Anti abandons the internet.

it's finally over, thank fucking god.

Thursday, March 31, 2005


Ranting @ 80 miles per hour.
a film

Wednesday, March 30, 2005


how to make waffles.
a film


st. patricks day.
a photo.

what you want to do is stop giving a fuck. i hate crying and "wah wah" bullshit. caring is not sharing, unless you want to be "sharing" something comparable with spreading disease and illness.

it's been proven to me that it's a hard place for some people to tap into. "letting go makes me so uncomfortable, man..." is what they tell me. but they never even tried it once... they don't KNOW that letting go will make them uneasy because they've never tried it, but they're convinced all the same.

insurance on a car is something you get in case of an accident, so that you are protected. but can you use that logic to justify carrying a gun? not everything continues to make sense when you change the variables, as we all know carrying a gun is a good way to up the ante in a bad way, and perhaps end up dead yourself.

a country full of idiots and fools paying out the ass for a finite fuel, and letting their governemt distract them with baseball players inflating their craniums with synthetic hromones, and a piece of brain dead mass rotting in florida. GENIUS! all whilst our boys are dying for a war no one understands.

and we want to get indignant when we're refered to as ulgy americans, proving that objective truth was not to be tolerated. agree with us, or die by the sword. welcome the the NEW america.

the bait you with the promise of a pot of gold at the end of all the hoops they want you to jump through... but you only realize it is a mirage when it's too late, and you;re at the point of no return.

they call marines jar heads because they say that in the process of their training the US Military essentially unscrews the top of their head like a jar, and removes the brain they entered with, and insert the brain that they want.

but it's naive to assume that EVERY AMERICAN, young and old, black and white, male and female, are not subjest to the same conditioning.

we are conditioned to fucking high hell.

but it's only that way because we've been fooled, and after they violent bloody revolution, AFTER things are corrected and made right by those who are willing to die for GOOD and WHAT IS RIGHT...

it will crumble again. things will become rotten again. it is the cycle.

it's life.

the fears you hear in your head, and the things you are afraid of are irrational. you need not fear anything.

the phone has been shut off by the phone company once again, maybe they are trying to tell me something. it would have been easier if they just called me, i mean, i thought only chicks dropped hints. pshhh.


how to brush your teeth.
a film.


brittany spears
desmond dekker
and THC.
a film.


the inside of a Whole FOods Market
a film

Tuesday, March 29, 2005


the matrix #3 and bonghits to boot.
a film

christ, there's been another shooting on the freeway. so now all the northbound lanes of the 110 freeway (aka, the main artery leading into downtown los angeles) ARE CLOSED for and hour during evening rush. hahahahhaha... i love LA.

im having a breakfast burrito for dinner.

buddha has alwasy been my most favorite fat guy.

dealer McDope let me over to his house today for a minute. he said he went to see handsome boy modeling school last night. he said it pretty much sucked tho... although there was a chance for him to go and speak with prince paul, from de la soul and gravediggaz fame. pretty coo...

my shoulder hurts like a bitch. the left one. but it's mellow because i am able to find relief in certain positions, which is typically not the case.

i'm unsulted more of you aren't makeing video blog posts. c'mon you slackers...

(btw, if anti gets to call you a slacker, you realle ARE one.)

and lastly, RIP Johnny Cochran...


a film

Monday, March 28, 2005


it's windy as hell today.
a film.


anti = intense shoulder pain. thank the lord for Methyl Salicylate NF.

it's been deemed video blogging week 2005, and so id like to repeat information that will hopefully get more of you (my fellow blogonians) to start posting video footage of yourself.

it is FREE to host video. what a wonderful world we live in today! go to and step #3 will get you going, and all that good shit. step #4 is like whatever... you don't have to CRACK OUT on it like me... but you can at least do step 3.

just like blogging, don't start thinking to yourself, "oh man, im so lame, i have nothing to video that will be interesting/funny"

YOU'D BE SURPRISED!!! people are strange, and apparently they have a vouyeristic tendency, and it doesn't even matter if it's as mundane as brushing your teeth. in fact, my next video post will be JUST THAT. it will be my best one yet.

here's the ideal tho... you set up your camera facing you, start recording, and say hi... and talk for a minute or two about nonesense. or just sit there and show us the kitch you have sitting around your computer, or give us a tour of your apartment. or do a bonghit!!!! that is an old stand by for me (obviously)

this is videoblogging WEEK man. i will post a few everyday this week... and now's your perfect excuse to try it out, and see if you like it. AND YOU CAN DO IT FOR FREEEEEEEEEEEEE.

thanks, and please, let me know when you get to it, i wanna watch em.

