RIDE THE ROCKET

Get Ready.

2007-11-04T07:47:57Z

$2.00
All New Poems.
Coming soon.
Want one?

_glamorama @ 2007-11-01T19:09:00

2007-11-02T02:09:23Z

i'm just so bored.

_glamorama @ 2007-10-08T08:47:00

2007-10-08T15:49:24Z

i hate college but i'm lovin the life that comes with it.
i'm pathetic, however, and need to accomplish more.
wasting too much time.

i need to get a sketch show together.
i need to do more videos.
i need to finish writing my book.
i need to bone hot bitches.

_glamorama @ 2007-09-10T06:01:00

2007-09-10T13:10:58Z

christian man

She wants a christian man
i am neither of the two.

it almost seems that the faith in the man is more important to her than the man himself.

some of the most despicable human beings in history were christians:
serial killers,
psychopaths,
rapists,
etc.
yet, in Her eyes, they are better men than me
for finding christ.

i am an agnostic. or an atheist. i haven't made up my mind.
but one thing i have decided upon is that
i want Her.
the way She wants jesus is the way i want Her.
but i do not want jesus, so She does not want me.

who would've thought a man who's been dead
for two thousand years
could be such a cockblock?

She is his widow, refusing to move on.
and will only accept a man to mourn with Her.
i want to be the only man in Her life,
not a visitor waiting in line behind the crucified.
i refuse to be second best .
but i have no faith - so i have nothing.

fortunately, he is a christian.
so without a doubt,
he is the better man.

i want to explain to Her, though She will not understand
that: whether or not a man believes in god,
he is stillborn of the devil.
we all are.
so love me.

Thought on Pornography

2007-04-17T07:41:28Z

I've been noticing lately... porn has lost all integrity.

For one, what's the deal with the lack of crew?
Porn these days must have a really tight budget because they hire one dude to do both the filming and the fucking.
Like... seriously... you can't get a cameraman?

No matter how good the porn is, if I subconsciously know that it's being shot on a tripod, my boner collapses like it was 9/11.

And even if you can't afford to hire a cameraman... is it really that hard to get a probono crew member?

Like these porn stars seriously don't have a friend who's down to film them smash a girl?

Hey, I'll be the first one to say it... if you're so lazy that you won't go over to film your friend have sex with a chick on film... you're a shitty friend.

True friends film their friends having sex.

Really, what kind of excuse could you possibly have to where you won't go film your friend getting laid for a porn website?

The only reason I wouldn't be able to make it is if my mom were pregnant and about to give birth... to me. And I'd still be fighting my way out so hopefully I can catch the second half of my bud's accomplishment.

"Hey dude, listen, I've got this girl here... we're gonna have sex on film, but the thing is... we really need a cameraman... do you think you could stop by and watch us have sex?"

"Oh... man... bro... seriously... you know I'm always there for you... like, we're bros til the end... whatever you need, I'm there... but I just read in TV guide that the Soup Nazi episode of Seinfeld is on in like 45 minutes... and you know that's like... the funniest shit of all time... and I would totally Tivo it but I don't have anymore space on my Tivo because of all the Mind of Mencia's I've stored on there... so like... seriously bro... I'm sorry, I'm not going to be able to come watch you have sex with a girl and film it. But like... rain check?"

V4L Klub!

