I done went to Vegas And Darth Vader's 25th birthday party, and all I got was this lousy pain in my Prostate.

Yea, I know, it has been a long while since I last updated, but damnit, I went to Vegas again, and this is what happens.

It being now Tuesday evening, Wednesday for those of you on the East Coast, I am finally starting to feel like myself again - namely, debonair, suave, sophisticated, able to leap small animals with several bounds, and most importantly, handy with the Blog.

So, acclimating such to my triumphant return, I went to upload my pictures to create a substantial, informative, photograph-aided travelogue, an accurate expression of my time in the City of Sin, only to get the following message:

CF CARD ERROR.

Yes, all my pictures had been deleted. Well, maybe they're still there; I have no way of knowing if they do still exist. The irony is, I only took three damn pictures. And I know fully what they are, and can describe them loquaciously and with sufficient veracity. "Lucky Me," You say.

The first picture was of our hotel room at the Motel 6. Where do you stay when you travel to Las Vegas? Motherfucking Motel 6. That picture (not unlike the one seen here) depicted my Hotel Roommate Corey and our drive-accompanying but Imperial Palace-staying-at friend, T to the J. I took the photo to document the bed spreads, a cartoonish seascape, replete with islands and oceanic vista goodness, which set my eyes-a-salivatin'.

This brings us to club Tao, in the Venetian, a Casino where I once won $35 on a slot machine. Yes, that's thirty five BIG 'UNS, mes amis, and I promptly went and bought two Red Bull and Vodkas for $9.50 a piece. Never. Looking. Back. Because, frankly, that's my motto: Never Look Back, and also, One in the hand is better than Two in the Bush. And cleaner, too. More sanitary like.

Oh yeah, the club. Apparently, it was Darth's birthday, although, wouldn't you know it, I never saw him. I did, however, see a line out-the-pissa, about thirty people deep - FOR THE MEN'S ROOM. I tried to pull the whole Dark-Side-I'm-strangling-You-maneuver-with-my-thumb-and-forefinger that I'd seen Darth do in the past, but to no avail: My Jedi voodoo holds no sway in such establishments. Pity.

The dance floor, I must say, was a rockin', and I, it shall be known, did come a knockin'. If you were there, incidentally, I was the one in the light blue-navy blue striped shirt, demonstrating the wholesome complexity of the art of dance, and doing it well. Moths to a flame, I was Bea Arthur to their Shirley Maclaine, luminescent among the minions, who flocked, gratefully, and basked in mine own unexaggerated warmth, and grace.



"Here is something you can't understand.. How I could Just Kill a Man!"



Incidentally, if you were a woman, the theme of the night would have been: U.T.I. IMMINENT. Why, David, could you sense a tangible need for more cranberry in the diet? No, dear reader, it's because unless you were willing do pull a Sienna Miller right there in the corner, you were not going to be able to take a piss unless you lasted out a nearly 100 people deep line. "So Dave," you ask, "Am I to deduce that pulling a Sienna Miller means pissing out in public, among people?" Yes, that is basically the idea. "Why, has Sienna Miller ever pissed in public and been called on it?" No, but it somehow seems appropriate to her idiom. And I 'm down with that.

The best part of the evening involved meeting Adam Vinatieri, famed kicker, Super Bowl Hero, and all around M.V.P. "Wait,"you inquire, "Really?" Well, no, not really. But why not try to get into the V.I.P. room, using the appropriate Jedi mind tricks, convinving the bouncer that you are, in fact, the very famous North Dakotan himself? This technique T.J. did try, only he failed, but not because he was not convincing; the doorman apparently did not know who Adam Vinatieri was. Apparently he's a promise breaking, drug abusing, miscreant, willing to stop at nothing to achieve his quest of maximum-fucked-up-edness, rocking out, and general excellence. For this he is great. He and Sienna should mate, excrete publicly, and make proclamations, exemplifying, and truly, both embodying and exuding grandeur; wonder.

Another one of my compatriots really and truly did have sex in the bushes, somewhere outside the Hard Rock Hotel and Casino, with a woman whom he later referred to as "overweight." His inability to find release in this encounter paralleled his own colonic constipation, providing both myself, the author, and you, the humble reader, with an apt analogy, nay, metaphor for the entire Vegas experience: One Brown Mouse, in a Different Cage.

Unlike that hack Billy Joel, I'm in a Citrus State of mind, with special help from the 5 people you Really meet in heaven

Ahh, Florida. An esteemed state; an environs, if you will, inducing thoughts and feelings of warmth, serenity, and overall, unspecific goodness.

Florida (unlike Florna, the angel in disguise from the Tenacious D series) hath brought forth several excellent additions to the culture and wonder of the United States of America, it's chief contributions being Burt Reynolds, Oranges, and, of course, the talented Angelina.

Recently, I had the good fortune to voyage to the southwestern portion of said state, to visit my parental units as they transition into a mode of quasi-retirement, retreating to a life of leisure involving golf, fresh fruit, mild evenings on the linai, and for their loving son, heat rash.