+ +


a trip to 7-11
, a film


commando knitting.
a film

Sunday, March 27, 2005


my POV, again.
a film.

i smoke the best weed i can find these days, but it didn't start quite like that. my entry level pot addiction was based on the CHEAPEST weed i could afford, becuase i was a freshman in highschool, and welp... every fucking penny counts when you're in grade fucking 9.

it went by many names... Shwag, KGB "killer green bud" (pfft yah right), Mexican, Low Grade, Stress, Brick Weed, The Dirt...

basically $20 got you a quarter ounce, and $50 got you an ounce, and $200 got you a Quarter Pound.

the weed you ended up with was total shit. it was loaded to the brim with seeds, sometimes it was so dark brown you thought it ws soaked in gravy, and it always always made you choke. Not to mention it smelled like shit, tasted like shit, and made you reek of burnt rope.

back then it was a huge hassle to buy weed too, because it was before the wide spread use of cell phones. it was in that tiny slice of time during the early to mid 90's where everyone and their mother's brother, had a beeper. or a pager, whatever the fuck you wanna call it.

and well, as you remember... sometimes they call you back, sometimes they don't. sometimes they are near a phone, sometimes they aren't.

SHIT... sometimes their pager has batteries, sometimes they didn't forget it back at their mommy's house.

you never could even be sure homie got the got damn page.

and no one had glass bongs or pipes. it was plastic bongs and aluminum pipes city. if you were a real bad ass, you might have had a brass chamber pipe, with a bunch of rag-weed stuffed in the middle... so taht everytime you smoke through the pipe... it gets the weed in there a bit more resinated. making it a bit more stoney.

in hindsight, that is totally fucking disgusting. resin, and resinated weed all add up to the biggest cougher of your life. blick.

i guess it was whitey who converted to chronic first. he had the best paying job, thusly new some highschool dudes who also worked at that same sandwhich shop, and well... it was just a matter of time before we all realized that we were doing it all wrong. you're not sposed to seek out the cheapest pot you can find, so that you can go smoke it like a crack fiend. that's junkie mentality. "the cheapest junk i can score, so i's can get me my fix!"

it's like the difference between a TV dinner and a Filet Mignon.

masterbation vs. red hot sex.

Couch Potato vs. Carpe Diem.

basically it's about knowing that when you die, and stories are being told at your funeral-thingy will sound like, "he smoked the best weed, had the hugest smile, lived where he wanted to live, and knew who he wanted to know, and tried his hardest to do it his bestest."

so yah. now the funny part is... i couldn't find any brat weed even if i tried. all those dealers, and dead pager numbers add up to nothing now. not that i would seek any out... because, once you go chronic, you never go back.


the audio on this is screwed up
but that makes it hilrious to me.
a film


How To Clean Your Bong,
a film.

You scored as Satanism. Your beliefs most closely resemble those of Satanism! Before you scream, do a bit of research on it. To be a Satanist, you don't actually have to believe in Satan. Satanism generally focuses upon the spiritual advancement of the self, rather than upon submission to a deity or a set of moral codes. Do some research if you immediately think of the satanic cult stereotype. Your beliefs may also resemble those of earth-based religions such as paganism.



















Which religion is the right one for you? (new version)
created with

Saturday, March 26, 2005

when i sleep at night, i don't dream. it's like i close my eyes and open them again with no time elapsing in between. blank. nothing. some have told me they believe it to be from my habbitual marijuana use... i tend to agree...

at any rate, when i try to remember years back to one of the dreams i had when i slept at night, and this one stands out.

a hush fell over the crowd as he walked up to the front of the stage, and calmly set down his cocktail on top of the rarely-used grand piano, and stood in front of the room filled with couples and groups of couples surrounding tiny tables, filled to the edge with mandatory minimum drink order...

he grabbed the micro phone stand with two hands and adjusted it up to reach his height, and began speaking slowly into the mic without ever once needing to clear his throat. he told stories that he made up about a person sitting four tables back, because they were an easy enough target, and because he didn't rely on a written "act" or a "bit"... he just knew he was funny. and he knew he was funniest when it was brand new. and it's only brand new when it's improvised.

