Archive for the ‘Peter Pace’ Category

of all I know.

Spent the afternoon drinking with my best friend. A fine Saturday. I don’t know where my girlfriend is. Toto’s Hydra is an amazing record but the bottom sucks. I hear the mastering engineer on the new Metallica asked not to be credited.

The guy he hired to replace me, a man we all thought was a ringer, ended up nearly burying the business. A liar and a thief. Watch for me in dark alleys you prick. Terry.

You really can’t trust anybody. Well, I trust my Mother and Father, Sister, My Friend and my Girlfriend. Certain other people I’ve known for decades. Cats.

“you can’t trust anyone, trust me I have” -Agnes Gooch

All women have what I think of as a pooch. Unless they’re bodybuilders or prepubescent gymnasts. It’s the lower abdomen. Below the button. I spent time with a gorgeous woman who named her pooch “Gracie”. I adored her for that, among other things.

He’s a whackjob, my old boss and best goddamn friend. Within the last week or so he’s had to deal with his ex-wife crashing into the front of his house and turning other women away as a result. Someday he’ll let me write his book.

Crazy as a shithouse rat and one of the finest people I know. Showed me his guns, been working out with El Muerte. Ha!

So anyway, it’s been cold here in LA. It’s always weird when the sun is that low and still fat in the sky. Making heat in winter.

Not long ago I sought to impugn the character of my ex fiance’s new man by labeling him a giant vagina. I apologize for that. I’ve never met him. I imagine he’s a man of character and integrity because my ex is whip smart and has remarkable amounts of honesty and integrity. She has high standards.

Sorry about that.

I’ve been thinking a lot about canned peas lately. Nothing better than butter, salt, a little pepper, peas and the taste of the can. They should set it up so you can nuke it just like that. The way soup is these days. Peas or beans in a nukable container. Hot Pineapple anyone?

What else did I want to say.

The cats are golden. They make me happy because they can. Otherwise they’re horrible beasts that crap and pee everywhere. I put up with them because they are soft, furry and hysterically funny.

Here’s the the thing. They wear hats. Sombreros, porkpies and stupid red cowboy hats. Everyday I leave the house, only to return to a fashion show. It confuses me so I can’t really talk about it. Put yourself in my shoes. Walk in the door. Spotlight on a disco ball. The dignity of your felines compromised by the cheap and tawdry costumes.

A nightmare of pageantry.

It really is a bit much.

Nobody knows the trouble………….

Drinks for my friends.