"A good cure for heat rash, also known as Tinea Versicolor? Loni Anderson's tongue on your balls. And Florida orange juice - Fresh squeezed, full of vitamin C, for when you need to go The Longest Yard. And Loni likes to dip my balls in it."


"My tongue? Wrapped firmly around Burt's balls. This sassy young missus's gotta do what she's gotta do, you understand? For you, for me, for the people of Cincinnati, for Howard Hesseman, Fisher Stevens, Fernando Valenzuela, and both Ricardo Montalban, his internationally renowned height-challenged friend, and thirdly, ze plane, ze plane. And for the good people of Fort Myers, Florida - Loni loves ya!"

Yea, I had voyaged to that region of the world where reason and logic continue their troubled battle with existence, manifesting in the malaise of ignorance - but i quickly found, Dear Reader, that it was I who was most ignorant.

And it would come back to bite me in the ass. Especially on the golf course, where I found new names for Golf Balls - you know, cute names, like, I don't know, Hitler.. Stalin.. Nurse Ratchett?

One lovely segment of the experience was visiting the Spring Training home of my beloved Red Sox, in the City of Palms.





Me and Pa at the field- they left the gates open, we sauntered in. We were feeling especially happy, and slightly jaundiced. Pa's nose even dissappeared. Luckily, mine had no such inclination. The greenish short/grey shit tandem was, in fact, a conscious decision. Yes, the hair's real.



"You better call on Tyrone. And tell him to come over and come get his shit. But you can't use my phone. You can only use your instincts, charm, and gool old fashioned American elbow grease."

I saw miss Badu at Red Rocks, the greatest outdoor ampitheater in the world, in 2001. Good fucking time. The next night, Tenacious D, Galactic, and headlining, WEEN! Now THAT was a fucking show. Back to Erykah, as she is the emissary of all that is wholesome, I must ask, Just what the fuck does she say in that song, anyway? "I want a Rim Shot?" Frankly, this may be one of those evident truths that I completely miss. I pretty much know absolutely everything, but every now and then I miss something HUGE. And it's humbling - but inspiring, in it's own way; I reaffirm the knowledge that there is more to learn, and that there is an inherent grace in wisdom.


"As the fourth person you will meet in heaven, following the looming luminaries of Burt Reynolds, Loni Anderson, and Erykah Badu, I must say - I'm fucking reverent Charlie! The intensity of my stare is surpassed only by the ever expanding realm of my talent - did you see where I played the young school boy, fighting injustice against a throng of verisimilitude, with only a penchant for alacrity and a gradually diminishing sense of self-awareness with which to arm myself? I'm a Boy Scout! No, I don't got any marshmallows - Dice, you got any marshmallows?"

Alright, I admit - I have no idea what the fuck Eric Roberts would say. I do, however, know what a certain Andrew Dice Clay might say, as for many years I owned a copy of his HBO special from the late 80's / early 90's. And. It. Fucking. Ruled.

"Japanese Guy? Use a fucking Peanut Shell! Oh! What, you think I get high? Let me tell you something, snappa'head - I wanna get high, I bang my head against a brick wall two, tree times - I catch a fucking buzz! Oh! As the fucking Exquisite fifth and final person you meet in Heaven, I'd like to officially say 'Hey! What's in the bowl, bitch!' Un-fucking-believable. Sure, I sleep on airplanes - I sleep in the nude! Oh! Teacher said hey Dice, what's the difference between two threes? I said 'That's what I say, honey - what's the fucking difference? Oh! But I like you, sweetheart - You're the Goods. I like a woman so big you don't know where the poop ends, and the shit begins! Oh!"

As I am still on the mailing list for the esteemed church of Scientology, I receive their shit on a regular basis. I could return a letter saying "Stop sending me these fucking things," but then they would know that I am, in fact, alive. Instead I choose ignorance, as previously hinted above, to avoid acknowledged reciprocity and navigate this sticky river on which I currently swim. Truthfully, I am fascinated by the personage of L. Ronnie, and to conclude this very missal, I offer you, the lucky reader, a morsel of his hard-won wisdom:

"One rud unflown: cramming. The operating norm."

Yeah, yeah, I know - update, update.

Sorry folks - I done been away on vacation this h'ya last week, and I done no updating. Yes, I have received your emails, and I appreciate the encouragement and support. Particularly the one from "Amalgam H. Maybelline," regarding the "Naked Dating Club." Following the hectic day today, I may in fact have enough cleared off the slate to take old Amalgam up on her offer. At least, I think Amalgam is a she, but no matter; a naked dating club should provide enough to go 'round for all peoples. It is a club, right? And an exclusive one at that, considering I got the email from Amalgam his/herself.

Anyway, maybe even as soon as tonight I can throw up a post regarding my voyage to the East, nay, the South East, replete with the usual witticisms, photographic wonder, and that certain, how do you say, Je ne sais quoi, that keeps you coming back for more. In the mean time, visit the links on the right, peruse the archives, and read up more on yours truly - the more you know, the better. The better what, you say?

Exactly.