so he paces occationally, and speaks deliberately, allowing for a shit ton of awkward "pregnant" pauses. and really not too interested in winning any popularity contests. he always just did what made HIMSELF laugh, and never really cared if anyone else agreed... he just knew by now, after years on the road, paying his bills with his craft, proving time after time...

he was indeed funny.

ditching wood shop class to go hit blake's double bubble, graffix two foot, acrylic ba-zong seems JUST LIKE YESTERDAY.

those were the days that trained me. back then i didn't even cough when i ripped a fat cloudy one, i had lung made of steel. nowadays my lungs are about as strong as a wet sheet of toilet paper.

once a friend of mine had some buddies coming in from humboldt county, and there were driving down 5 pounds to sell off real fast and make some quick $. (it's hard to sell pot in humboldt for a decent price, that's like selling sand to the desert.)

after a few days of nickle and diming their way around town, i got a jungle on my phone to see if i knew any big players who might want to buy a at least a pound.

i knew of such a guy. we called him "one stop" because he was an underground/black market superstar. you could show up for some weed, and leave with shrooms, ecstacy, some weed, and maybe even some high end hand held electronics that "fell off a truck"

so i hollered at One-Stop, and told him what was brewing. One-Stop said he was very interested because he liked a lot of weed variety. at least 4 or 5 several batches.

so it was set. the humboldt dudes were sitting in my living room watching a movie on my tv, sitting very close to their 5 pounds of dope, guarding it. And one-stop was on his way from gardena to my apartment in long beach, calling every 10 minutes to make sure he was on track with the directions.

that's when the girl i was trying to get to date me called, and said she was in long beach, and wanted to swing by real fast to say hi. "umm... yah ok, im not busy, sure, come one over."

she arrived after one-stop had already gotten there. one stop and the humboldt boys got along famously, immediately deciding that my bathroom had the best light for scoping out the different bags of weed.

so me and that girl on are on my living room couch, and she can barely pay any attention to me, because over my shoulder there's two white boys, and one black dude holding pounds of weed over their head, in the hallway next to the bathroom.

i tried to calm the situation by telling the girl that this was not an everyday thing for me, and typically my house isn't the spot where thousand dollar weed transactions take place.

the point of the story is, i lost One-Stop's phone number, and i wish i still had it, because i would totally do some shrooms right now.


pier tours.
a film


shopping for churros
a film

anti's blog tool box:

Computer Hardware:
Emachines Pentium 4, 20 Gig hard drive. Samsung SyncMaster 712n, 17inch flat panel monitor. Microsoft wireless mouse and keyboard. Labtec 3 point speakers. General Electric webcam. Lexmark Z715 color printer. Westell WireSpeed DSL Modem.

sony CyberShot DSC-P41. Sony Mavica, floppy disk removable storage.

Internet Accounts: (grandfathered into bloggerplus, unlimited free ftp storage on the blogspot server, not offered to new accounts), (free legacy account, 200 free images per month, not offered to new accounts), (free gig of space, invite only), (free to everyone), (free to everyone), (free to everyone), to everyone). to everyone), (free to blogger users, pay for everyone else)


new bag
a film


return of the mack.
a film


a film

Friday, March 25, 2005

know what i love to do? post video clips of myself, sometimes mindlessly so.

i do not care if it's boring, only funny to me, or down right obnoxious, BECAUSE I LOVE IT. and i want you, the world, to love it too. and you can, for free even. it's true.

Click here to join videoblogging
Click to join videoblogging

after carefully studying these resources, you too will be producing your own mini movie clips (aka, the road to faker stardom)

what are you waiting for?

ps: i use a sony cybershot (cybershit) model # DSC-P41 (also known as, the $179 one.)

so no. you don't need extremely expensive equipment. but hey... $179 ain't cheap either, so fuck it.


red rum anyone?
a film


rinaldi's sandwiches
a film


i walk alone.
a film

what should i make a film of next?


last bong hit b4 bed (for real this time)
a film

eat my shit, you fucking pansies over there at i'll crack you're skull open with a bat, and pour bongwater in it.

suck my nut.

this is more old shit that lots of you ahve already read. if you already read it. ignore this post. it's ancient anyways, so you might want to ignore it regardless.