2007-01-11T00:47:37Z

I’m 17, goddamnit. Why am I still hanging onto my virginity? You know that friend you grow up spending so much time with because your mothers always set up little play-dates? Completely conflicting interests, utterly incompatible, yet you get so used to his company that it’s easier-said-than-done to kick them to the curb? That’s my virginity: the kid who I try to hide from at school as I share laughs with the popular kids, but he always spots me from a distance, approaching with the same eager grin Moses must have had when noticing the Promised Land in the middle of the vast sea of sand. I somehow rid that kid from my life in sophomore year with tactics not even James Bond could master, but I can’t do the same to my virginity. I may be able to give you a few lessons on losing nerdy friends, but you truly are the master of seduction, Mr. Bond. What do I need to do to be like you? I suppose I could ask for my Starbucks strawberry-lemonade blend to be “shaken, not stirred.” Will that do it? Maybe the girl behind the counter will make love to me right there. Jaws will drop as trails of coffee run down the customers’ mouth. And just after the smooth-jazz record skips, the caffeine-fueled audience breaks the silence with a glorious slow clap as I hand my virginity to the furnaces of hell. Yeah, that’s it. I’ll lose my virginity on top of the register of a Starbucks. Maybe she’ll even forget to ring me up for my drink, and I can save 3 bucks. You sure know how to do it, 007. It’s not that I’m desperate. No, no. Girls don’t like desperation. They like confidence. Actually, I don’t care if I lose it. I’m indifferent. The thought has never even crossed my mind. Come to think of it, I don’t even want to lose it. I think I want to wait until marriage. And even then, my wife will be lucky if she gets me to lose it. You know, I don’t want to lose it, ever. I think I want to become a nun. Can a man be a nun? Well, whatever the male equivalent is. Women love a challenge. A priest, that’s it. No, wait, too much controversy. I don’t want people to assume things. Or do I? Maybe when the ladies see me not only as sexually unobtainable but also assume that I only think about little boys, that will make the challenge even greater for them. “Why does he want to molest my son, but doesn’t want me? What’s wrong with me? Why, why, why? Oh, please, oh, please, Father Daveo! Take me right now!” Yeah, that’s the ticket. I should start right now. I’m going to go hang out at the local playground, offer some kids lollipops. Their mothers will be all over me. A priest who hangs out at children’s parks? What more could a woman want? But then again, I think I’d have to do some God-type activities to become one. Or maybe not. I’m not sure. Maybe the times have changed and a priest is more of a symbol rather than an occupation. Computers probably do all of the sermons nowadays, with the priests just turning them on and off. That’s not hard at all. Shit, why waste my time with that stupid priest collar when I can just tell everyone I’m asexual. If people ask me if I’m gay or straight, I’ll just say, “I don’t know.” But not in the bisexual way. In the “What?!-He-doesn’t-even-know-which-he-likes?-Well,-he-will-surely-like-me!-Right?!” way. Wait, now I’m doing what I did before. Convincing myself to hold onto my virginity as a tool for attention. The sound of those girls whining, “Awww!” when I admit to have never been with a woman feels so good. Probably better than feeling their naked body pressed upon mine in some party’s empty bedroom. Or not empty. Just as long as it’s a bedroom. Or just a room. It feels so good to be unique. The only one of my peers to have not felt a woman’s touch. It sets me apart from the rest, giving me an advantage as all of us go woman-hunting every Friday. All of my friends could be bragging about their cars, flexing muscles, doing summersaults, jugging chainsaws, murdering an infant with mind control, and/or cracking a funny joke, but the moment I say, “I’m still a virgin,” all those pretty little eyes immediately assault mine as my heart pumps a liter of blood to my cock with every stroke of their batting lashes. Oh, God. That’s better than sex. It has to be. What am I doing even worrying about losing it? It’s my greatest weapon in this battlefield called “Love.” Or “Lust.” I think there was a name change due to some corporate sponsorship of the battlefield. But wait, what the hell? I’m holding back from sex just so I can achieve sex more easily? Goddamn Catch 22. Shit, I’ve got it! I could get those girls every weekend and wait until it’s getting really hot and heavy. Then, as my virginity is about to be lost like the wallet of an oblivious tourist on a crowded New York subway car, I leave. Get up, get dressed, and leave. The look on their faces as they lie naked in that bed, their legs spread and ready, and I bid them “Adieu” and check my cell phone for missed calls. Oh Jesus, they’ll be so hurt. Rewrite that shitty song, Hall & Oates, because I’m a Woman-Eater. But hold on, I’m 17 years old. Why would I deny myself of the opportunity for the greatest sex of my entire life? I’ve got about 10 more years to have the most gorgeous women on the planet. Then they’ll stop caring about their looks, I’ll be too old for the teenagers, and all the good-looking women my age will only go for successful snotty douchebags. I’m 17 goddamn years old, for Pete’s sake. I should be in the arms of a new cute, vulnerable teenie-bopper every night. I’m young, why not? As the old saying goes: When in Rome, fuck like jackrabbits on Viagra. But then again, there’s the other old saying: All jackrabbits have AIDS. Shit, I don’t want AIDS. I don’t want to die. I want to live a long, disease-free life full of passionate love-making. But it’s not only drunken sex that spreads AIDS, passionate love-making can give you that, too. Oh, God. I’m going to die. Either way, I’m getting AIDS. What the hell? All I ever wanted was for a woman to care for me and hold me and let me know that I’m loved and not alone. And now I’m going to be like those African babies on the Christian commercials, all skinny and full of AIDS. Goddamnit, who in the hell has sex with a monkey anyways?! You’ve ruined my life, monkey-lover. Now I’ll never have a woman. But, oh well, who needs them? All they’ve ever done is break my heart. Why waste fragile emotions solely for the purpose of getting laid? I can always masturbate. That’s always done me good. Yeah, I don’t even need a woman; all I need is myself. And a high-speed Internet connection. Holy Moley, why have I been stressing about this so much? The day I need a woman in my life is the day I lose my right hand. And that will only be one day, because it’ll be about 24 hours to get used to my left hand. Then I’m set. And if I lose my left, I still have my feet. I’m sure I could become flexible enough. Yoga classes aren’t too expensive. And hey, chicks love Yoga. I could meet a bunch of girls in Yoga class. That’s it. I need to take up Yoga.

