Having a kink in your neck is the exact opposite of being an owl. And I am the King of neck kinks. Also the Queen of cold sores. Those two shit-ass things I deal with chronically. If it's not one, then the other; monthly. Like a woman. Don't mess with me today, I am on my neck kink.

People whisper, wondering what's up with Jeremy, why is he walking like Frankenstein, turning his whole body to look at something.

In Walgreens a woman happened down to the end of an aisle and her eyes startled wide, flashed at me. I was twisting and stretching, trying to seperate the pinched nerve, the muscle, from the knobby bones of my spine. My arms were up and behind me, my bottom jaw was jutting out, jarred out of alignment. She probably thought I was turning into a werewolf.

Don't worry ma'am, it's just that time of the month again.

So since Christian was throwing around comment engines I hollered, "Hey, throw me one of those bitches," in the hope that it would ingnite a comment engine fire in this little ring of blogs we have.

I'm tired of starting a conversation, "Did you know that- well wait, did you read my blog?" So now, everyone can tell me how much they love Wildboyz too. And if everyone follows suit, I can tell Anthony his attention to political detail flirts with frightening. I can tell Ryan to actually post something. I can leave cutesy comments on Adam's entries like a mother slipping a note into her kid's sack lunch.

Anyhoo, it's all about opening up the communication here. If even a little bit. I hope it catches on.

I miss all my friends.

We went to Stew Leonard's today. You may have seen it on Ripley's Believe It...Or Not., believe it or not. I happen to NOT believe it, since it's just a grocery store with dancing, singing animatronic milk cartons and shit, but none-the-less it is known the world over.

Christian and his goddam coffee led me into the Coffee Cul-De-Sac. It was here, that the putrid scent of death permeated my nostrils. I don't know if it was a hybrid of some french hazelnut thing, the scented candles on an end cap, and the wiry pit hair of the black guy stocking the milk. It could have been the Kenyan vanilla roast, the sourdough rising in the bakery and all the milling shoppers' stinky assholes combined. Whatever smell it was, my nostrils are now saturated with it, and every dozen breaths or so, the dirt/coffee/shit smell fills my nose again...

and I want to wretch all over my own face to make it go away.

Quentin Tarrantino loves Uma Thurman's feet. And Juliette Lewis'. Probably has a thing for female feet in general, which is a fetish I am not ashamed to be afflicted with as well. The cutaways of Uma's toes, the close-ups of her knobby footsies as she wills them awake in the first volume, the eyeball popping under her big toe in volume two. She wears open-toed sandals with her wedding dress. Uma is a tall drink of water, her arms and legs, the features of her face, her hair; her fingers and toes are all slightly exaggerated. She's long and wispy, she stands like a stretched shadow. She's gorgeous. And I believe every wince of pain, every huff of breath, every tear that kicks down her face. I can't think of another actress who could have pulled The Bride off the way Uma did, and I wouldn't have said that beforehand. I think Quentin Tarrantion is a little bit smitten with Uma Thurman. And after Kill Bill Vol. 2, I join him there as well.

My attention to Feetail aside, there is nothing I can say about the film that hasn't been said. The first one was Samurai. The Second was Spaghetti western. The first one was steeped with exploitative violence. The second was fueled by maternal instinct. The first was 96% build-up. The second, was what all the fuss was about.

If they had been cut together as one, I would have loved the film as a dual-genre epic. Separate, Volume 1 was fun; but Volume 2., was why I go to the movies. Volume 2., was funderful.

And that's not a mix of fun and wonderful.

That's Fucking Wonderful.

Yo yo. Listen up. Later this year, Duncan, will release a $400 yo-yo.

A forged-magnesium-alloy, ultralong-spinning yo-yo with state-of-the-art axle and bearing technology. "Its balance is ensured with precision tooling to micrometer tolerances by a computer-controlled lathe." It will be called, The Freehand Mg.

Rosehill, Virginia. On Easter Sunday one of them holier than thou idiot ministers who drink strychnine and dance with handfuls of vipers was bitten by a rattlesnake during the morning service. He refused medical treatment, instead relying on the Lord to protect him. Well he died.

Happy Easter, dead minister's family.

This guy points at me, right at my chest in Stop&Shop, some middle-aged guy pushing a month's worth of groceries. He says, "You and I are the only people who have the balls to wear that shirt."

My shirt says...

"Outside of a dog, a book is man's best friend. Inside of a dog, it's too dark to read." --Groucho Marx.

A great quote, but requiring very little ball juice. I bring my balls along when I wear the shirt that has a soldier, eyes ablaze, rifle muzzle flaming. It says, "I'd rather be killing terrorists."

In the footage of when Jimmy Carter visited Three Mile Island, him and everybody else -his caravan and some scientist people- they're all wearing suits or business skirts, and ties. And these big bright pluffy yellow bag-booties on their feet. Smiling and shuffling around the control room. Like, eleven people. Sunday best. Walking around with big banana bags on their feet. Electric banana.

And then there's one guy just wearing loafers.

Now, there had to be the moment, in some static-free room or something, when they all bent over, or sat down to pull on their yellow footies. What was this guy doing? The President of the United States had to put on the yellow bag-shoes, or someone put them on him for him.

-Hey maybe it was the dude. Maybe he gave up the safety of his own feet for the President.

I just don't know. All I know is that downstairs there's this blob of melting uranium, and the president, is scooting around upstairs. With his suit on, and his tie on, and his smile and his huge lemon feet on. And everyone else has followed suit.

Except this one guy just wearing loafers.

the marlins shut the expos out three straight games this week. Thirty straight scoreless innings until the Braves beat them yesterday. Beat em again today, 4-1.

at present the bravos are in second place in the NL east with a 6-5 record. Second to... the marlins.

Really revel at nature, with me for a minute here people. Take a second right now, to think about what a walrus really looks like. Go find a picture real quick if you'd like. (Christian, you are exempt.)

what can that fat glurby thing possibly do with those humongous tusks? what a truly fucking awesome beast!

do yourself a favor and picture what a porcupine really looks like.

the bottom half is a cuddly bear creature. Something you could pet and name. The top is a ridiculous crop of comically-long devastating face piercing needles. what a magnificent, beautiful thing the porcupine is.

...all creatures. great and small ya'll.

I hate carrying big heavy trays of other people's food. I hate cleaning it up after they've eaten half of it. I hate rushing around and busting my ass for a place that could be swallowed up by a sinkhole for all I care. I hate training. I hate being the guy in the way. I hate being the guy who doesn't know anything. I hate wasting valuable thought on wondering how I'll fare tomorrow, in the place I don't want to be. I don't hate The Brewhouse. I don't hate the people. I just hate that I have to be a part of it all.