The Big 4-0

An Ode to Forty

Yes, sayest I must,
The time has come in this man's life,
where valour stepst aside,
passing the chalice of fancy to the purloined beggar of fortune,
Misstepping naught as the precipice he doth approacheth..
.. only to call out, shrieking and thusly shirking the call of eternal night;
"Fortuna, Whore! I thee implore!
Take arms, and alms, through my memory, to find..
Those days of Shame... and Burgundy Wine."

No, I am not turning 40 - I still have six months before my third decade begins, I and I shall relish all opportunity as such in the twilight of my roaring twenties. The aforementioned big four dash oh represents my 40th Blog Posting, of which you are all currently witness.

But Dave.. You ask.. You've been blogging for nine months. If we, say, average, oh, 30 days in a month, that's.. 270 days..divided by 40 posts.. One post every 6.75 days?

You're damn right. You don't earn the title of M.V.B. without complete and utter dedication to the craft. The focus needed to maintain such a rigorous posting schedule entails many... duties. For instance, once every 6.75 days, I sit down at the computer, and I ask myself, humbly, these questions three:

David, what have you done to make the world better?
What could you do better? And Finally,
What does the world need to know, to see, to understand, and oh can you put it into blog form, that'd be swell?

And to answer these questions, I respectively state:

1. Blogged
2. Develop, Learn, and Implement Cloning Technique
3. Yes, I can put it into Blog Form.

Sure, you may end up taking a few moral shortcuts, experimenting with H.G.H., engaging in tomfoolery, tompettying, petty theft, breaking and entering, entering without breaking, and of course, breaking, leaving, coming back later to piss upon, and finally, eating a dozen apples and shitting a fruit salad uponst. On a stage with my wife, son, dog, and daughter.

What do you call this act?

We call it the aristo... Err.. No. I call it "The Formula to be elected Most Valuable Blogger." And when is a diet pill worth $158 a bottle? Not when you want to shed five to fifteen "Vanity Pounds." This is only for those who have tried, and Just Can't Seem To Lose The Weight. For People watching the Fox Soccer Channel at 11:30 PST.

But back to my undeniable, prolific intensity which has earned me such a title. I have many to thank. Mainly, the following: Michelob, Gumby, and Chicken Divan. A wise man once revealed the recipe of said Divan as: "Chicken, Broccoli, Cheese.. And some Other Stuff." I can only nod in humble accordance, and reflect on what has come to pass in these 40 postings, wherewithin my soul hath been lain before thee.

On the first post ever, you, the reader, were transported through the magic of mine own photography and verse to a world unlike the one in which you currently find yourself. Fantasy and Reality interwove into a veritable tapestry of both harmony and chaos; dualities in monotony. As an author and creator, I used this event to set the template, nay, the foundation, and establish thematic unity and harmony for this endeavor, which was to become, in time, this very 40 post full blog.

Following my birthday, We were introduced to Gumby.

Other than that, much like the recipe for Chicken Divan, there was "Some Other Stuff."

Through it all, there's been YOU. Thanks for your continued patronage - If you'd like, go right ahead, print out all these postings, staple them together, and found a religion based on the teachings contained therein. Call it a "Holy Book," drink some "Jesus Juice," smoke your "Sacred Herb,"and, defying Sammy Hagar, drive Fifty-Five. Then, obeying him, speed up or slow down. I will wholeheartedly deny having any part in such an organized spiritual community, but I will walk up and down the aisles with a wicker basket, accepting donations for the church, eerily humming "Shambala" by Three Dog Night. And it will be oh-so humid, like the court scene in A Passage to India.

Haikus from Famous People, Both Dead And Alive (Treasure Stolen from the Incas, we shall gather for the Queen)

Beatnik Gumby listens to Earth, Wind, and Fire. He proclaims to himself, when the light of day dims into the night, "We are People, of the Party, Party People, Of the Sun. In Our Heart Lies, All the Answers.. and the Truth we Can't Run From."

He also snaps his fingers in time to the thythm, bobbing his head slightly, and, en hommage to Neil Cassady, sayeth to those who will listen : "I ain't Gonna Bump No More with no Big Fat Woman." Or maybe that's an hommage to Joe Tex, singer of "I Gotcha," and other fine hits.

In honor of Mr. Tex, and frankly, only for Mr. Tex, I will introduce a new stanza of Haiku, reverting from the traditional 5-7-5 to the more transitional, dare I say, southern california haiku, of 3-7-3?



"I Gotcha,
You Tried to Sneak By Me Now,
Didn't You?"







Nonetheless, I did promise you Haikus of famous people, both dead and alive, yes? Indeed, no more amateur stanza structure: From here on out, only the famed 5-7-5 shall apply.

Let's start with Dead.


"To find my killer,
Just ring my fucking doorbell,
And ask for Patsy. "






Back to the living...














"Question my color?
My Green stems not from Envy,
But Other Demons. "

And with respect to the dead...




"I'm Henry Miller,
I wrote Tropic of Cancer,
Best Novel Ever."














"And in this corner:
Representing the Living..
GUMBY, You Bitches!






















"Thanks Mr. Buffer,
Gumby feel like rocking out,
KISS : ALIVE is on."