BY Toodly

10/01 Direct Link
Steve's cousin was missing, 24 years old and working up near the top of the north tower. He was drunk when we met and continued to get drunker, grabbing at my hand and my knees and trying to suckle something or other out of my jugular vein. He said human contact made him feel better. I didn't argue. I took the shots he bought with something like good cheer and let him move his hands along my lower back. I drank to steel myself and he drank to forget, and when I left at 4 AM the sky rained chalk.
10/02 Direct Link
48 hours: 20 beers, gin, rum, countless snuffles of coke from a bag in the bathroom—nothing but these and three slices of chocolate-chocolate-chip birthday sweets to fuel my body this past weekend. I'm sick again, falling apart the way I oughta be the way I'm living—not writing, not working, partying like the Rolling Stones on a Monkees budget. And why not party like the Rolling Stones? I don't need much, I'll admit, but sometimes getting schnockered til your ceiling curves like the inside of a private luxury jet is just enough to level the iniquities of the world.
10/03 Direct Link
Ike for president! Ike for president! Ike for president! Ike for president!
You like Ike! I like Ike! Everybody likes Ike for president!
Hang out the banner! Bring in the drum!
We'll take Ike to Washington!
We'll take Ike to Washington!
Nixon now!
If you ain't for us you're against us,
There's a bear in the woods!

(After lying wounded in a foxhole for almost nine hours, Bob Dole was completely paralyzed.

When you looked down and saw only one pair of footprints, that's when Bob Dole carried you.)
10/04 Direct Link
Bells over Brooklyn, 6 PM, the sun burnishing the scallops of the Chrysler building bonfire orange and it looks tonight like its name sounds— a chrome sun setting on car-crazy America. Chrysler, Rockefeller, Trump, the Empire. The spike at the top is blooming blue and the white stripe under it is just starting to turn on; the block of red that finalizes it, turns the Empire State into a rocket pop, is still too dim to see, and from here it's the same pale dirty pink as the band of soot and exhaust and chemicals that crosses out the skyline.
10/05 Direct Link
Wigga roommate wants to be a big-time dealer like the ones on TV. Wigga talks to his dealer about a $6000 ecstasy deal. Wigga sets up a transaction with an albino named J who oughta have Word to Your Mother tattooed in purple on his delicate wigga collarbone. Wigga roommate leaves with the e, returns with 7 ounces of yellow powder but no 6000 dollars. J handed Wigga the collateral "coke" and disappeared into his house. Wigga signs his NYU loan check over to his dealer and is busy reading "The Complete Idiot's Guide to Managing Money In Your Twenties."
10/06 Direct Link
I need friends like Divine. Divine used to write checks to fund lavish parties at hotel ballrooms—champagne, a passel of freaks, and absolutely nothing in his bank account to pay the bill. I need friends like the lady who lit the marshal on fire when he came to evict her. People with class are missing from my life. In high school I dreamed of breaking my own nose to get free rhinoplasty—CLASS—later Emma and I decided the more reasonable way to fund unnecessary surgery was to sell your ovaries to infertile couples—CLASS—it's mine in spades.
10/07 Direct Link
It's a fitful awareness that those you love are easily broken, nothing but tubes and tangled ganglia and a soul nestled in all that extinguishable mess. Insignificant things make my heart swell with pain: my mom's loopy handwriting on an envelope, ridiculous superlatives on a package of instant soup—-YOUR FAMILY WILL LOVE THE RICH TASTE! My love for Tony, my fear for him, is palpable, horrible. I want to take up arms to protect him. It's a nebulous pain, like a painting made of thin spotty strokes laid down by a sponge from which I can't discern an image.
10/08 Direct Link
Run out under cover of night to retrieve some manna from heaven: BOOM! Landmine. Walk under cover of night from your house to your neighbor's house: CRUNCH! Ballpeened by a flying crate of K rations. Bomb under cover of night, lay fire under cover of night, hide in your room under covers afraid they're coming for you next, this afternoon, tonight. I'm only 24 and know nothing of real pain, and have no authority to say it, but: fuck you. Fuck you, changed America, new America, whatever you call yourself. Did you really think human life wouldn't get you too?
10/09 Direct Link
This hundred words deal is getting harder for me, as I'm too broke to go anywhere and therefore have almost no daily experiences to fall back on when my mind won't get to churning. I haven't even been anywhere but the roof and the backyard and the deli down the street in days. I sit at the computer, check the job sites; the housing sites; the job sites; the housing sites; the New York State unemployment page. I'm like Henry David Thoreau with no pond, no nature, and no philosophy: living the simple life, too broke for a subway token.
10/10 Direct Link

