Saturday, July 31

I'm sitting in my room drawing sad pictures in my sketchbook when I hear Mr. Happy Puppet Head calling me from his room.

"Hey! Midnight! Come here real quick, hurry! Hey!"

So I run over to the next room real quick. I find him all hovering in the top corner of the room shaking. "What's wrong?" I ask him. He says, "Over there." He gestures over to a pile of empty beer bottles. It's a roach. A big brown black thing just hanging out on the floor.

"You're scared of a roach?" I ask.

"Shutup and squish it."

I don't feel like killing tonight, so I pick up a glass jar full of cigarette butts and dump it into the trash can next to his bed. Very carefully I lean down and trap the bug in the jar. It freaks out and jumps all over the place. I slide a piece of paper underneath so he can't get out when I flip it over.

"What the... what're you doing? Squish it." Mr. Happy Puppet Head has come down from the ceiling, but still doesn't look too sure of himself.

"Don't worry, I'm just taking him out of the house."

We walk down the street. It's late and dark and no one else is around. Quiet and peacefull is the world.

"I'll kill you mother fucker!" shouts Mr. Happy Puppet Head. "Next time you think you're going to walk all over my room, you'll be fucking dead! Yeah!"

"Shhhh."

"Yeah. And you tell your family," he whispers loudly. ""Cause we're spraying for you assholes. First thing tommorow. So you're all dead, right? Dead!"

We let the roach go about a block and half from the house. It looked pretty shaken up. "He's right," I tell it. "Don't come back. Go live your happy little life in the woods or lawn or something. People-houses are dangerous. You're just looking for trouble." It runs away real fast, and we watch it to make sure it isn't heading back to our house.

"Yeah!" Mr. Happy Puppet Head yells, his word echoing off of the nearby houses. "Get on, bug!"

Sad Sketchbook page 1
Sad Sketchbook page 2
Sad Sketchbook page 3

Friday, July 30

There was a road trip a long time ago where me and Mr. Happy Puppet Head were still in high school and we wanted to escape from our parents' houses and drive drive drive, so we did. I had this old yellow cadillac and it made it there and back no problem.

Somewhere in California we met up with a guy at a convinience store who seemed real nice, he was a police officer, and he invited us over for sloppy joes at his house. He was having a party.

There were some people there in the carport, but they didn't say anything to me. When I stepped through the front door, there was a funny smell. The cop guy puts his hand on my shoulder and says something about the enevitability of life and not to be too sad about it. I didn't know what he was talking about, until I looked to my right into the living room and saw that THERE WAS A DEAD CLOWN LAID OUT IN HIS LIVING ROOM. Big red hair and shiny clothes, puffy white face with blue circles around the eyes. Cop guy said it was something about him being a cop and the coroner being away or something.

I sat on the porch the rest of the party. I wouldn't go inside. I don't handle dead clowns too well. Never did. Mr Happy Puppet Head said "What's the big deal?" and I said "Hey, get me a sloppy joe from inside." but he kept forgetting.

And I sat on the porch the whole party as the weird kid with the goggles who wouldn't accept the enevitability of life.


Wednesday, July 28

Mr. Happy Puppet Head and me go way back. I met him in kindergarten. He was my friend becase I told him I was a vampire king of some other country.

We were making sandpies. This is where you put sand into a little sand tray. Lots of fun.

Once we were done, Mr. Happy Puppet Head handed me a spoon full of sand and told me to eat it.

"What?" I asked.

"We've been making sandpies to eat. Eat it."

I looked at that spoon full of sand for only a moment before deciding he was right, only to realize a moment later, my mouth full of sand, that he was very wrong.

"How's it taste?" He asked.

"Oh..." I tried to swallow as much of the sand as I could, but chewing hurt my teeth, so I tried to spit a lot of it out, but there was just so much. "Um... no, no good. Don't."

"Really?" He inspected the sand for defects, but couldn't find any. "You sure?"

I nodded my head. "I'm going to make sandpies illegal in my country. There's a war right now, but maybe they'll be okay."

