Before I get started, I guess I’m a very angry person judging by the tone of these posts lately. Beh, fuck you.

First this dickhead appropriates and sanitizes 2 Live Crew with “Don’t Stop the Party”:

Now this peckerhead along with the fat cow Christina Aguilera have stolen from A-ha:

Okay. I went a little crazy on Twitter when I discovered this and told him to go fuck himself. I wonder if the kids know the little riff comes from this wonderful magic from the 80’s?

I guess it’s easy to regurgitate the past and feed it to back to the mindless public especially when you sell booze to that public to make them forget the crimes of pop you are committing. Hell, even Andy Warhol thinks it’s too derivative.

I guess that’s one way to ruin what was a most excellent Game 6 of the NBA Finals.

For weeks now I’ve been getting emails from every online vendor known to man saying that I should get such and such good deal for my dad on father’s day. The problem is he’s been dead for 16 years, and he was absent from my life for 26 years.

Even before my mom left my dad when I was 8 and moved us from Zachary, LA to LA, CA, the only thing I remember about my dad is beer. That’s all he really did: work, beer, cigarettes. He wasn’t a mean drunk. It was a means to escape. He never hit me or my mom. He never was abusive. He just ignored everything.

Then during high school, my mom wanted me to treat her boyfriend like a father. I didn’t hate him, but I didn’t like him either. Again, he wasn’t abusive or tried to get knees deep in my business. But he wasn’t my father, and I wasn’t going to treat him like such.

So all day on Facebook I’ve seen posts by people loving their daddies and posting pictures of themselves with their daddies and all of this sappy bullshit that makes me want to hurl.

You can have your happiness. I realize other people had it worse than I did. But it doesn’t make me any less bitter.

So fuck father’s day.

Doing the stupid NSA watch posts made me realize what a fucking dull life I lead. In fact it’s dull the point of depression and suicide, so I will halt it.

While Americans might forgive a bit of the Big Brother act in the name of terrorism, I don’t. I also don’t expect to be safe out there in world 24/7. Shit will happen, I might get killed, something I write might get me in deep shit.

What I haven’t really been paying attention to is the politics of how this is playing out. I don’t know if democrats are supporting the Prez even though they really railed against W when he did this. Not to mention this is more invasive than W’s plan.

It just goes without saying that I hate politics and think everyone in it should never be allowed to leave DC. If they want to snoop on each other, fine. Just leave me the fuck out of it.

Now I’m going to go back to my Melrose Place marathon.

• 10:00 – Wake up. Brush teeth. Evacuate bowels.
• 10:15 – Brew coffee. Pour a cup. Check email. Read Feedly feed. (Pictures of fog at Wrigley and Comiskey; KCRW’s evacuation during SMC shooting on Friday; details of gunman’s history).
• 10:45 – Take grandmother to her standing biweekly acupuncture appointment.
• 11:45 – On the off ramp from the freeway heading back home, I’m the third car in line in the right turn lane. The light is red. The lead car is not making a turn despite no traffic and is not on the sensor. So not only are we not moving, the light is not changing.

  I honk. Nothing happens. I roll down my window, stick my head out, and yell, “You fucking cunt. Can’t you make a fucking turn?” Nothing happens.

  A pickup truck mercifully goes into the left turn lane and does fall on the sensor. 30 seconds later the light turns green. I roll my passenger-side window down and hurl more expletives at the braindead dingbat driver.

• 12:00 – Get home. Make lunch.
• 12:30 – Take shower.
• 1:00 – Go to pick up my grandmother from her standing biweekly acupuncture appointment.
• 2:15 – Pack up and leave for Dodger Stadium.
• 3:00 – Arrive at Dodger Stadium. Set up. Listen to some Fleetwood Mac. Go downstairs to find roster changes again.
• 4:00 – Donnie says communication w/ front office is still great. See Jonathan Davis at the park and gab a little.
• 5:00 – Go upstairs and start writing my story with Donnie’s quotes at the top.
• 6:00 – Have dinner.
• 7:00 – First pitch. Start writing about how awful home plate umpire Clint Fagan was. Then the brawl happened. New story.
• 12:30 – Leave the Ravine.

Continuing to help out the poor folks at the NSA.

• 9:30 – Wake up. Brush teeth. Evacuate bowels.
• 9:45 – Make coffee. Take a mug. Check email and Feedly including stories on Cannibal Corpse, Yasiel Puig and John Schwada.
• 10:30 – Watch porn and relieve some hormonal buildup.
• 11:00 – Wrote some words. Fixed grandmother breakfast and meals for the day.
• 12:00 – Nurse came over for a follow up for grandmother.
• 12:30 – Made lunch and dinner.
• 1:00 – Wrote up NSA post.
• 1:15 – Aunt stopped by. Had argument.
• 1:30 – Washed dishes. Took out trash. Check mail (just junk).
• 2:00 – Left the house. Got gas. Went to Dodger Stadium.
• 3:00 – Arrived at Dodger Stadium. Set up laptop. Went to clubhouse. Talked to Hanley, Justin Sellers. Interesting shit with Donnie. Gabbed with Maria and Joe. Dinner. Game. Postgame. Posted my story.
• 12:00 – Left Stadium. Got home. Brushed teeth. Evacuate bowels. Sleep.