Let's take a look at this day in history:

732: Battle of Tours

Who cares? What does that have to do with me? I'm hungry.

1845: Birth of the U.S. Naval Academy

Okay, that's better. At least this one's about America. USA! USA! Eat a dick, world!

1970: October Crisis in Canada

What did I just say, History? Who gives a shit about Canada? Boooo-ring.

1973: Vice President Agnew resigns

No idea who this dude is. His name's an anagram for "grow a penis," though.

1985: Achille Lauro Hijacking Ends


1955 - David Lee Roth born

Sweeeee eeeeeeeeeeeee eeeeeeeeeee eeeeeeeeeeeeeeee eeeeeeeeeeeeet.
10/11 Direct Link
George W. Bush Mad Libs:

We're, ummm, ___________ to get ‘em runnin', the evil one and his, aaah, , this is a war like we've never seen before. Ummm, America is _________, we are a lands of ___________. These ___________ will not hold us hostile. We're gonna smoke ‘em out of their ____________ or wherever them backwards sand nigg…erm, smoke ‘em out, so many smoke outs at old Yale. You know this speech is being broadcast all over the world? And you know, ahh, I just can't for the life of me, urm, you know, figure out why they hate us.
10/12 Direct Link
There's a gang in my neighborhood called the Unknown Bikerz, only they don't have bikes and are all in wheelchairs. Most of them are missing at least one limb. They sit around on the sidewalk looking tough and flying their colors from the backs of their souped-up chairs. On the way home from the post office I spotted a Hasidic dwarf rushing down the street with a dogged pinch to his face, his custom-made black suit whipping out behind him. At the community center on the corner fifteen little girls in catholic school uniforms danced the Macarena before the windows.
10/13 Direct Link
I present now my "before" picture: fifty finely calibrated words of sobriety. I'm about to go paint my brainpan all shades of shiny and finish my words when hilarity hits. Right now I'm down, brooding like a bitch. I once worked in a kennel that subscribed to Brood Bitch Review.

After: feeling ecstatic (but annoyed by all the alliteration in my sober fifty). It's sad that I like my pill-popping personality (there I go again) better than my sober one. I envy this me for shunning petty frustrations. I need to evolve my real self, to cultivate a simple life.
10/14 Direct Link
A few years ago a mother and daughter were murdered for provocative dress. This was in Afghanistan, the country Americans are suddenly scrambling to learn about, one country amongst the hundreds we just haven't felt like learning to locate on a map. My friend Hettie wrote a poem about the women that I can't seem to find now—plus I can't reach her, haven't seen it in the bookstores, and can't locate it on the internet. She imagined them flaunting bright, extravagant silks, and promised them these funerary rites: a bouquet of proud and naked women to decorate their graves.
10/15 Direct Link
A guy was fired at Tony's work today. Apparently he filled an envelope with baby powder and left it on someone's desk, snickering away with prankster glee. They gave him fifteen minutes to gather up his things and get out of the building forever. Tony tells me that earlier this year the guy had been hopelessly compelled—perhaps even instructed by God—to pop a coworker's blow-up Godzilla with a leftover takeout chopstick. When the plastic wouldn't budge our hero persevered, ramming Godzilla with the might of ten men until the chopstick slipped and ripped a gash in his arm.
10/16 Direct Link
A Song For Double Dutch

You look like a pimple,
you smell like Toledo,
you're a human abortion
in a day-glo tuxedo.

Always hangin' out
at the porno theater,
fuckin' a hollowed-out
block of Velveeter.