"That's good thinking." Said Mr. Happy Puppet Head. And we dumped the sandpies out solemnly. I gave what I thought was a salute, and Mr. Happy Puppet Head looked jealous because he didn't have arms.


"There are some things in life you simply can't do," the man in the suit with the big red tie tells Howie the little girl. "Like ride your bike backwards. You'll never be able to do that. Or be famous. You probably won't be famous, no matter how hard you try. Unless you kill a lot of people. But then everyone will hate you."

Howie is standing in her front yard holding tight to her pet old man head. This man in the suit with the big red tie just walked up to her while she was playing and started telling her mean things. She looks up at him with wide eyes trying to figure him out. He just isn't making any sense.

"And it's too bad you aren't cuter," he says as he rubs his left eye. "You could be a model for mail order catalogues. But you can't. You aren't cute. You also have no taste, by evidence of your wardrobe and choice of pets. Nobody likes an ugly little girl carrying a severed head" He just keeps rubbing that eye. It must itch something awful.

"Are you at least funny? Do you have a lisp? Say something funny." His tirade of negativity comes to an abrubt stop as he waits for her to respond.

"Um. How do you get a nun pregnant?" she asks.

"What? Is that a joke? You need to work on your delivery. All wrong. You could go to comedy school or something, but I don't think it would help. Humor is something you fine tune, but you can't fine tune what isn't even there. Go hide in your room, kid. This world is a scary place, and you clearly don't have the goods to survive. Good luck to you. And get rid of that head." His legs jump out and he strides away down the sidewalk, big long steps taking him out of sight quick.

Howie runs up to her room. She goes to bed early, all hope and optimism diminished. But it should come back in the morning. It usually does.

It rained a lot today and the hole I've been working on in the backyard has filled with mud. So now I'm sitting in the mudhole making mud people. I've got a mud-man over there looking all happy, but I thought he was looking a little lonley, so now I'm working on a mud-woman. She's all fat with a big gaping mouth just like the mud-man, only she's got big drippy breasts and is about twice the size of him. I think they'll make a good pair.

There's nothing like sitting waist deep in mud and completely naked. Nothing.

Hey, there's Mr. Happy Puppet Head! "Hey Mr. Happy Puppet Head! You want to see me juggle mud balls? Look, I can juggle mud balls."

"Someone's on the phone for you," He says. His mustache wiggles disparigingly at the mud.

"Who is it?"

"I don't know. Some Indian lady."

"I don't know any Indian lady. Take a message, I'm busy." I try to juggle the mud balls, but they're too wet and slip through my hands.

"I'll just tell her to call back," his big red puppet-ness turns and bobbles back into the house.

I don't really care who it is anyway. Mud is now time, and that's all the time I need. I want my life from now on to be lots of mud and warm and some rain, but then sunny times to sit in the mud and make mud friends. I don't want people calling me anymore. I just want friends to come sit in the mud with me and make more friends out of mud. And someone to appreciate my juggling.

You're invited. We can eat dirt. I hear some people are into that. Maybe we'll be into that now.

Sunday, July 25

I'm going to the grocery store. And I'm wearing my new fanny pack and short shorts.

I'm a little nervous.


Saturday, July 24

We had a party last night. The only people who showed up were Bermuda and Steve, the naked two-headed blue monster, and we didn't even invite them.

We just sat around and drank punch. Regular non-boozed up punch. And there were some chips, but we lost the salsa, so no one ate the chips.

At one point Mr. Happy Puppet Head started yelling about how there wasn't any alchohol, and he started knocking things over and got cumin all over Bermuda and Steve. Steve started sneezing and had this awful allergic reaction, but Bermuda insisted that it wasn't anything to worry about. So we sat through intensely awkward conversation as Bermuda went on and on about politics while Steve sneezed and sneezed, eventually started vommiting all over himself, then passed out, woke up to vommit some more, then passed out again.

"Are you sure we shouldn't call an ambulance or something?" I asked.