_glamorama @ 2007-01-02T14:30:00

2007-01-02T21:30:26Z

My life is always changing.
But it changed more than ever last year.
For better, for worse. I'm not sure.
We'll see what this year holds.
Or should I say "I'll see..."

Two Poems

2006-12-18T06:40:55Z

Masturbation Though it's kind of embarassing for me to say, I tend to masturbate several times each day. But it's not what it seems. It's just that at seventeen, It's the closest I can get to living out my dreams. Christmas Shopping I saw the first girl I had ever fallen in love with at the mall. I still keep all of her letters locked up in my bedside drawer. No conversation between us besides how I’ve gotten so tall. Though I’ve grown up since, she can still send my heart to the floor.

_glamorama @ 2006-12-15T01:11:00

2006-12-15T08:11:18Z

If you had asked me an hour prior to this moment if I had ever been punched in the face, my answer would have been “No.” But that answer would have only been acceptable for the next 30 minutes or so, until some point between my departure from the Damien football game at Claremont High School and me standing in the middle of an empty park next to the high school with a puss-filled crater in my lip and a merciless tire-iron in my furious fists.

Parents always crowd into those high school football games because there’s nothing else for them to do with their lives on a Friday night, and teenagers for the same reason. Due to the fact that there’s not a hell of a lot to do in this town, cars covered the streets surrounding the school like the acne on the face of that coward that sucker punched me. I was parked pretty far away, on a street opposite the park that sat next to the school.

I’m sure the city dreamed of splendid and wholesome times occurring within this park at the ribbon-cutting ceremony so many years ago, but there was no doubt in my mind that the most common use of this park was the place where acceptance-craved teens could smoke just enough pot to pretend was they were stoned and feel accepted by the other adolescents working as understudies for the same role. Fifteen dollar worth of weed couldn’t even get me stoned, and I never touch the stuff, let alone a circle of seven kids with peace signs drawn on their Chuck Taylors and Led Zeppelin shirts that they prayed would make them look hippie, but truth be told, their mommies bought it for them at the mall.

I love adolescence, if you couldn’t tell.

I’d only been at the game for 30 minutes or so, and the passengers and back seats in my car were still warm from the asses of my two friends who accompanied me to the first away game I had attended at my new high school.

I had left my old school because the lack of motivation within the student body made me myself want to curl up in a ball in some abandoned basement with a feeding tube in my mouth and shitting tube in my ass, never achieving a single thing in my entire life, just to avoid breathing the same air as these people. I wanted to escape the immaturity of that school, so I transferred to a private all-boys school in my senior year.

If you asked me how that escape act was working out as I tried to close the gap in my lip which I accepted for no reason besides the facility where I was educated, those tears of pain blurring the already-blinding lights of the park until all I could see was a bright white, I would probably laugh.

All I remember was walking through the damp grass next to the dugout of the baseball diamond in the park and seeing a group of assholes (I often identify them from a distance), probably 12 of them, up to no-good, and thinking “this definitely won’t be pretty.” Which it wasn’t.

As there always is, there was a rivalry between the two high schools. I myself did not care which school was better, which school was gayer, nor which school sucked more balls. It was school. The thing we all hate. Why argue over which school we hate more? Either way, I had only attended Damien for a month so I couldn’t have much pride in something I was indifferent about.

Too bad the assholes didn’t know that.

Just as I thought we had gotten by them with no exchange of foolishness, I heard one of them holler, “Aye, You fools go to Damien?”

My friends answered “No,” telling the truth. At this moment, their dropping-out of high school was a blessing from God, gift-wrapped in a pretty pink bow made of the laughter of kittens and the orgasms of lesbians. I, however, felt that I would be betraying myself if I lied to them. I knew these kinds of guys. Assholes. This is what they do. Sit around in parks late at night and try to intimidate people, feeding off of the fear of others more desperately than if a jumbo jet of Big Macs landed in one of those African villages with the fly-face babies. I would not let them sink their teeth into my fright-filled burger of a body. My pride would not allow me to. Pride. Pride. Pride. It never ceases to get me in trouble.

I told them I attended Damien, not in a threatening way, but in an honest and innocent way, like the way a child would answer if a stranger asked, “Do you like eating lollipops with a blindfold on? If you do, I’ve got a ton of lollipops in the back of my van!” Mistake.