anti's guide to getting dumped


the best way to get dumped is by being a nice guy. I've gotten dumped more times for that one than anything. Nice is good... Girls do like nice guys, but the nice guy routine gets all boring and shit, and the girl can't help but lose interest. An asshole is always fun, but being an asshole can get your ass canned as well. Although it's less likely. I wanted out of my last relationship, thought being an asshole would work, and it didn't. It only made me resent her more for not dumping me, and finally I had to cut her. My first time being the dumper. But let's not focus too much on how to GET dumped... Guys typically don't need much help in that department anyways. This is to teach you how to BE dumped. As in, what to do with your sorry ass after your already dumped. And so I'll start with this... Never try and talk her out of it. Her fucking mind is made up bro, and you begging like that makes you look pathetic, and needy, and being needy is not attractive. It's disgusting. Simply accept her new terms, and offer no argument. This is good to do because if you want her back, she'd only come back on the basis you didn't act too foolish while getting dumped. And if you don't want her back, or want out... Just play it cool and easy going, don't rush it. If you're smooth you might trick her into banging you "one last time", so you can "remember" it. She can even stay over "one last time", but be careful... All the relationship rules have changed and are being re-written. Write some of your own! Like, "sorry Hun, but if we're broken up, I feel weird about you sleeping over..." Who cares that it doesn't make sense for you to feel uncomfortable with that, and perfectly ok with sex? Not me senior.

the aftermath:

the days following the break up you need to exercise some self control. Don't call her with wimpy, "I was just thinking about you..." Phone calls. Don't attempt to make plans to "do lunch", if you do call someone, call your guy friends who you've totally neglected during this whole vacation in girlfriend-land. They don't miss you. They don't care that you disappeared. And they're happy to see you. I know, I know... They're all stupid, and childish. But so are you! So go get jiggy with it. One thing that is very helpful with the aftermath phase is getting laid right away. What better way to forget about what a dumped-loser you are than to have totally meaningless sex with a stranger? No better way. In fact if you can pull that off, skip calling your annoying friends. They will be useless at this point anyways. Oh and when/if she calls you... Be polite but ambiguous. You don't owe her anything anymore, but there's no need to be nasty. Plus... You don't want to burn any bridges, what if she's got hottie friends? Because whoever her friends are know all about the sounds you make while fucking, and have been told the details of your dink so clearly that they know what it looks like better than you do, so... They might be down for some fun. So just be nice enough to get off the phone, and to not earn a jerky name for yourself.

moving on:

if you played your cards right during the aftermath... Moving on should be a no brainer. This involves totally not caring about the ex and how you got dumped, and for some guys, it involves hating her. Sometimes you have no choice except to love or hate someone... Like it has to be one or the other, with no in between. Try not to hate her though... Hate is just too passionate a feeling. Let it go. I mean, you're a guy... What the fuck do you care about closure for? sheesh. A big mistake guys in the "moving on" phase make is getting a new girlfriend too fast. Slow down turbo. What's the rush? Or another common mistake is to over-react to the gossip about your ex's new flingboy. Such an over-reaction can send you straight back to the aftermath phase, and you will need to start all over. The ideal reaction would be, "she's gotta new guy? So who cares?". Be warned you'll never forget most of these girls, especially the ones you loved. Just remember that she was only practice for the next one, and so on... That's what gets me through it


i make the most
wonderful sounds
when i try not to cough.

a film.

So I will sit here in my computer chair, naked, wearing nothing but a $5 trucker hat I bought at 7-11, with the chair leaned back, and my arms moving only to execute the inhale/exhales of my cigarette smoke.

hrm... My shoulder itches. Wait!!! So does my butt.

ever notice that little kids love to be naked? I think that's awesome about them, I am no different than they are in sense that I loved to be naked when I was a tiny little piece of shit too...

I just never stopped liking it.

I mean why do we wear clothes at all?? (assuming the weather is nice enough to permit is, of course)

why are the penis and, tits and ass bad things? They seem like wonderful things to me.

sex and sexuality should be celebrated, and not be treated like a shameful thing.

I rub my penis until stuff spits out of it. SO FUCKING WHAT?!?!? Who doesn't?

most of you chicks are busy polishing your pearls too (you buncha bean flickers), so no one can throw stones. And yet, we pretend like sex and sexiness is a bad thing.

even Michael Jackson rubbing little boys shouldn't be as big a deal as it is. I mean.... So he's no better than your common catholic priest, big fucking whup. Catholic priests have been putting their thumbs in little boys butts for DECADES.

this post makes no sense at all, I have no clue what my point is. I SO need to stop drinking coffee past midnight.