"No, don't worry about it." said Bermuda as he brushed some vommit off of his side of the chest onto Steve's. "He does this all the time. It's like, what spice isn't he fatally alergic to? I hate it when he does this."

"Is he dead?" asked Mr. Happy Puppet Head.

"No... it's sort of a coma thing, I think."

"But his eyes are open." Mr. Happy Puppet Head leans in all close to inpect the slack blue monster face and blank, staring eyes.

"Yeah, that's fine. He should come out of it by tommorow or so. Or whatever. Don't worry about it." And he launched into more of his endless rhetoric about the evils of the US Postal Service and his conspiracy theories about the public education system.

Eventually I fell asleep and Bermuda and Steve were gone when I woke up in the morning. During the night Mr. Happy Puppet Head drank all the mouthwash, and in a drunken spearmint frenzy, had wallpapered one wall of his bedroom in Sears underwear catalogues. He did a really good job of it, too.

So, yeah, our party was a success.

Friday, July 23

James is a big fat guy who is having problems at the moment. His girlfriend gets home in twenty minutes, and he's made a mess of her ancient Egyptian mummy. James doesn't have a job, so most of his days are spent sitting around his girlfriend's apartment. She's an archeologist and has a lot of ancient things around her apartment. This afternoon James was pretending the a mummy was cooking him a burrito. He stood it up next to the oven and taped a spatula to its hand. It looked really funny. So he went to go get a camera to take pictures of it, but he couldn't find it. Then he got distracted and read yesterday's comics, watched some tv, took a nap, and by the time he got back to the kitchen, the ancient Egyptian mummy had been on fire for some time. All that is left are stumps of legs below the knee and a lot of ancient mummy ashes.

So James is cleaning up the ashes. Not only is he irrisponsible with other people's priceless relics, he's also terrible at cleaning. He just keeps spreading the dust around with the dishtowel in a paniced sort of way, whimpering and whining and checking the clock every few moments. His first thought about the legs is to flush them down the toilet, but last time he tried that with some dinosaur bones and it really messed up the plumbing. He got in some big trouble for that one.

So James throws the legs out of the second-story window, but not before he has to cut a hole in the screen. He starts filling up a bucket with the ashes and dumping them out of the window, too.

Ten minutes later there are almost no more ashes left. He'll tell her that there never was a mummy and that it was probably all a dream. She'll be disappointed, he knows, because that ancient Egyptian mummy was probably going to make her famous. At least in the scientific community. And James isn't sure he wanted a semi-famous girlfriend. She'd probably just dump him for someone not so fat and careless with all of her priceless relics.




Wednesday, July 21

I eat vanilla milk shakes with attitude. Sip sip sip. Yeah. With one of those really long straws, solid red, none of that white and red striped business. No way.

People look at me and think, "That guy is so awesome. I wish I could be half as way cool as he is in his little finger."

Sip sip sip. I wink at the girl behind the cash register. She ignores me and goes back to punching the little keys when the fat woman and her child order their hamburgers. Sip sip. She's just scared to reply to the wink.

Or maybe it's the goggles and the little French mustache I draw on. Or the cape and the rubber boots or the bowtie. These things seem to intimidated girls and make it hard to see how totally awesome I am as I drink my vanilla milkshake. Girls can be funny sometimes. And boys, too, the way they throw hard things at me and call me all sorts of names.

I eat my vanilla milk shakes with attitude.

Tuesday, July 20

Found: one fourtune from a fortune cookie. Crossed out is the original fortune, which can be read under the thin ball-point pen line, says "We would often be sorry if your wishes came true." That's the old fortune, all crossed out. The new fortune, written in the same black pen reads, "Sex."



Howie the little girl and her pet old man head sit on the curb in the sunshine and count ants. That's what they are doing.

They are up to 168 when they are distracted by a little old woman walking by with her pet little white dog. "Hello, Leonard! Hello!" she waves happily to the old man head sitting on the curb. "Oh, wait. Sorry, I thought you were someone else." And she walks away.