Two of them approached me, as the other ten or so watched giggling from the top of a short hill, one could consider it nothing more than a hump. They’re always looking down on me from their miniature mountains, their eyes mere inches above mine, but still looking down. Chomp, chomp, chomp. Swallow. Still hungry.

“Well, I got a problem with Damien.”

“Damien be a pussy-school.”

“Gay-ass Damien be full of faggots”

I loved the fact that students of one high school talked down on another while speaking the most atrocious English comprehendible to man.

Before I could respond with something witty or even think of something witty and then stop myself saying “You shouldn’t say that. They might punch you in the teeth,” that “might punch” morphed into a “just punched” and I was as confused as a future-homosexual during puberty.

There was no warning. No “Yo, fool, we gonna beat yo’ ass.” No “We be about to punch you in the teeth for going to Damien.” No “I’m gonna write my college application essay about how I be punchin’ you in the teeth for bein’ a pussy-ass student of a faggot-ass school.” I hardly remember seeing the one raise his fist. I just went black and remember spinning around with my hands leaping up to my mouth.

The first thing I thought was “So that’s what getting punched in the face feels like…”

I wondered if the same applies to more drastic occurrences.

“So that’s what getting shot in the chest feels like…”

“So that’s what being raped feels like…”

“So that’s what being aborted feels like…”

“So that’s what being in the Holocaust feels like…”

Probably not, but I would have never dreamed of being fascinated with my first fist-to-the-teeth, so it’s a possibility.

Immediately I checked for any missing teeth. Looking back, I’m sure the punch was nowhere near powerful enough to fracture my frown, but it’s always good to be careful. Everything seemed to be there in it’s right place. I checked the front teeth for the same reason a virgin groom is fearful with his bride on their wedding night, praying nothing was too loose. I was gracious that my teeth resembled virgins.

Do what you please to me.

Cut my throat. I can stitch it up. Break my bones. I can deal with a cast. Rip my hair from my scalp. I can wear a hat. Burn my skin with a hot iron. Scars always get sympathy. Rip off my fingernails. I bite them too much anyways. Just don’t touch my teeth

Do anything but touch my teeth.

I would be so devastated if I ever lost a tooth, especially over something so pointless. Not even having a courageous story to boast with about how it happened. When one loses a tooth, it automatically gives them 30,000 white trash points. Take a front tooth from any person in the world, no matter how accomplished, and they automatically look like a joke. Abe Lincoln. Benjamin Franklin. Albert Einstein. John F. Kennedy. Gandhi. John Lennon. William Shakespeare. Socrates. A smile with a gap in it would make any of these people look like morons.

I’ve always been terrified of losing a tooth. My smile has always been the only think that can mask my broken spirit. If you shatter my smile, I am nothing. I’m naked and ashamed. An open casket with a body blown to pieces. Do anything but fracture my smile.

Everything in our body heals, but each tooth is like a chip of virginity. One it’s gone, it’s not coming back. Sure there ways around it to fool the world. I know several sluts who all swear that they’ve never done anything but kiss a boy, though their panties are a parade of penis plague. Anyone can throw on some dentures, but that doesn’t change the fact that there’s a gap in your smile.

As my fingers pulled out, they were covered in blood. Our virgin groom would be relieved at the sight of this, but I most definitely was not. I felt a Grand Canyon carved on my inner lip, right where the mouth just starts to get moist. A river of warm blood and saliva filling it and overflowed onto my frantic fingers.

Now, I don’t intend to exaggerate. This was no life-threatening wound. But I’ll be honest, it fucking hurt. With every movement of my mouth, the chasm burned like the bowl of cheap marijuana my attackers had most likely smoked an hour or so before their rowdiness resumed. It was big enough to smoke a bowl of cheap marijuana in, which they probably would have if it were possible. The pain it brought. I couldn’t even say “Ow” without the pain shooting up to my eyes and escaping in little tears. The piercing heat burned my lips and I felt sharp stings all over my face. It was like setting a beehive on fire and sticking it in my mouth.

Forget the pain. That was nothing compared to their laughter. I stood there, puzzled and in pain, with two assholes in front of me, ten assholes behind them. All I heard was laughter.

Laughter is always a sound that can cheer someone up, raise their spirits, soothe the soul. In every situation but this.

Their laughter wasn’t joyful. It was their war cry. The anthem that echoes at the sound of defeat. And I was the casualty.

Each individual laugh had the crushing power of a freight truck at high speeds, and I was the deer in its headlights.

