punk for crying during and after this movie, I'll breat your ass harder than Ivan Drago did to Apollo Creed.

I recieved a box in the mail full of Christmas presents from my mother. Apparently the thinks I'm in prison because here is what I recieved:

One carton of Marlboro Reds.
One bag of razors.
One toothbrush.
One tube of toothpaste.
One book of stamps.

The cigarettes are fine, in fact they are very welcome. The bag of razors, well that's nifty but I'm on the outside. I use one of those fancy dandy Schick III vibrating razors. The toothbrush and toothpaste? Well those are easily obtained, and in fact have been sitting in my bathroom for the last year. The stamps? Come on, I use email.

I think maybe this is just the stock box of presents the women in our family send the men because most of the time they are actually locked up. It made me smile.