Thursday, March 24, 2005

He parked around the corner because he preferred to remain as discreet as possible, but when he approached the front of the house, he realized there was no parking and he would have had to park on the other street regardless.

he was tempted to look at the houses in the neighborhood to check for staring old ladies, or anyone who might be paying too much attention... But knew that if someone WAS watching, looking around only made things look more suspicious. Besides, no one ever suspected anything, it was the paranoia talking...

he walked up the steps to the house, pulled back the ratty falling-apart screen door, and knocked lightly as he twisted the door knob and eased his way inside. When he finally swung his head around, he saw his drug dealer holding his hand over a few zip lock freezer bags stuffed so full of weed they looked like they were stretching the plastic, with his jaw dropped and his eyes bulging. But the drug dealers faced eased and melted into relaxation when he realized it was friend and not foe.

they nodded at eachother saying simultaneously, "wassapppp???" and slapping hands and punching fists.

he sat down in the chair next to the drug dealer's spot on the side of the couch. And was asked, "so man, what are looking for?"

he replied back to the dealer, "a quarter, like always..." And felt sort of annoyed that it was even a question at this point. He figured that it should be common knowledge before words leave his mouth, that the dealer should have noticed that over the years, it's ALWAYS a quarter. But then again... Who gives a shit, so he shrugs it off, and rifles through the pile of magazines on the coffee table while the drug dealer pulls out the miniature digital scale.

long slender nuggets of the highest grade marijuana are delicately balanced on the weighing tray, until the flickering digital number on the side hovers around 7.5 - 7.6, and he pretends not to watch over the top of an ancient rolling stone magazine.

seeing that everything was as good as sold, he threw down a stiff one hundred dollar bill, and walked straight into the kitchen where he knew to find the sandwich baggies, and walked back in to find a two foot glass bong being pointed at him, "bong hit?"

"sure why not..."

he threw the baggy on the coffee table, and grabbed the bong with one hand while he fished for his lighter in his jeans with his other hand. Once he found his lighter he sat down, and proceeded to make himself cough. But the drug dealer didn't seem to notice, it was if the coughing fell silent on his ears.

seeing a lull in the conversation, he jumped up off the end of the couch, and announced, "I think I'm gonna peace out man"

and the dealer replied, "alright, dude. Call me later..."

and he nodded, although he knew he wouldn't call later. He would only call again when the pot ran out and he needed to re-up his stash.

he was careful to not walk back the way he came, and went around the block the long way to make sure no neighbors saw too much traffic back and fourth. So as not to raise any suspicion.

and this song and dance was replayed so many times, and WILL BE replayed so many times. It's getting to be ri-goddamned-diculous.

we arrived downtown, and immediately spotted a shithole restaurant that served french dip sandwhiches, and cocktails. it was off of 6th street, and los angeles street. so we hurried to find parking.

parking in downtown LA es muy dificil, because i have a ginormous two ton truck, due to the job that brings me home my bacon. anyways, i didn't find a parking lot until it was the third pitch, i almost struck out. the lot was located on 7th and Maple... just a block or two away.

along the way my homie was lured in by a joke telling rastafarian who was begging for a hand out, and after following us two blocks to the restaurant, the homie obliged and emptied out all their change into his smiling hands.

he asked me for change, and i told him i had none. so he assured me he would wait for us to come out, so that he could collect my change. i tipped my hat as i left him outside there by the stairs...

inside the restaraunt, it was cafeteria style, and we sat facing two overweight men who were sitting at the bar. i tried to watch the TV, but it was tuned to the California Lottery Chanel, and i really could care less about the keno results.

the old persian woman who ran the place got into a spat with an elderly man sitting in the booth next to ours. he had his head down and appeared to be falling asleep, so she asked him to not do that. he very indignantly stood up and proclaimed that he was a Hebrew Prophet, annd advised her, "you pray how you want to pray, and i'll pray how i want to pray, LADY!"

but really i think he was just embarassed that she made such a fuss in front of everyone. who knows?

i ended up helping him with his wheelchair as we left the place, bringing it to the top of the stairs. he offered to buy me a beer for my effort, but we were on our way, and wanted to walk around for a bit. so i thanked the Hebrew Prophet, and saluted him as we turned and walked away... turning right so that we were walking southbound on Los Angeles Street.

