Public Fridge

I saw this fridge outside my house, and it got me thinking: what if there were anti-missionaries. You know, like pagans from Madagascar flying into Orange County and teaching people to love or whatever they do over there.

I'd go for it.

Dog Blog

My blog is called James And His Opinions. I like it. It sort of sounds like I carry my opinion around, like a dog or something.

Like, here guys, look at my opinion: I like dogs. Dogs are good. If you were a dog, I'd like you.

Anyway, I don't really carry the blog around with me. It's virtual, so that's definately not happening any time in the future nearest to us. Which, of course, is the near future. Which, up until right now, was now. But it is no longer the near future.

Dogs are the best.

Styrofoam

Styrofoam!

It's been in the news a lot. Big, foamy stories. Lots of things regarding it. Just the other day: "A thing happened with Styrofoam," the paper read. But it didn't read. It's a paper. You have to do the reading. It's entirely on you. Basically, it's like this: The paper is there, and I am here.

I've lost my train of thought.

Choo choo!

...

One time, when I was a kid, I was eating a Styrofoam cup. It felt natural, so I did it. Anyway, mid-snack, this asshole comes up to me: "James, you're gonna die if you eat Styrofoam."

I had eaten half the cup.

So, I came back, "If I was gonna die I'd already be dead."

Then I was like, "stupid!"

There was like a bunch of Iranian food at schoolios. Was pretty much not badness. Oh, and some other things. Career Day things. Like, everyone with tables that tell you to be such-and-such career. I saw three tables that involve uniforms:

1. Cops
2. Marines
3. Hot-Dog-On-A-Stick

You could do a vendiagram of the jobs that involve guns and the jobs that involve hats. If left was guns, and right was hats, it'd go cops on the left, marines in the middle, and hot-dog-on-a-stick on the right.

I'm a vegan and don't like guns, so I'd be out of a job and out of a vendiagram.

Ellis Island

Back in the day, which was elementary school day, the teachers set up this mock Ellis Island. You'd make a character and stuff, and maybe you'd get citizenship. Maybe not. It was up in the air. That's where the excitement dwelled. Feeling excited? It's dwellin' right here. You are face to face with excitement!

Anyway, I decided to be a doctor who cured ADDS, which I thought was hilarious when I was a kid. Get it? It's like AIDS, but not. I did a lot of black comedy back then. Not so much any more. Here's a stab at it: Something awful happens... baby stabbing. That was awful. I am no good at black humor. I am bad. Maybe, bad as a baby stabbing?! No. That's still terrible. And bad taste. Definately.

Right. The teacher didn't think that ADDS was that funny. She wrote on my paper, "AIDS didn't come around for another hundred years," and, "You misspelled AIDS."

I got an F.

Elvis 'n' Escher

I'm listening to Elvis on K-Earth, 101. Have you seen that video of him where he's in his "Later Years" and he looks a mess, and he's singing some Jesus tune and he's crying like a baby? Then you have lucked out. You know how it is to see people cry on film. You can't even comfort them! Pretty much not possible. It's like a freakin' Escher!

Have you seen that Escher with four lengths of stairs all going down, but the first one connects to the last one, making the illusion of an infinetely descending staircase? It is a rendezvous with Johnny Whatthefuck, king of Tripsville! Seriously, you'd be transversing steps for like a week before you got to the bottom or figured something out. Fuck that. I'd rather not be in an Escher litho'. Too many fucking lizards and geese and shit.

Elvis is king. Of Tripsville!!

Coke Part II

Here is a funny thought I had.

You know that Coca-Cola promotion where you look under the cap and have a one in six chance of winning a free coke? Well, you might just assume that no matter how many times you don't win a free coke, your odds of winning remain the same.

If you do, you'd be wrong, because as you buy the No-Win cokes, you diminish the supply of losing caps, thereby increasing the percentage of remaining bottles with winning caps, thus increasing your chance of winning.

If it'd alright with everybody, I'd like to take just a moment to say hello to the two remaining readers who at all understand what the f' I'm going on about. Here, I'll tell some jokes so everyone knows it is still good ol' J-Town James leading this expedition into the Information Super-High': Guy walks into a restuarant with a duck under his arm. The bartender says, "Oh shit, we've already fucked this joke up." The duck then goes quack. Hey!