I’ve been the victim of many jokes in my life, and it definitely is not pleasant to hear people feeling joy over your personal embarrassment. Though with embarrassment, one can always get over it and join the laughter, or at least pretend to get over it and act as if the humiliating experience did not hinder the spirit at all. This was pure pain. A group of people laughing at my suffering. We are used to receiving sympathy from others in times of agony, so it is a complete shock to feel people rejoicing in your time of shame. These people had no souls and were eating away at my weakness. Each chuckle that was emptied from their belly was accompanied by a mouthful of pride that filled the gap. They were gluttons.

I stood there, wondering what had I done to deserve this. They did not know me. They did not know my name. They did not know my friends. They did not know my family. They did not know my mistakes, my achievements, my values, my emotions, my favorite bands, my hobbies, my sorrow, my self-loathing, my angst, my emptiness. But they knew they wanted to bring me pain.

I have never condoned violence in my life, but the few times I have wanted to harm another was only under the stipulation that I knew that, in fact, they were a piece of shit. I’d never dream of blindly swinging my fists and feeling no remorse of the first soul I struck. But they say we’re a generations of dreamers. I guess I’m the only one whose awaken from the slumber.

Though they just hared me, those two boys were cowards. Both of them. Their friends were cowards, they were cowards, and for all I cared, their families were cowards. Their favorite movie star was a coward. Their pet iguana was a coward. Their teachers taught Cowardice 101.

They ran. It was a hit-and-run. They didn’t even have the motivation in life to finish the goddamn job. That is when you know someone is lazy, when they can’t even put in the effort to beat someone to a bloody pulp after they’ve punched him in the face. Before I saw the blood on my fingertips, the distance between us had increased. Before my instinct told me to send the self-pity to my fists and swing like hell, their backs were turned. Before I could even tell myself not to fight back because there was a dozen of them and one of me, my enemies had retreated.

It didn’t make sense.

As the pain grew and grew, I could feel myself curling up more a more. Like a dying spider’s little legs curling in on themselves like footage of a blooming flower played backwards, I was being reduced to nothing.

The crater in my lip was open and white, revealing the inner-workings of my body. I was exposed.

I left the scene of the crime a new man. Less of a man. Not a man at all. A man would hold his ground and fight, but I took the blow and walked away a coward. I guess cowardice is contagious and I caught it with his punch. All I could feel was shame. That’s a lie. All I could feel was shame and anger. I wanted to bring each and every one of those cowards more pain than the every casualty of every war of every country had ever felt, combined, along with the pain every casualty’s family felt after the loss, and package into an infinite amount of punches, each one increasing in force, as I filled my heart with happiness and bowels with bliss and shit on the broken bodies of each of them. Then have sex with all of their girls, sisters, and mothers, video tape it, and put it on the internet. Then I would be content.

The thirst. The lust for vengeance.

I hadn’t felt this desire to destroy something since I was 8 years old at a class party at school, my heart beating in anticipation to obliterate the piñata hanging from the old tree outside the classroom that always cooled the grass underneath it and left the dirt wet but not yet mud. I knew one swing would be enough to reap the rewards, but I wanted to leave it in pieces. Not even pieces. Little unidentifiable shreds. I always wanted to take my time with the piñata though it was impossible because every student bumrushes the floor at the first sight of candy. I’d dreamed of hitting it once. Then again. And then again. Candy pouring out, but still striking the paper machete over and over. Waiting until the rope was left lonesome and all of the pieces were on the floor. Then beat those. Get out every ounce of energy my youth produced until there was nothing left, and only at that time, going to collect the booty. I would always push the candy into a pile because my hands could only hold so much, then lay on that pile so no one could steal my belongings. I wanted to beat the boys until my fists were broken and no more damage could be done, then gather my pride. Their blood pouring out like bite-sized candy bars and miniature packets of fruit-flavored treats, spilling onto the floor, and my greed-filled body collapsing to the floor to seize as much as possible. I would watch the blood run to the floor and mop it into a deep puddle, then roll around in it until my clothing and skin are all the same deep crimson. Then and only then could I laugh in each of their faces and go back to the same person I was before they attacked.

As I got to my car, a few of the boys drove by in their pick up truck, laughing and yelling something unintelligent at me. That was it. The piñata was tied up and the teacher was holding the other end of the rope. I didn’t need a blindfold. I was blinded by this hate. Just give me the fucking stick and let me swing away.

I sped to my friend’s work a few blocks away, not knowing how to achieve this. He went to his car and retrieved a tire iron, telling me “Be careful.” I didn’t care to be careful. Nothing mattered anymore but bleeding this rage in my veins all over the one who made it pump so violently.

My friends refused to accompany tire iron and I to the party. I would be attending alone, but I didn’t care. Looking back on it, I know weapons are a bad idea to use, because if they can somehow wrestle the tool from your hands, you will become the victim of your own revenge. Even if I had thought of this at the time, it would not have made a difference.