That's the fashion district, and we walked by a shit ton of stores that had the most pimp suits my eyes have ever seen. if only i was a millionaire.

we wandered up and down the streets, finding some cool stores, some less than cool stores, and a million things that were worth spending money on. it KILLED me that they didn't have the mexican wrestling mask tee shirt that i wanted. but i walked away with a new torch lighter, and a new desert storm camoflauge hat.

on our way home we decided to stop for dinner at the hustler casino. we had to pee as well, and well if you have to choose between the Arco Gas Station Bathroom, and the Hustler Casino Bathroom.... guess which one is cleaner?

i ate a cheese burger, and homie ate a grilled cheese on rye. and we even got in trouble for taking too many pictures of the casino. i think they might have suspected we were criminal masterminds, plotting are big shakedown. and i don't blame them, just look at us:

criminal masterminds, up to no good.

and then after that, we pretty much felt satisfied that we had a non-couch-potato day, and patted ourselves on the backs for it... and then we also decided:

we need to go bet on the horses at the hollywood park race tracks ASAP.



i wish more beggers were straight up with me, honestly is something i see worthy of a reward.

"can you spare any change? my car is stranded, and i need to take the bus to pasadena..."

YAH FUCKIN RIGHHHHHT. you don't have a car you liar, and you prolly don't even live in pasadena. it's such bullshit... that im honestly impressed at your ability to keep a straight face.

so i will give you a fistfull of pennies, don't spend it all in one place. and who knows there might even be some dimes or nickles in that fistfull.

there was one cool begger who believed he only deserved some of our pocket change, after he made us laugh with a joke. the one he told about OJ Simpson made me laugh...

"whats the difference between the lion king and OJ Simpson? One is an african lion... and one is a lyin african."

but if there was ONE guy who was honest enough to say,

"im gonna use this money to get as drunk as humanly possible"
not only would i give him the $, but i might just drive him down to the circle k, and buy him his booze FOR him.

malt liquor, yall.

Wednesday, March 23, 2005

having the weekend off work is two things. firstly it's "YIKES!" because my last name ain't rockafeller, and i'm what they call in the blog industry: a paycheck to paycheck type. it's an industry term.

secondly its STOKE CITY, because i never get to chill at home on the weekends.

the hustler casino, gardena, california.

i have two kinds of weed right now. sugar bear and hash-plant. sugar bear is a batch that is always getting re-worked back into the mix, and i've never liked it very much. that hash plant is KEY tho... it's the derelect-ellium, which is a word i just invernted this very second because it deserves its own word.

but the thing is that when i was there, and i was sticking my big ass italian nose into the different ziplock freezer bags, each with a different blend/flavor of high grade death-weed... it's hard to tell man!!!

it's like being at the fragrance counter and trying to figure out which smell you like the best, and realizing that after you smell two of the scents... they all smell the fucking same. i don't care how many times you try and "clear your pallette" or whatever they call it.

anyways, i walked away with not enough hash plant. because that shit will sell out, oh fo sho.

He walked through the aisles pushing the shiny metal rattling shopping cart, with both hands on the handle bar, and his face not even focused on the food on the shelves.

he didn't know how to cook, and didn't have any materials to cook with at home even if he DID know how. Pots and pans were luxury items, not necessities. And the supermarket was pointless. It was more like a giant reflection of how much he didn't fit into the rat race ideal that 99.9% of the people subscribed to.

like a divining rod, or a oiji board, his shopping cart guided him to the frozen food section, which was lined by frost bitten glass doors, and white flourecent lights as the trimming on each door.

finally he cocked his head from side to side, noticing the frozen delights that were behind the translucent ice. The microwave was something he knew how to operate. And these were the foods that he knew how to prepare.

but today he turned up his nose at the lean cuisines, the budget gourmets, and the TV dinners. And only stopped the perpetually moving, rattling cage on wheels in front of the ice cream, and he opened the door, and heard the rumble of the freezer, combined with the splash of ice air that hit his face.

he stared slack jawed reading the names of the various flavors to himself. The clever witty titles crashed and collided in his mind, until he was standing there not even thinking about ice cream at all... But rather, he was thinking about how iconic religious imagery, and symbolism are playing roles helping the leaders of today with manipulating the use of funds from lowerclass families' incomes, in and around the world today. Or some shit like that.

an old lady entering the frozen food section snaps him back to reality, as he cocks his head over to see who it was... It was nobody.