I like ducks.

Graffiti

I saw this bit of graffiti on Santa Monica Blvd and Westwood.

This picture speaks for itself.

Hawaii

This is an ocean. It is one of a set of seven. This is the Pacific Ocean, which Hawaiians like to call the East and West Hawaiian Oceans. Really, though, they call it that*. That's all I know about Hawaii, excluding the following items:

1. Ukuleles,
2. Tourist Hatred,
3. Something Else.

And, of course, Queen Lili'uokalani. She's pretty much the most famous Hawaiian I can think of, other than that big guy** who died in '97. Like you do. Anyway, I was going somewhere with this.

Right: So, that pic of the big blue was taken from Santa Monica Blvd and Ocean. In Downtown Santa Monica -- meaning 3rd Street Promenade, et al. -- they have fancy crosswalks that tell you how many seconds you have to transverse the street, and some of them speak to you. The Ocean one does, but its very static-y, so the various messages create a atmosphere much like the Beaches of Normandy. When it's red, the thing screams, "Wait! Wait! Wait!" Then, when it goes green, it starts saying "Ocean," but because it is so garbled, it sounds, "Oh, Shit! Oh, Shit! Oh, Shit!" and then it starts counting down, "Ten! Nine! Eight!" and some other numbers aiming down, where it flips back to, "Wait!" some more. It's enough to give you a freakin' heart attack ***.

*Not really

** I'm talking about famous Ukulelist Israel Kamakawiwo'ole. He did a Somewhere Over The Rainbow/ What a Wonderful World medley, which was in 50 First Dates and a Rice Crispies commercial. He also ate a lot.

*** Not Really.

Guy Pearce: Best Actor Ever?

Who doesn't like Guy Pearce? Zero people. He's pretty much an awesome actor. He was in that movie, Momento, remember? It was the one about the guy who got hit in the head by this guy who killed his wife (talk about double-wammy!) and made him lose his memory. Well, not lose his memory, he just had no short-term memory, so he couldn't make new memories, so he had big trouble trying to exact revenge. It was pretty much a great movie.

Many years ago, when I saw the flick in theatres, I had to remember to go to the cinema instead of home, so I wrote a reminder on my hand. If you saw the movie, this is incredibly funny. Otherwise, it sorta falls flat. Frankly, even if you did see the movie, it still falls flat. Sometimes I miss on the jokes. Like now. Dead miss.

Sorry, everybody.

Oh, right. Guy Pearce. So, I just saw this commercial for this new movie with Guy Pearce in it called First Snow. It looks to be about Guy Pearce going to a fortune teller who tells him some bad news (how ironic!): He will die the first time he sees snow. I saw this and I was like, "what the hell? Why doesn't he just move to Los Angeles! We don't ever get snow." Then I remembered two things,

1. It just snowed this past winter, for the first time in my life. I missed it. It was in Malibu. You can't win them all.
2. The cost of living is outrageous. Not Tokyo outrageous, but, like, it's seriously hard to live here.

You can't subsist here on minimum wage, especially when you consider that you need a car. I mean, I commute via public transportatoin, so it's not like it's impossible, but it's a bitch, for sure. And, if you want to go to Holllywood, bad luck. It's just impossible. I mean, let's say I wanted to go see these clubs in Hollywood my sister is always going to (she's cooler than me), which I don't, and I wanted to get home at some point (which I would.) I'd need to take a bus home, but they stop running at like midnight, so I'd have to take a cab.

But really, a cab? I'm not made of money. One would have to be composed of dollar bills to possibly afford a cab ride further than the length of the vehicle. Or, I could try to find a young lady and wine and dine her into her room to exchange sex for a roof over my head. But that wouldn't work, because I'm pretty much romantically involved, and frankly, my sex is worth more than a roof over my head.