To avoid looking like a criminal, I stuck the tire iron in my pants, with my shirt covering the lip of the weapon that held it in place. To think, this device was made to fix broken cars and I would be using it to break someone’s face. At least it would be fixing something: my pride.

They were nowhere to be seen. Some of the lights in the park when the incident happened had gone off, so I stood alone in the shadows, waiting. This park was my soul, empty and dark. I must have waited 15 minutes, the future playing out in my head. I pictured how bad-ass I would look. But they were nowhere to be seen.

I returned to my car, empty-handed. At least in my eyes. I grasped the iron tightly, but there was no blood between my fingerprints, so in my eyes, I had nothing.

The tire iron, my two friends, and I. The four of us sitting in silence in my car. The anticipation of the sight of the boys was like my Christmas-eve dreams when I was eight about the presents under the tree the next morning. I would always rip that wrapping paper apart with such violence.

Nothing.

Then I saw them. The one who did the damage with a few of his friends. They were getting in a pick-up truck. I followed it slowly and from a distant, hoping they wouldn’t notice me. Miles upon miles they drove. At red-lights, I contemplated getting out of the car and pulling them out of theirs, watching the red pour out of their wounds as the traffic light turned green. Eventually, they stopped at a house. I parked a little while down the street to avoid suspicion. This was it. My time to shine.

One boy left the car and walked through the shadows of his front lawn. The truck sat there. The boy entered the house, and the truck left. I was torn like my lip between two options: follow the truck further, or knock on the boy’s door and then knock his teeth in with my tire iron. I waited too long and the truck got away. Attacking the boy at his door was a bad idea. Any kid who enjoys pick-up trucks and violence most likely received those attributes genetically. Those type of parents own guns and do not hesitate to use them. Still, I contemplated if getting shot was worth getting revenge. Taking a bullet to take back my spirits.

We drove back in silence.

That night, I stood in front of the mirror, staring at the white canyon. I gasped from time to time at the sharp pains. I stared at the crevice in my bottom gum, cracking all the way down to my lip, exposing the basement of a tooth. I just sat and stared and thought of everything I should have done.

Regret is like a punch in the teeth. And it was only after this night that I could use that simile. You learn something new every day.

My lip was swollen for the next week. The pain lessened every day, but still remained. When my mother asked what happened, I did not want to hear her lecture about how awful the world is and how my wounds were evidence that I needed to be more careful. I told her someone in the stands accidentally elbowed me in the face while celebrating a touch-down. I tried to tell myself that too.

There’s no moral to the story. No epiphanies. No amazing life-lessons for me to pass on to you. Nothing but a tragic event in my life.

The only lesson I can pass on to you is that this world is full of assholes and sometimes punch they punch you in the teeth for going to a different school.

I hope one day that is written on my tombstone. And then some high school kid will use that as his senior quote, or one day a president will use that quote in his inauguration speech.

But that won’t happen because I’ll never be a successful person. Just like I never succeeded in my dreams of smashing those boys to pieces. All I know about this world is that you can try and try to be a decent person, only to realize on some Friday night leaving a football game that it doesn’t make a difference at all because we’re surrounded by such awful human beings. Fuck them.

And that’s the story of the first and only time I’ve been punched in the face.

SL-2

2006-12-13T06:42:09Z

I don't stress
too much
trying
to impress
by keeping
my car's appearance
maintained.

Cos I know that
after dark
when our headlights
are on,
every car really
looks
the same.

All those
perfect paintjobs
and
radiating rims
never were
concerns of
mine.

I've always known
that at night
in my prime
I'm gonna shine
so bright,
baby,
shine.

_glamorama @ 2006-11-28T23:05:00

2006-11-29T06:05:07Z

SMAS

2006-10-22T08:30:20Z

That chair devoured my teenage body in Britain
My existence digested by the glowing screen
Every word that Bobby Smith sang you fit in
I looked into my life's clear crystal ball at fifteen

I always was absent from your dreams those nights
But I hoped and prayed that by some twist of fate
As “Arrived” glowed in red next to the number of my flight
At the terminal gates you would impatiently wait.

I’d wake up every morning in Europe without you
Three thousand long miles kept my journey alone
Tried to stay in my dreams all day just to escape truth
That we’d be just as distant even if I was home

Flights landed home safely and two years flew by
But I still feel that piercing and cold London air
Longing to arrive in those arms that I found that July
But my flight is delayed and it’s so fucking unfair.

MY THOUGHTS ON MY HERO: MEL GIBSON

2006-09-13T14:04:45Z

Now, I just wanted to take a moment to express my thoughts on the recent tragedy that stuck the world so tragically...