with a sigh, and after letting his shoulders un-tense, he reached in and grabbed the same flavor of ice cream he always grabbed. He then abandoned his shopping cart, and proceeded to the check out line. And thought to himself, "fuck the supermarket. 7-11 is faster."

i JUST got the weekend off work, and i know about a plan that is in action to go to mexico on friday. BUT HERE'S THE LAME PART...

the people going are MY MOM, two of HER SISTERS, and my GRAND PARENTS.

not exactly the group you picture in your head when you try to imagine the EPITOME of partiers.

but regardless, some friends of mine, and myself, have been mexico-mental. we want to go so bad. it's just a few hours away... it's SO mexican, if you stay a night or two, DON'T DRINK THE WATER, and get the fuck home before you're completely dehydrated (you can only drink beer whilst there, remember no water) then its all good.

and if you're smart, you know how to smuggle a backpack full of buttlerfly knives.

but the odds are that im not GOING ANYWHERE, and i will just have to give my mom some cash for her visit to La Pharmacia when she crosses the border over there in yuma.

i have no idea why they like to cross in yuma. my family is odd.

maybe i will be allowed to kick it at her house while she is out of town for the night. her big screen TV is as big as my whole wall. no lies.

Last night we went to barnes and noble. i love the book store, i want to GO BACK.

i bought four books. Two novels, and two more referencey type books (for lack of a better word)

All Families Are Psychotic, Douglas Coupland
Bringing Down the House, Ben Mezrich
Get a Grip On Philosophy, Ben Turnbull
Everything You Know Is Wrong, Russ Kick (editor)

i also scooped up the newest issue of Juxtapoz magazine. it's the special black and white issue, and there's an awesome article about Pushead in there.

Tuesday, March 22, 2005

hey assholes, know what? I WANT TO SINK WITH CALIFORNIA!!!!

MANHATTAN BEACH, Calif. -- A small offshore earthquake jolted parts of Southern California on Tuesday, but there were no immediate reports of injuries or damage.

A 3.4-magnitude temblor hit shortly after 4 p.m., about 4 miles off Manhattan Beach, a Los Angeles suburb.

"We did feel a little quake," said Angela Presbia, front desk officer for the Manhattan Beach Police Department. "We had a bunch of calls of people asking if we had an explosion."

it was rad because when i went out on to my balcony it sounded kinda like a nuclear explosion... like a slow brooding thunder that didn't stop rolling for like 30 seconds...

i thought it was a sonic boom. other folks i talked to said they felt it as more of an explosion. either way, it was pretty kick ass!

everything can be an opportunity for something if you choose to see it that way.

yestarday while stuck in gridlock traffic, i was happy as a clam, man. and im dead serious when i say that the freeway resembled a parking lot more than ever.

so i set the ipod to a coolio play list, i break out my digital camera, and i horse around for a while.

i'm such a nerd that i can take pictures of my knee for hours and be TOTALLY ENTERTAINED.

a reputable data source took a survey and found out that ONE THIRD OF SOUTHERN CALIFORNIANS plan on moving out of state in five years. THATS HUGE! los angeles and the traffic strain are sending people into psychotic rages. it is so un-bearable here that they have to move OUT OF STATE. and lemme let you in on a little secret:

the other two thirds of southern californians are EQUALLY frustrated.

not everyone sees gridlock traffic as a "photo op" the same way that i do.

i went to north hollywood yesterday, and came home directly, THE TRIP TOOK MY FIVE HOURS. that's whacktarded, my brethren.

at any rate, i hope that the 1/3 who plan on leaving the state make it sooner than later, because that would really free up the overflow of traffic and shit.

nice knowin ya!!!

drive through restaurants are not that hard to figure out. there should be a training class that teaches the proper's a quick how to:

#1. don't order more than $30.00 worth of food through the drive through. you are an asshole, and all the world hates your taking-too-long car.

#2. do not take longer than 30 seconds to rifle through your food, checking for accuracy. if you're taking up to 5 minutes to make sure that your breakfast burrito has the country sauce on the side, then you are satan's incarnate.

#3. ok so you have an extremely loud stereo system. good for you, YOU OWN SUB WOOFERS. now turn that bass down, because you rattling license plate frame is tackier than all holy hell, and no one is impressed.

#4. if you pay in change you deserve to die.

#5. scoot your ass up! if you're no touching the bumper of the car in front of you, then it's obvious that you're TRYING to fuck with ME.

#6. stop staring at me in your side mirror, you motherfucker.