With Edward Snowden, PRISM, The Guardian and the entire world raining down shit upon the Obama administration, I thought I’d start to help him and the NSA and let them know what I’m up to. After all, our poor government needs the unconditional support of its citizens, right?

• 8:30 – Woke up. Brushed teeth. Daily bowel evacuation. Made coffee and poured a cup. Turned on and watched an episode of Season 3 of Melrose Place.
• 9:00 – While watching the episode, I checked email, mostly junk, and kept my Simpsons: Tapped Out game up to date.
• 9:15 – Read my newsfeed on Feedly. Contained several articles from Vice, Gawker, Deadspin, Brain Pickings.
• 9:30 – Put on clothes. Pour to-go mug with coffee. Packed up computer. Left house for Dodger Stadium.
• 10:15 – Arrived at Dodger Stadium. Set up laptop. Went downstairs to clubhouse to get the day started. Talked to Jerry Hairston about Stanley Cup Finals.
• 11:00 – Mattingly in the dugout. Sent out a couple of Dodger-related tweets.
• 11:30 – Back up to press box. Started writing my piece.
• 12:00 – Ate lunch
• 1:00 – Dodger game starts. Went on #LasordaWatch as Tommy napped during the game. Checked Feedly several times during the game. Read Guardian piece on Edward Snowden.
• 5:30 – Left Dodger Stadium after posting story. Stopped off at Ralphs to buy Lactaid milk for grandmother.
• 6:30 – Made dinner. Steak and rice.
• 7:30 – Watched an old Huell Howser episode about the Bullock’s Wilshire Tea Room. Spent the next few hours on Wikipedia looking up listed historical places in Southern California and Louisiana.
• 9:30 – Moonshine and Melrose Place.
• 12:30 – Sleep.

Hopefully that helps out Mr. and Mrs. and Ms. NSA folks.

69 years ago today the Allied Forces stormed the beaches of Normandy which is now famously known as D-Day. It was the great push on the Western Front to liberate Europe from the evils of Hitler and Nazi Germany.

I don’t hide behind the guise of patriotism. I don’t wave the flag blindly. I think war and belligerence should be the last option.

But without this operation, life as we know it could be a lot different. So I think we should take a moment and remember the significance of June 6.

Fuck him.

I’m an adult and a proud user of butt wipes. Now I don’t use the premium brand from the Dollar Shave company that sells a box of 40 for $4.00. That’s just insane. I use the above pictured Target-brand toddler wipes because, most importantly, they are flushable. Also a box of 432 wipes costs $13.

I have to say they make clean up so much faster. I use one toilet paper wipe, one toddler wipe and one last toilet paper wipe to dry everything up. Boom boom done.

I don’t know what kind of skidmarks Cook has in his drawers, but as a homosexual man if I happen to be walking around and a guy wants to poke me in the bum, nothing is more of a willy-shrinker than flecks of fecal matter.

Actually, who am I kidding. Ain’t no one going to wanna poke me if they see me on the streets. But one can never be too prepared, right? Will the Boy Scouts now give out a badge for that? On second thought I should probably carry around a portable anal douche contraption. Hm.

I decided to discover some of the historic buildings of San Pedro today. Of course the first place I went to was the Point Fermin Lighthouse. Built in 1874 when there was nothing in the area, it was the first lighthouse built even before San Pedro and Los Angeles was a big shipping town.

A Victorian style structure, it has stood in the same location ever since. Of course it is no longer functioning having been dimmed since the day Pearl Harbor was attacked. But it was neat to be able to go inside and climb to the top.

I also decided to go to the Muller house which was built in 1899.

This house was originally built by Edward Mahar for his parents who lived in Wilmington. They didn’t want to move, so a couple of years later shipbuilder William Muller bought it for his growing family.

The house was originally located at 129 Front Street which is closer to where the current Vincent Thomas Bridge. In 1912 it was moved to 19th Street and Grand Avenue where it stood until 1986 where it was moved to its current location at 16th Street and Beacon Street where it overlooks the harbor.

Finally there is this overlooked gem:

Built in 1888, it was originally a gift from the Sepulveda family, owners of the Palos Verdes Rancho, when Dodson married their daughter Rudecinda. The home was originally built at 7th Street and Beacon Streets in the historic Vinegar Hill part of town. In the 1900’s the house was moved to where the current San Pedro High School is located.

In the mid-1930’s it was moved to its current location right across the street from the current Daniels Field on 13th Street.

Of course Rudecinda had a middle school named for her, which also happened to be where I graduated.

Thanks to the foxy Christina, I learned of the existence of the Summer of Jest.

It’s tempting to do this. There is perhaps the most brilliant group of words put down in literary history since Dostoevsky’s “The Grand Inquisitor” in The Brothers Karamazov: Wallace’s description of the game of Eschaton.

But there are a couple of problems. First is that I have something akin to 500 books in queue to read. The next is that I have the summer of the Dodgers to contend with, and if you have been following you know shit is about to go down.

As you see in my celebratory fake-fucking of the book in the picture above, I finished the book a couple of years ago. I really do want to re-read it. Perhaps…?