Yes, I'm speaking of my favorite movie star/person in the world and his DUI which I feel the media has completely blown out of proportions.

So, first off, I'd like to say I won't express what I feel about the anti-Semitism because to be honest... I feel nothing about that because I just plain don't like to think about Jewish people. But one aspect of this event which I would like to speak out about is the "Sugartits" incident. Everyone is talking down on Mel for calling a female officer on the scene by the name of "Sugartits." I myself am not sure if this was her actual name. I am hoping so, but I'm assuming it wasn't because I know "Sugartits" is more of a male name than female.

But listen, I think this is ridiculous because I see nothing wrong with Mel calling her by this name. I mean, if we as citizens don't have the freedom and liberty to call our authorities such name as "Sugartits", "Cinnaclit", "Saltrectum", or "KoolAidpusyy"... then you might as well volunteer me to take the place of those illegals we're kicking out because I don't wanna live in this tyranny!

Now, getting to my point. Every non-Mel-Gibson-groupie believes that what Mel said was completely out of line. I, however, have faith in all of our wonderful celebrities and trust deep down in my heart that there was a good reason for Mel calling this woman by the big S.T.

I would like to share with you all some possible situations that most likely occured leading Mel to say those infamous words at this atrocious event.

1. The so-called "officer" on the scene was not an actual police officer, but rather a very motivated bachelor party stripper who has chosen a life in which she stays in character 22 hours of the day in order to take her profession more seriously, and whom, unfortunately, rubs donuts all over her breasts and genitals each morning to make her character more authentic.

2. Earlier that morning, the officer had awoken from her slumber to realize that all of her bras were currently in the laundry. Knowing that it is not lady-like to freeball it, she decided to construct a makeshift bra out of two spare Sugar Ray albums lying around her bedroom. This was not only an effective bra but also killed two birds with one stone, so to speak, because the officer has chosen to never have a moment in her life where she is further than arms length from Sugar Ray's "In the Pursuit of Leisure" album.

3. Just as he was being pulled over, the Holy Spirit overtook Mr. Gibson and he began speaking in tongues. Unfortunately, the Holy Spirit really enjoys nice racks.

4. The female officer was born as a gingerbread woman, but chose a life of law enforcement rather than a life of holiday festivities.

5. Mel was merely calling out to what he thought was Sugar Ray Leonard and Tito Jackson playing table tennis in Malibu, but turned out to be just a homeless man masturbating to a Hanes billboard.

6. When asked if he had his license and registration, Mel replied "Sure Got It!" but it came out sounding a little different.

And finally...

7. The female officer just has really nice tits.

These situations are all completely probable and possible. I think as a nation we need to take all of our focus off of abortion and civil rights and Hurricanes and wars and gay marriage (well, maybe not gay marriage. we can never stop fighting the Good Fight against fornication), and focus on the good in celebrities despite some of their minor flaws. I mean, Mel Gibson is a great man. He is dedicated to the Lord. He raises blind children on Tuesdays. He organizes wheelchair football games every Kwanza. But everyone goes crazy because he says "Kike" thirteen or fourteen times (but Hey! Who doesn't?!).

We should all stand up for our celebrities and trust in them, despite what the one-sided media tells us. I mean, Mel is a Christian man. And when have Christians ever done something wrong?!

Thank you for your time, as always.
God bless.

In Jesus' love,

Daveo Mathias Olson

_glamorama @ 2006-09-10T20:13:00

2006-09-11T03:13:49Z

"He's a big teddy bear"

"A teddy bear with fangs, baby!"

Oh-ho! Monster! Throwin' back the metaphorical ball!

"What I didn't tell them was that I'm an avid cliff jumper"

"Ohhh! But do you like dogs?"

Ahahaha! Host, you truly are the master of hilarity!

_glamorama @ 2006-08-15T14:52:00

2006-08-15T21:56:30Z

The other day at work, I had been in the warm tent for our store's tent sale for quite some time, but not bothered by the temperature at all. I was walking through and I passed by a customer. A woman. She could tell I was an employee and asked me a brief question, which I answered, and continued walking. About 2 steps into my departure, she proclaimed, jokingly:

"Drink some water! It's hot in here, you look like you're burning up really bad in your face!"

As she chuckled, I responded with a smile, "Oh, it's not the heat. I always look like this."

To which she responded, "It looks really bad!"

I'm pretty sure she didn't hear what I said between those two statements.

_glamorama @ 2006-08-01T15:49:00

2006-08-01T22:52:09Z

Anjoo tagged me to list the 7 songs I'm into right now.