Walking through the grocery store while doing research on how many different kinds of beans they put into tin cans, another little old woman stops Howie and says hello to Head. "Stephan! It's been so long, you never come around any... Oh. Sorry, I thought you were someone else." And she walks away all embarassed. Howie shrugs and continues studying the canned beans.

Walking past the bus stop on their way to the big mud hole near the construction site, Howie and Head walk past a bench with three old men sitting on it. "Hey, Walter! What's up?" shouts one man as he waves at the little girl and her pet head. "Yo Walter!" yells another. "Come give us a high five!" "Wait, I don't think that's Walter." "What? Sure it is, looks just like him." "No... I think Walter was taller." "No, you're thinking about Leonard, he's really tall. Walter was always really short." But Howie just keeps walking. Head doesn't need his identity confused anymore. She decides that as soon as she gets home that she'll make up some nametags.

She'll draw a unicorn on hers.

Sunday, July 18

Jonathan at one point grabs his elbow and says "Oh, a tremor. Everyone is going to get hurt tommorow." He tells us he is a wizard and his elbow tells the future. He goes into the bathrooms at the back of the cabin. I follow him and ask him if I am going to get hurt, too. He says, "Maybe." I ask about Mr. Happy Puppet Head, he says, "Possibly. Most definitely who will get hurt are Andrew and..." Danny walks by at this point. "And Danny."

That night after Lights Out, Andrew leans over in his bed and says "I'm not staying in this cabin with him. There's no way." Mr. Happy Puppet Head is already asleep on the top bunk and mumbles something drunkenly about another counselor's breasts. "Do you want me to call your parents tommorow morning and you go home?" I ask. He nods his head Yes.

The next day Andrew avoided Jonathan, but he didn't ask me to call his parents to pick him up. It was Wednesday, the day of the big Dance, and some clouds were brewing above us. I was cautious all day, holding the elbow prophecy in the back of my mind at all times, watching out for everyone to somehow get hurt. Standing on the cabin porch looking up at the lightning and storm clouds that had canceled all the afternoon activities up until the dance, Andrew looks over to me. We don't say anything with words. Thunder suddenly booms and Mr. Happy Puppet Head bursts through the cabin door and yells "What the fuck was that! Holy fuck shit!" And vomits at our feet.

"It'll be okay tonight," I say. "No one is going to get hurt. Don't worry." But he doesn't look like he believes it.

At the dance that night, the prophecy came true. Love descended from those torturous thunder clouds with destruction in its mind. Get this: everyone's heart was broken in some way or another. And maybe we didn't even realize it until just this week over a bowl of raisin bran.

Here's how the hearts broke:
Jonathan) during the last song, he became somber. He said it was because it reminded him of something very sad.
Danny) got very sad as soon as the lightning started. He wouldn't say a word and sat in the corner the whole time during the dance.
Andrew) was sad because he couldn't figure out why Danny was so sad.
Chris) was sad because he is a semi-illiterate redneck who will have some serious sexual identity/stalker issues when he gets a little older. He also hurt his neck while competing in the dance competition and lost anyway.
George)'s heart is broken because the dj's don't play what he calls "real music." He sits in the back of the gym with his friends making fun of the other kids who are dancing.
Haden) wins the dance competition that night, yet never seems to completely win the heart of dark-skinned Raven.
J.T.) has given his heart over completely to Christen, who likes to flirt with other boys. In a fit of anger earlier that day while witnessing a first-hand flirt with one of the German exchange students, kicks the lifeguard chair and cuts opens his big toe pretty badly.
Mr. Happy Puppet Head) can't seem to stop crying about his lost puppy we never could find those months ago.
Midnight Mailman) I just was really sad and lonely, missing quiet moments without the constant yelling about various baseball players and dirty words.


So we were camp counselors this past week, me and Mr. Happy Puppet Head. Good times. They put us in charge of eight 13-year old boys.