It's worth a breakfast, too, and I like to cook, so I wouldn't want to let her make me anything. Plus, I'm vegan, and I'd have to ask is there butter in this?, are there eggs in this?, is there blah blah blah. And, you know, I'm with Baylee, which is another reason that it wouldn't work. That's love I guess.*

I'd sleep with Guy Pearce, though, even if he didn't gimme breakfast. I'd be cool with it. He seems like a romantic guy. He played a queer in Priscella, Queen of the Desert. Haven't heard of that flick? Freakin' wikipedia it or something.

IMBD, maybe.

* Like every girl I know who reads this will flip about this dumb line. The dudes will be like, "Am I seriously reading this load of shit? Fuck this, I'm going back to Maddox or TuckerMax or something like that. Something with an X at the end. Or three x's"

PS: Here's your grain of salt.

Sake Bar

I went to a 99¢ sake bar last night. They serve sake, so I was like, "barkeep, gimme a sake", and he said, "okay, sure. Sounds pretty reasonable. We're a flippin' sake bar."

Anyway, the waitress brings two little jugs of sake, and was like, "we're out of large jugs, so I brought you two small ones." Weird, eh? The store has been open for like a week and a half and they've already zipped through their large-sake-jug stockpile. They should get on that.

Back to the story: I was, if you prefer the euphemism, a lil under the weather. Dealing with some tummy troubles. As they say, I had the super shits. So, as you might imagine, the two jugs of sake we're quite daunting. And you know what else they were? Hot! Who knew that sake was served hot?

Really, though, did anybody? I think that all the employees went into the back and watched me on a secret camera, laughing about the matter, and saying, "Watch this guy drink hot sake. He doesn't even know that it's supposed to be served cold! Ha ha ha." Jokes on them, though, because I was drinking, and they were heating sake and waiting tables. Pretty much, despite the fact that I was sending sizzling sake down the hatch for fear of looking like a douche, I was still the one not on the clock. I was off the clock. If I was to work at that moment, it would be volunteering, or pro-bono. Hopefully, pro-bono, because it is tax time, and I am sorta fucked in that department.

I was feeling fuckety one bottle in, but I already look like a dipshit for drinking hot sake, and didn't want to be the guy they'd remember as the guy who couldn't bring the sake game home. No, I'd wish that would not be me, so I opted to power through the sake. As in line with my opting, I powered, and by the time I finished, I was convinced I was really drunk. Here was my evidence:

1. I had been drinking all eve; plus
2. I felt ill; and, most importantly
3. I didn't feel drunk.

I realize that item number three, I didn't feel drunk, is gonna prompt some questions. Don't even voice those questions, because I'm gonna answer them before you even ask like a fucking Samurai of the FAQ. My Answer is! at some point I'd brought myself to believe I wasn't just a little drunk, I was really drunk -- so drunk that I no longer felt drunk. So drunk that my body had transcended some basic abilities of perception, namely the ability to perceive one's own fucked-up-ed-ness.

Basically, I thought the second I got up, downtown I would go, and I'd be puking on the floor. This is why I decided to get the check first. So, this I did, but soon I noticed my ability to ask for the check was not impaired at all, and in my mind, up in the old noggin' -- in my loaf, so we say-- I silently commended myself on my ability to stay cool while not being able to walk. Anywizzles, Check, blah blah blah, gave 'em three dollars (a dollar for the sake, a dollar for the tip, and a dollar for the puke), and I stood up.

Can you feel the tension? Answer: no.

Turned out, I was sober, and just had an ache in the old fuel tank.

I've failed to puke since last night through the time this article was written. But, I'm not done yet, so, who knows. How about now? No, still no.

No puke.

LA Times

Some people are crazy about the Los Angeles Times. I am not an example of such a person. I would be a terrible example of such a person. If someone was to say, hey, I need to do an experiment on people who are cray-zee about the LA Times, I would tell them not to say cray-zee. First of all, that's an unfortunate term for people with disabilities. Second, it's retarded.

Did you know LA Times is an anagram of 'Tis Lame? Neither did I. Did you know that Neurotic is an anagram of erotic...nu? Of course you did. It's pretty much an easy anagram to see. Nevertheless-than, remember that next time you see someone with a tidy room, keep them out of the cray-zee ward. They are erotic like Japanese erotic art, basically making them erotic, and admitting them to a cray-zee ward would be conceding some eroticivity. And, they might start saying the word crazy-zee. Basically no way for a sensible person to talk.