If there were a medal
for sniffin' glue,
someone else would get it
cuz no one likes you.

Got your head up high
and your feet down low,
and your tongue up the ass
of the CEO.

I've traveled the world,
Detroit to Aruba,
seen more assholes per day
than Caligula.

But you're the worst,
and here's the reason:
you stink worse
than Jackie Gleason.
10/17 Direct Link
Young people are adept at shooing death from their minds. When the hounds come baying we board up the windows and turn to brighter corners, to playing at adulthood, playing house with our egos and subsidized nights out. When death is confronted—not at the end of the great aunt's funeral when mom makes us kiss the corpse, but as concept, inexorability—why is it with goth camp and coffin tattoos and other Ebenezer Scroogisms? To be young and already touched by death is to be a mythological creature your friends can't see, in which they don't want to believe.
10/18 Direct Link
Sarin Goes Hunting:

The beginning was a dirty whirlwind.

Particles fought particles, atoms fought atoms, compounds fought compounds over who'd become what.

"I'm gonna be strontium," said an electron, "and die a spinning tail in a fireworks display."

"Fuck that, I'm gonna be hydrogen," said a quark, "and die a flare on the sun."

"I'm gonna be Kentucky bluegrass," said (CH3)2N-P(=O)(-CN)(-OC2H5), "I'll sleep in the wind all day."

"Why can't I be bluegrass?" countered CH3-P(=O)(-F)(-CH(CH3)C(CH3)3, "I'm as good and as stable as anybody."

"As long as those humans don't put me to use," said CH3-P(=O)(-F)(-OCH(CH33)2), "I'm happy just to be."
10/19 Direct Link
There's nothing wrong with outfitting your world with idealized trimmings. Eventually you tire of fighting and settle on a compromise, on friends who want friends who think like they do. I welcome difference into my life; I'm just too tired to tussle with Piltdown Man over Madonna's genius or women's inferiority. The black kids at my high school didn't chill with the white kids because they wanted to forget how stupid we were, god bless ‘em. And tonight, listening to a movie audience boo and recoil as two women kissed, reminded me that this world is of my own making.
10/20 Direct Link
Dear Ms. Lonelyhearts,

I have this little problem. It's the economy, Miss Lonelyhearts. It's the economy and my sex life, I guess. I mean it's the economy, my sex life, Dan Rather's haircut, and the pointy-toed shoes women all over Manhattan wear. It's the way their pinky toes fall off the edge of those shoes and scrape the ground like ghastly little kickstands, Miss Lonelyhearts, it is, it is. It's the nail polish they wear. It's patriotism, it's families in India selling their daughters into prostitution, it's that no product will shrink my pores til they depart this dimension. It's…
10/21 Direct Link
I know I will not die tomorrow if I drink Milwaukee's Best tonight. God would never do that to me, nossir, no dropping dead with a hangover from the $2 Sunday night special. If I do go hungover it will be a few years from now—at least—and the beer will be something good and dark and European. To hell with this Wisconsin shit. I'd like to go with my pants around my ankles and my brain pickled in opium, on the toilet, laughing. So I have no doubt I'll see tomorrow: it's the perfect method for cheating death.
10/22 Direct Link
Anna Nicole Smith is the best symbol of America I can think of. Much better than the flag or that pussy Lady Liberty, who doesn't have big nails or big breasts—some American! She's a golddigger, and golddigging's got a lot to do with life, liberty, and the pursuit of happiness. It's an apt metaphor for the American dream, in fact. Like the rest of our nation, Anna Nicole has too much food and buys products that teach her not to eat. She's incredibly blond… she's incredibly dumb… she's from Texas… and there's nothing more American than a dumb Texan.
10/23 Direct Link
Called my dad, listened to him complain about my mom's hatefulness, her narcissism: "She doesn't care about anyone, that woman. And I'll tell you another thing, Erin, my psychologist agrees."

Called my mom and could tell she'd been crying, that she's falling apart, that she doesn't want to teach at Columbine anymore, that she's tired of being blamed and sued and run in circles.