We mostly sat back and watched them yell at each other all week. I tried to tell them wise things about fighting and how things are in Grownup Land, but they didn't want to hear it. 13-year olds don't want to hear anything. They just want to call each other mean names and punch each other's necks. Punch punch yell yell all week. It's a good thing Mr. Happy Puppet Head snuck in that hipflask, or I don't know what we'd have done. A few swigs of whiskey and the world is a better place, even if some dumb redneck kid is calling you a faggot and trying to take your goggles away.

I don't think they'll invite us back next year, though. The kids were looking pretty rough by the end of the week, all scratched up and dirty. One kid even went missing, and the camp director was real mad that we didn't tell anyone until his parents came to pick him up. They had us sit in this meeting to tell us how bad we were the whole week, and I sat there patiently as they berated us. Mr. Happy Puppet Head, though, he went all crazy and knocked all the folding chairs down and said "how dare you challenge our camp counseling methods! how dare you!" I think I'm done camp counseling anyways.

Being in charge of a bunch of kids was a real learning experience for me. I feel much more grown up, and much more aware of who I am and what I want in life. I was also reminded how horrifying the age of 13 actually is. It's terrible. If you haven't been 13 yet, don't. Hibernate for a year. You'll be glad you did.

Friday, July 16

We're back. Rejoice.





Friday, July 9

IT'S THE 200th EPISODE! YAY!

In commemoration of this historic event, Mr. Happy Puppet Head and I will be going out of town for a week to volunteer our time as camp counselors. We'll say things like, "Brush your teeth, "Get in that canoe," and "Dance like you mean it, kid, otherwise don't dance at all."

So look forward to next week's episode, which will be a lots-of-fun re-cap of our week at camp. So be sure to come back. Because we'll be here. And we're pretty great sometimes.

Thursday, July 8

I will go back in time and teach the Beatles how to play punk rock. I will convince them that it is the wave of the future and I will slap their knuckles with a meter stick whenever they start to play that pretty crap they always want to play.

"Holiday in Cambodia," "Code Blue," and "Linolium" will be the three hit singles off of "Meet the Beatles." So stay tuned.


I like it when friends have beautiful babies. Especially when the friends are young and could easily waste their youths on ugly children.

I like it when bulldozers wake me up at five in the morning, and I think, "Oh, no, they're going to be bulldozing all day and I won't get any sleep." But people are just coming over to take the bulldozer away, and soon it is quiet again and I can sleep.

I like quesadillas made with real Mexican melting cheese for breakfast. And burritos for almost every other meal of the day.

And I like it when everything turns out okay.

Tuesday, July 6

Laundry time. In gathering all my clothes to bring down to the laundry room, I find a white undershirt. I always wear a white undershirt, so this isn't so strange, but the state it is in causes me to stop and wonder. First of all, the shirt has dark dirt and grass stains all over the front. Secondly, the back of the left sleeve has a rip in it.

And I don't remember why. Telling by how deep in the pile this shirt was, the damage was done about a week-and-a-half ago. What the hell did I do?

I say to Mr. Happy Puppet Head, I say, "Hey, what did I do about a week-and-a-half ago that would make my shirt look like this?" And he says "I don't know."

Mr. Happy Puppet Head does all of our laundry. He gets upset at the way I mix colors with whites and says I use too much soap. And apparently I can't fold. So he takes the shirt along with the rest of the stuff and begins the process of laundry.

So what did I do to make my shirt all dirty and torn? Yard work? I seem to remember catching the sleeve on something and it ripping and I didn't really care at the time. It's just an undershirt. But all I remember is the feeling of not caring that it was ripped. All context has mysteriously faded from memory.

So is this the very begining of my memory slowly wiping clean? One of my main positive attributes soon to morph into one of my flaws? Old people warn me, but I don't believe them. They say, "The memory is the first to go," but not me. I may die, I may get fat, and I may one day have to perform dental surgery on myself while stranded on a deserted island, but my mind is mine. Leave off it, Life! Hear me?

Oh. It was from when that tree feel in the front yard and I had to chop it up and drag it down to the front lawn. I borrowed an electric chainsaw from the neighbors. Donovan was his name.

Nevermind.