#7. if you are in MY car, know what the fuck you want to eat well before we get there. if i am placing the order, and you dont know what you want already, im not gonna wait around for you to figure it out. i have a life to live.

#8. if you are in my car, and you touch one of my french fries, i have the right to spit a loogie on your face.

#9. none of these rules apply to myself. i never practive what i preach.

and #10. FUCK YOU.

here's some super old shit i wrote years ago, but it's all true, and some of you "new antidis... readers" may have never read it.

anti's guide to getting robbed

So i was on my way home from I-Search, Inc.., it was 4pm in the afternoon, and the sun was shining in Hawthorne, CA. The plan was to meet up with my friend Brooklyn and buy and 1/8 of weed. he lived two apartment buildings over from me, and always was home. the perfect pot guy. and besides, i had been busting my ass with that shitty resume proof reading job, and i needed to get high. on the way home was my bank, hawthorne savings, the one right there on hawthorne boulevard.

it closed right at four o'clock so i had to use the ATM machine at the front.

i parked my red truck in front of the place, popped out of the truck, punched some buttons, collected the cashhh, and waited for my reciet...

"FUCK YOU FOOL, GIMME YOUR MONEY" some guy came up to me was saying this shit. what? yeah right. i asked, "are you kidding?" then he showed me his revolver.

so i gave him my money, swore that it was all the money i had, and asked if i could keep five bucks (i will never forgive myelf for that one).

because he gave me five bucks and said that now i "owed" him a ride. you don't know how hard it is to reach over and unlock the door for the guy with a gun who wants to kill you. as we start driving he starts holding the gun in my face and all i can see is the bullets in the gun. it was loaded as fuckkkk. he pats me down and finds my cigarettes, and askes me if i have anything valuable at my house, like a VCR or CD player.

my mind jumps to my live in girlfriend (at the time) Kristen. that's what i have at home as well as all the other things he wants. so i tell him i don't have and then he finds my CD book, and get pissed. he's alsoo been going on and on about how he wants to take me into the wilderness and take my clothes off and torture me to death.

so that's it. i'm done. stick a fucking fork in me for chrissakes. i'm convinced that i am going to die as a result of this, and the only thing i can focus on is making sure that when i do die, it will be as painless as possible, because i am NOT about to get tortured to death. by this time we are on a residential street approaching the first stop sign. i stop.

and my mind races. i think to myself, "i can't go on... this has to end now, or never. i reach to the ignition, and shut the car off, and look my attacker in the eyes. "you need to either kill me now, motherfucker, or get the FUCK out of my car." when i think back, i don't know how i did it. where'd those balls come from, becuase i'm not really much of a tough guy type. the guy replied, "i'll just jack your car, fool...!" but as he was saying that i told him i was bending the keys and made a bending gesture with my hands

(but i was only pretending) and proceeded to honk at some random mexican guy that had was walking around the corner.

"MUCHACHO HE HAS A GUN" i screamed... my attacker, opens the car, and tells the mexican (who is totally freaked out of his mind, at this point) that it's, "s'all good, yo, it's allll good...." and with that i see my chance. i fire up my truck fast as possible and start flooring it before i even have a chance to throw it into drive.

the fucker whips around, and manages to pop a shot off that sails through the cab of the truck and punches through the windshield directly in front of me.

holy of holiest shits. so okay, i'm like running every stop sign i can and honking my horn freaked out of my skull.

i get home, run up to my apartment and and yell to kristen to, "call the police! call 911!" and i tell my story to some operator, while it takes the sheriffs FOREVER to get to my house. the whole time i'm scared too, because i didn't really live all that far from where i lost that guy, and who knows, maybe he could find me because he did see my name, and he could possibly remember my truck if he saw it.

it was shitty.

when the sherriffs arrived it turns out they took so long because they were chasing down the guy. when he fired that round off at me, someone in the area called the cops right then, and they got into a foot chase, and they even got the guys gun. but that's like, who fucking cares? scum like that can get a gun real fast. so i lucked out, i only lost $60, and even made out with five bucks that i started off with, because he gave that back to me. the worst part was by this time it was alreaday 4:45pm and my neighbor pot guy was already leaving for his job as a bartender, and i couldn't even get a bong hit until tomorrow.

that was the worst day of my life, and to this day i will never under stand why the signs say, Welcome to Hawthorne, the City of good neighbors. yeah right.


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Tony Pierce