By the goodbye, guys, have you seen Japanese erotic art? It's pretty much people fucking. It's like a modern porno, just stylized. Fucking in style. Sexing in vogue, if you can imagine. To imagine, just use imagination.

My Opinion: Totally Fucking Retarded

These guys are totally fucking retarded.

I was at school today when I saw a couple of demonstrators holding Jonathan Edwards style messages. The one pictured here reads, "Don't Go To Hell." If you can't read that, you're blind, or you're having this read out loud to you, or both. I hope the second, because that means that this blog has transferred one medium (blog) to another (soapbox.) Speaking of soap boxes...

This one time, someone made a bizzare reference during a AIM conversation, and I was like, "What?" and they were like, "nvrmnd," and I was like, "what does that mean?" and they were like, "nevermind," So I thought to myself, "What a dick, I ask a question and they blow me off? Fuck that!"

Basically the most gay-rights solidarity I've felt in a long time.

Church

Note: This first section is largely just a copy of something off my Facebook. Eat a dick. It's my blog. I can run it how I like. Do you have a blog? No? Well, get one, and run it in any inefficient, ultra-bureaucratic way you please. Really, though. I need some help, and bringing down the status quo isn't gonna hurt.

I work at a church. They rent out the high school I used to go to, and while I was there, they gave me a job. This room (pictured) is where we store everything you need to make a church. Basically I lift shit and put it where it needs to be to make a high school's cafeteria and theatre into a church, and at the end of the day I reverse the process. It's basically boring. There are kids there, though, and they can say funny things.

This one time, the Sunday School teacher says, "If you were on a deserted island and you could only bring one book with you, which book would you bring," and the kid says, "Fresh food and water." That is great. First of all, you can only bring one thing, and that's two. And second, that's not even a book. That kid is so worried about his survival he's not even considering the ramafactions of not giving the right answer. It's called hypothetical, buddy. That is just great.

This other time, I'm waiting for them to put there shit in the boxes so I can put it in the room (pictured), and I see this kid playing with this ball, and his mom is like, "Josh, you've had enough with that ball, give it to Suzy."

The mom is talking to the kid like he's a fucking drunk. He's not a fucking drunk, he's fucking six, but he's acting like a drunk. "No!" he slurs out, rubbing his feet into the group. "Josh, come on, you have to give her the ball." "Josh!" mom repeats. Josh flips out, throws the ball to the floor, and sulks. The mom is so pissed, "That's it, Josh, you get five minutes of quiet-on-the-bench-time." First of all, who makes up quiet-on-the-bench-time? Apparently, the term is familiar to Josh, who flips out again, "Noo! I have zero minutes of quiet on the bench time!!" This kid knew how many minutes of q-o-t-b time he wanted, and he conveyed it.

I hate q-o-t-b

Coca-Cola Fridge Pack

This is the Coca-Cola Fridge Pack. I like to pretend that the back of the box (pictured) is made of glass, so you can see into it.

I also like to pretend that the high fructose corn syrup (not pictured) won't kill me. Because, that would basically be the worst funeral since the foundation of the funeral casa.

"Ashes to Ashes.
Dust to Dust.
High-fructose corn syrup
Was his life-ending lust.
Amen."

That would suck. Nobody would go to that funeral. To get people to come, I would have to entice them with some sort of gimmick... perhaps something to the effect of a coffin with me painted on the top so as to fool people into believing they're gazing upon a glass casket!! People would be talking about that like I was a Dave Chappelle skit with Lil Jon in it.

Do you know Lil Jon's real name? Johnathan Smith. Which can be reduced to John Smith -- Hello? John Smith of Jamestown? Pocahontas? Basically, I was trying to home in on Jamestown, which is related to me, as my name is James. Read the about me. It talks all about it. If you know what I'm saying. And you do. I mean, if you've gotten this far in the article and you don't know what I'm saying, then you're retarded.

Really, though. If you don't know what I'm saying, you are likely to be retarded. You should really get that checked out. It is a pretty serious condition. According to Wikipedia, it has symptoms including,

• having trouble speaking
• finding it hard to remember things
• having trouble understanding social rules
• having trouble discerning cause and effect
• finding the need to blog

I like Coca-Cola.