This is the kind of bird that knows exactly what you want for your birthday. He makes a point of telling you that he will purchase this thing that you want. He will hand you a wrapped present on your birthday, and you will naturally assume it is the thing that you wanted. But you will be wrong. Instead, inside the box are a lot of illegal substances, like nuclear waste in old mayonaise jars and seisure medication stolen from an important diplomat. You thank the bird, and you go your separate ways. There will be one more awkward phone call several months from your birthday, just for you two to check on how the other is doing. After this, you will never speak again.

Sunday, July 4

It's a period piece. I'm wearing a tuxedo with a top hat and a cane (the tuxedo has coattails), and Mr. Happy Puppet Head is wearing a hoop skirt and a frilly bonnet.

"I dare say," I say in a terrible mock-English accent. "I dare say 'tis quite a beautiful day. As are yourself."

"Ooooh!" says Mr. Happy Puppet Head in a high-pitched girl voice. He flutters his long eye lashes. "You're so dashing. Kill my husband. He called me strumpet and I need you to redeem my honor that has been so rudely besmirched."

"I will do this request."

A cool dude rides up on a silver Vespa and parks next to us. He has a really cool mustache and tight clothes and a bowler hat.

"Sir," I say to him. "I dare say 'tis my duty to slay your head."

"What's that?"

"I'll slay your head."

"Whatever, man." He takes off his bowler hat and walks off stage.

"Oh, thank you so much, kind sir!" cries Mr. Happy Puppet Head. "Now we will have lots of children to clean the coal stoves and work in the textile mill!"
Bermuda and Steve, the two-headed naked blue monster are in the middle of the lake during a torrential downpour.

“No, you have to row harder than that,” says Bermuda. “Don’t let your oar go so far into the water like that.” They’ve been spinning around in circles for several hours now. It had been beautiful and sunny, but all of a sudden the clouds rolled in and opened up.

“I’m trying,” says Steve. He puts his oar in like Bermuda says and pulls real hard, but he just ends up splashing water everywhere. “I’m cold. And I think I hear thunder.”

“Yeah, that’s thunder, all right.” Bermuda rows his oar properly, but it just spins the little boat around in circles. “You are such a keen observer. You deserve a medal or a gift certificate to a pancake restaurant or something.”

“You don’t always have to be sarcastic,” says Steve. “Oh, look!” he drops the oar and points up at the sky to a bolt of lightning that was there a moment ago.

“Wow, I’ve never seen lightning before.” Bermuda rows even faster, the boat spinning and spinning the rain.

They sit in silence for a while. Steve tries rowing again, but he just splashes a lot and doesn’t accomplish much of anything. Then Steve sees something, another boat. He watches as it slowly approaches them.

Bermuda rows faster and faster, and Steve starts to feel sick from all the spinning, but refuses to say anything about it. The other boat comes closer and closer until it is right next to them.

“Hello, there!” calls a woman’s voice. She is wearing a bright yellow rain slick and all they can see of her face is a big smile. “I have some sandwiches, if you want some.” She holds out two ziplock baggies full of sandwich.

Bermuda and Steve reach out and take the offered food. They haven’t eaten in a while, not since being chased out of that barn earlier, then having to convice the mailwoman that they weren’t really trying to dump mud in her mailbag in a continued effort to sabatoge the US Postal Service, and then the whole plot to steal the rowboat and carry on with their assasination attempt, which by now they had completely given up on. They hadn’t explicitly stated that they were giving it up, but they both knew. They were cold and wet, and in no mood to do much of anything other than go home and watch TV.

“Man, wet pimento cheese sandwiches are crap,” says Bermuda. “You got anything edible in that boat of yours?”

“I like it,” Steve says as he takes Bermuda’s sandwich and finishes it off in two bites.

“We are all united in the sandwich.” Says the smiling woman. And she rows away.

“See,” points out Bermuda. “See how her oars are only halfway in the water, and see how she pulls back like that? Do it like she’s doing it.”

But it seems that Steve is simply incapable of rowing a boat.