He said: "She never even asks about my cancer."

She said: "I can't take it anymore. I want to come and live with you."

And me with no way to end this story, none at all.
10/24 Direct Link
Seems my old friend Emma has become a notorious Boston slut nicknamed Emma Bisquick she was spotted one night in the kitchen at a party stuffing utensils and a box of Bisquick up her skirt. Emma used to lock her door, throw on awful video game music, and jump on the bed yelling, "TECHNOLAND! TECHNOLAND!" She wore knotted scarves around her neck and put baby oil in her hair. We spent a lot of time driving aimlessly around the country, chainsmoking and smuggling a bunny back and forth over the Canadian border. We fed it toppings from drive-thru hamburgers.
10/25 Direct Link
The Night I Smoked Crack
By Reddy Killowatt

It was in St. Louis. I was fresh off a Greyhound from Denver, and don't remember now why I was there. Holly met me at the station. She'd developed a passion for crack because it made her dance to the music in her head. We smoked with an ex-con named Bobby who had a three teeth and a roaring sex drive. He started at me, he stared at Holly, he finished the rock mighty quick and went out to the ghetto for another. I lay on the bed and cried, needing more.
10/26 Direct Link
I'm an angry person, a mean drunk. For some reason I've lost a few eyelashes as of late and have a small bald spot over my left eye. From your perspective it's my right eye. From my perspective when looking in a mirror it's my right eye too. So we have something in common. See?

Here's an abbreviated list of the famous women I supposedly look like:

Martina Hingis
Rose McGowan
Angelina Jolie
Laura Bush
Christina Ricci
That Garbage girl

If I end up assassinating a senator, however, I request that the dramatization of my life star Bill Murray.
10/27 Direct Link
Someone out there, someone reading this, please offer me an apartment. I cook a lot and you'd get good hot meals. I usually smell nice. I drink a lot and smoke a lot and do too many drugs too, which is always a plus. I have a copy of Showgirls signed by John Waters. I tried to find a cheater vagina for him to sign, but they're expensive. He told me to make my own. I'm a writer who can't bring myself to write. I'm on a very fun downward spiral and would let you videotape the whole damn thing.
10/28 Direct Link
Watched the memorial service on TV. I remember sitting through a few huge memorials, how awful they were, the whole endless string of them: the same people at each one, the same somber folks sitting awkwardly onstage, the cameras trying to get a shot of you as you cried, as if your grief were a public event. The families today held photos over their heads when the cameras stopped on them. I wonder, like I wondered after the murders at my mom's work, how many services one atrocity warrants, and who decides when it's time the public cultivates new fixations.
10/29 Direct Link
Scarface, Part II

Wigga roommate wants to be a dealer. Wigga gets a call from the dealer we had to keep entertained for hours earlier this month when wigga went and lost $6000 worth of pills. Seems this guy, knowing the depths of wigga's suckerness, has decided to rip him off for a cool $500. He's also decided to amuse himself—and me, I imagine, the sweetheart—by quoting wigga a too-good-to-be-believed-by-anyone-but-wigga bargain. (That counts as one word. Don't punish me. I'm doing my best with what God gave me, y' hear?) Dealer takes the $500, weed never materializes. C-L-O-W-N-E-D.
10/30 Direct Link
Here's how hungover I am: I just shampooed my face. Lost in some reverie about nothing at all, I grabbed the shampoo and slathered it all over my face for three minutes straight, probably humming, though I don't remember all that well as it was a full ten minutes ago. Does that make sense? I can't even tell. This is not a nice feeling. I'm vaguely unhappy, embarrassed about something, though I didn't do anything at all last night. I wake day after day in a terror that I said something or did something wrong. I'm secretly quite moral, apparently.
10/31 Direct Link
gotta stop
every night every night
every night every night
every night every night
every night every night
every night every night
every night every night
every night every night
every night every night
every night every night
every night every night
every night every night
every night every night
every night every night
every night every night
every night every night
every night every night
every night every night
every night every night
every night every night
every night every night
every night every night
having no fun at all