1. DANGERS! - Neo NeoNazis
2. Tom Waits - Green Grass
3. Simon Joyner - One For The Catholic Girls
4. Bleeding Through - Turns Cold To The Touch
5. El-P - Stepfather Factory
6. Ceremony - "EP"
7. Themselves - It's Them

I tag no one.

Cosmo LIVE!

2006-07-31T15:25:32Z

Check this shit out!!!

_glamorama @ 2006-07-28T15:05:00

2006-07-28T22:05:27Z

Goodbye, Charter Oak.
Hello, Damien.

_glamorama @ 2006-07-26T22:40:00

2006-07-27T05:41:03Z

I AM MY BIGGEST FAN

I will always wear my own shirts and sing my own anthem.
I will be at all of my games, wearing the colors of my team.
I laugh at my own jokes harder than you can imagine.
I hang my own art on my walls so it can be seen.

I watch my own movies and always cry at the end.
I always stop at the mirror to compliment my looks.
I feel loved by the self-addressed love letters I send.
I splatter my living room coffeetable top with all of my books.

I touch my own life with every poem that I write.
I stare for hours at every photo that my shutter snaps.
I have my own back in every goddamn fight.
I love every song I've ever written and can't choose a favorite track.

I poster all my walls with images of my emotionless face.
I root for myself, "the nice guy," with every love I cannot obtain.
I pat myself on the back anytime I feel that it's all a waste.
I hug myself until I'm blue anytime my heart is in pain.

I am my biggest fan; the only one who doesn't laugh, I'd say.
I don't think that I am the greatest , it is more like I know.
I don't bother with what the others think about how I fail everyday.
Because I know the only one who will be in my casket when it's closed.

_glamorama @ 2006-07-10T08:32:00

2006-07-10T15:32:18Z

Please Attend.

_glamorama @ 2006-07-04T12:00:00

2006-07-04T19:05:41Z

Billy Brown: There was nobody that I liked because girls stink. They stink. They're evil. And they're all bad. They're backstabbers, like you.

_glamorama @ 2006-06-29T00:39:00

2006-06-29T07:40:40Z

I saw Radiohead on Tuesday...

Probably the best show I've ever been to, right next to Sigur Ros.

It was amazing. Only 20 feet from the stage, with a very tame crowd.

Oh god.

There were alot of songs I wanted to hear that they didn't play... but then again, it's Radiohead... they can't play a set of 45 songs... So I'm still content.

Wow, oh, wow.

I <3 Racism

2006-06-26T00:56:42Z

I have a video from last night's show:
http://www.youtube.com/profile?user=daveoishot

Knotts Berry Farm- 4/12/06

2006-04-13T07:50:27Z

America!

Prison of Water

Breakin' Rules!

Bobby worships Idols

He SuckedaDick

DEATH FUCKING METAL!!!

Even skeletons need a blow

We Four Kings [are fucking rich]

Dont know.

With my second favorite Snoop

"I've got the angles!"

Camp Snoopy

Word Search

Rocky 4

Meatwad in the Hizzy

Wanna lick?

I love you, _____

Montezooma's Revenge!!!

SO SO SO FUN.

I love my friends.

_glamorama @ 2006-03-21T21:59:00

2006-03-22T06:00:15Z

On the evening of Saturday, March 18 / morning of Sunday, March 19, at approximately 1:00 am, a few good friends of mine spotted a vehicle outside of Smart City Grinds on Azusa Ave.

Apparently, this vehicle was intelligent enough to have an opinion, and ignorant enough to shout it outloud.

Then, we realized there was a man inside, apparently this God-sent vehicle's slave driver.

Extremely proud to be in the presence of such an intelligent and courageous vehicle, spreading the message of GOD HATES FAGGOTS...

We decided to take some pictures.

Homosexuality kills 45000 every year, eh?

Well, we like to live dangerously!!!

Jerome and Eric cannot resist my manly chest. Looks like only 44998 to go...

What? Jerimy is a certified examiner for prostate cancer... and you can never be too safe these days.

Anthony mounting me while I smash Matt who is wrecking Eric while he gives dome to Sam who is getting rammed by Booch who loves it up the ass from Bobby's huge cock, which is so long, it's poking out Anthony's asshole on the other end.

With more photos left on our disposable camera, we wasted them as soon as possible to hurry and get the other glorious photos developed.

Yeah, they wasted some.

Then the rest were moments captured while getting LOST!!!

Mathias and I watching Lost. Yes, I have an erection, due to John Locke's sheer brilliance.

Joshua the Moshua came along for the ride.

And I wished I was as much of a hunter-gatherer as John Locke. But I'm not.

What an amazing weekend.