Friday, July 2

I find this website of mine to be a perfect place to vent my frustrations, insecurities, and general life problems. Like the fact that I have no idea how I just fell completely out of my chair while writing that last sentence. How did that just happen? It's a pretty solid chair, yet I managed to let gravity win.

So I've been working on the same script for months now, writing and re-writing it. It's just one of the Big Scary Monster cartoons, but for some reason every version just kind of sucks. I know it'd be so bad ass if I could just make it, you know, but I just can't seem to get a draft I like. shit.

so here's a cartoon about my frustrations, insecurities, and general life problems.

***********************************

Howie the little girl is talking a nice walk in the sunshine. Unlike other people, she doesn't feel like she should be stuck inside on beautiful days in front of computer screen writing and re-writing drafts of a script that means very little in the grand scheme of everything. Nope. Instead she's enjoying the day in the company of her best friend, Mr. Happy Severed Head. Head for short.

"What a great day this is," Howie says. "Boy, I sure like days where there's nothing to do but go on walks with your best friend."

They walk on down the street, rotted severed head under her arm, big smile on her cute chubby face.

There is a ditch, and Howie and Head walk past. They hear a moaning from inside this ditch. Howie approaches and looks down into the dark ravine. A dirty man in his early thrities is lying face down in the dirt.

"Hello?" says Howie. "Are you okay?"

"Yeah," says the thin man. "I'm fine. I'm just covered in sludge. And a failure. I'm fine, but I'm a big failure. And I'm going bald." He sits up. "And I don't have a home because I can't get a job because I'm not good at anything."

"What about mopping floors?" asks Howie. "I thought everyone could mop a floor."

"Sure I can mop floors." says the man, wiping some sludge off his eyelids. "But I'm not good at dealing with indignity. I make movies. I dont mop floors."

"Even when you have to sleep in ditches?"

"I chalk it up as life-experience. It'll make me a better writer. Maybe one day I'll be sort of good, if I sleep in enough ditches and talk to enough little girls carrying around severed human body parts."

Howie sighs. "I have no time for self-pity, not in myself or in those around me. Life is good and I don't want to hear otherwise. Go clean yourself up, buddy."

And Howie walks off, not worried about anything at all.

Thursday, July 1

So it's interesting the way things turned out. The end of this long drawn out balloon story. Yes. I like the sound of that.

So the Charles Children led me to this new house. It's real big and gothic. Far too big for just me and Mr. Happy Puppet Head, but they gave us the key and the deed and even furnished it with lawn furniture. Lots and lots of lawn furniture. it's hard to walk around with all these plastic chairs and tables and umbrellas everywhere.

I ask why we get to have this big victorian house now after I sold the other one and don't have any money anymore. They just repeat the name Charles over and over again.

"No," I say, "Why do we get to live here now? I don't get it."

they just start yelling Charles over and over again really loud and angrily. I appologize and thank them for such a nice place. I note how centrally located it is, and within an easy walk to the gas station in case I want a candy bar or something. Mr. Happy Puppet Head has been discussing taking up smoking, but the gas stations were always so far away.

the kids leave and now we're in this big house. Mr. Happy Puppet Head says "Damn. This place is creepy." And I say, "Yeah, but it's our creepy house now."

I look out the window into the back yard. It's a large expanse of far overgrown lawn with a kidie pool sitting in the center.

Tall cielings and intricate molding, peeling wall paper and no dishwasher, bathtubs with feet, rough hardwood floors, a grand staircase, a funny mold smell, and bedrooms with red carpeting. It looks and feels haunted. Except for all the lawn furniture. Lawn furniture has a way of calming disturbed spirits and making them think, "If Heaven is even a little like sitting in clean molded plastic, I'm there." So they should be out of here soon, I guess.

And now we're not street people and there isn't a balloon anymore and maybe we'll never see that funny balloon man again, though we probably will because he was interesting, and i'm not crazy anymore and now i have to pay attention to making the show really good again. With new performance art pieces and EducatiFUN videos and high school garage metal bands rocking it hard.


i'm excited.