Just woke from another of my vivid blue agave dreams (hundreds of naked Indians labor to build an enormous casino inside the hollowed-out carcass of a giant, magical buffalo, the buffet to which features nothing but kippers, wild salmon, and owl kabobs)—only to find a curious note from my hoodie. Seems he’s been “living a lie” and has decided to run off with a pastel short sleeve button down Madras

Shortcomings in physical construction prevent most hoodies from driving manual automobiles.  But my hoodie—never one to shy away from a challenge (just ask the bouncer at Pub on Pearl, whose testicles are likely still lodged in his abdomen)—figured out a way to use its drawstrings to work an elaborate pully system crafted from monofilament fishing line and a pair of unwound wire coat hangers that hooks readily to my Jeep’s

Picked up a bottle of Herradura Seleccion Suprema and 2 limes, which I’ve cut into sixteen wedges and placed in an earthen bowl next to some kosher salt and a frosted apéritif glass.  I figure if I use my time wisely, I can cram 100 Years of Solitude into three, maybe four hours.  From there—a straight shot to the meaning of life. Wish me luck.  Because truth be told, better

“Oscar Night” Self-love is self love, beet says —whether gilded into sleek shiny sexless statuettes, or performed alone in one of the theater stalls after the winners have all been called & the gift baskets long since rifled through. But there is no shame in it, beet says.  Because love itself is so rare that if you can’t find it elsewhere, take it from yourself —forcibly, if need be—like a

My hoodie and me.  My hoodie and me.  My hoodie and me.  And the smell of Mountain Dew.  A stale citrus stink, too—like when some lemonhead john cruises the junkie lime hooker who hangs out behind the diner on Alameda and Bryant and the two trade on their separate loneliness in quick oily spurts behind a dumpster stuffed with soggy wooden produce crates.  You know the smell.  Like a puddle

There are few things on earth so tragic—and so apt to seethe up through the pragmatist’s gullet in an acid belch of incipient nihilism—than the sight of a muddy, tractor-savaged field of trampled beets, battle-bested, their classified numbers still thick and oblong in heavy pulped mounds, muted and bruised in dirt-scuffed reds, many of them cleaved, their wounds puncuated by a sickening gutted whiteness:  beet flesh, like carved bird or

Using state of the art nanotechnology, it takes a team of six agency surgeons —none of whom officially even exist, I’ve since learned—roughly fourteen hours to resuscitate and repair a certain sea monkey “asset,” whose drunken new year’s eve skinny dipping adventure ended when an escort named Laci, freshening up a batch of Cuervo 1800 frozen margaritas, unwittingly hit the ‘puree’ switch. I’ll miss Laci, for what it’s worth—not least

Sure, he let it slip after pulling 16 moist hits off a 250 gram block of primo Moroccan hash and eating an entire white pizza—but still, when the dolphin in the pea coat tells you that “Val” Plame hasn’t been “covert” since a 1994 incident involving two bottles of Ikon, a dwarfish North Korean dignitary, and an unfortunate karaoke slip-up, well, let’s just say you put down the waterpipe and

In the patrician worldview of sea monkey royalty, each piece of leftover pizza or cold, tinfoil-wrapped Asada chicken is a refrigerated tribute owed the Sea Monkey King, his presumptousness a fair trade, I figure, for the colorful, malt liquor-fueled tales he spins of deep sea intrigue—vivid, rambling stories that invariably end with a couple of decapitated manatees and a trio of mermaids engaged in shimmering acts of nasty, flippered gratification.

Sure, the CIA has encouraged the mullahs to believe otherwise; but I have it on peacoat-clad authority that Iran is really not particularly close to acquiring nuclear weapons—though they are quite close to acquiring a series of heavy cylindrical encasements, each one forged from titanium and lead, and each one containing a large, meticulously-trained sugar beet that, in addition to being able to perfectly mimic the sound of a Geiger