Native Foods

I eat at the pictured resturant, Native Foods, like, all of the time. I'm actually waiting for my food to be made from soy beans into dinner as I blog. Mid-blog, if you will. And, you will. Really, though, you will will! This is my blog, except for the comments section. That section isn't my blog. It's my comments section.

I am the boss of this web sub-domain! Yes everything you see here is mine. Except for the browser, the layout, and the strip at the top. Two thirds of those things are BlogSpot.Com's. The other third is your browser's, which means it is Firefox's. When I was a kid I had a plush fox named Firefox*.

So, in summary, I eat at a place called Native Foods, and I enjoy it. Brought to you by BlogSpot.Com.

*I still have it. I just didn't say anything as to look cool. Did my ruse fool you? (P.S.: Of course it didn't. Worst ruse ever.)

Babe

This is a picture of Baylee. She is pretty much a babe. And, a hot one. Not like Babe, the pig, though. She is basically pretty far away from such a description as one could imagine. Except in this photo the color is all red, so the young lady's face turns up pink. Pink! Basically not the case. So, just imagine that the color is different and you'll get an idea of what bombshell she is.

But, really, the babeness shines through, big time, See? Of course you do! The shine-thoroughness is what we in the Blogosphere call self-evident.

If you touch her I will bite your face off, and then blog about it.

Gym

I started going to a gym, which I affectionatly call Le Fitness. It's actually LA Fitness, but I like making jokes, so I make them.

It isn't actually a French gym, and the French word for fitness probably isn't fitness. It's probably something French.

Nearly every word in French in French is French. Except Le Weekend, which the French stole from America. But I guess we got rendezvous, so I'd call it even.

Le Even.

The Triumph Of Virtue And Nobility Over Ignorance

This is called The Triumph of Virtue And Nobility Over Ignorance, and it's at the Norton Simon Museum in Pasadena. It's pretty much awesome.

The two babes on the top are Virtue and Nobility, and they've been wrestling with Ignorance in the sky for like forever, and they kick her down. And look! Ignorance has a baby or something. And they're kicking its ass, too! It's like a f'ing Maddox article! Anyway, don't get too sad, it's an evil baby who personifies Ignorance.*

There are some other things there, at the N' Simon. They have some Hindu art, and a bunch of Degas shit, mostly statues of ballerinas. For the most part, Triumph is where it's at.

*This is a little joke. Thanks for rollin'.

I Also Draw

See this? I drew it. I stole the image from Mr. Leonardo Da Vinci, and he did it from life. So, in that sense, he stole the image from a baby. And people are giving me a hard time? Did I steal the face of an infant? The visage of a toddler? The mug of a newborn?

I own a thesaurus.

Worst Phone In Los Angeles

This is my sister on the worst phone in Los Angeles.

People are expected to make calls on this phone. But, then again, I expect people to read my blog.

...

Really, though, have you read this? I basically do it from my phone.

I Paint

I'm an artist.

At a local museum, there is this guy who works there. We talk about the bullshittiness of some of the exhibits. I paint. This is a shitty photo of a painting of me as a lad. Thanks so much for reading.

On Love

This is a picture of me. I am putting the moves on Baylee, my girlfriend, by eating the sandwich pictured with enormous grace. I have been with her for like, 2 years. That's a lot, for my age. I'm going on twenty. Twenty! That's ten percent of my life! That's like, if I was thirty, we would be going steady for three years.

I guess that isn't that impressive.

But, if we are still together ten years from now, it'd be like we've been dating for a third of our life, which is two thirds between the two of us. And imagine what that would be like when we're eighty? Eighty and eighty is one-sixty, and two thirds of that is one-hundred six years, seven months, and six days!! I have been dating this girl since I was negative eighty-seven years old! Talk about commitment!

I am eating a vegan sandwich. I have been doing this for a few years. Not a little more than a century.

I Have Opinions!!

I have opinions about everything, so I started a blog.

• I like blogs
• I like me
• Me like blogs
• Blog like me (Don't really. That would be copyright infringement, and you would go to jail, thus compromising my fan base.)