The Passenger

one cook to rule them all


the hateful dish bin inspires madness and sorrow in the roughest of men


"i’m telling you, my penis can grow to this size and no larger. fact."


krispy kreme makes me krispy kreme in me krispy jeans. arrr


the arts-and-crap store: suitable mostly for lonely old ladies bent on scrapbooking the pain away


night falls outside borders. in our future lay vehicles honking wildly and loose women commenting from fast cars on our sexiness

A flip of the coin

Pardon Our Process

the nausea comes over me still.

when i’m leaning over the sink.
as i sit down in my room typing nonsense.
and drawing pictures of nothing, and nobody.

it washes over me, threatening to come spewing out.
but it doesn’t. and i keep doing what i’m doing.
it comes out my fingers, it comes out my throat.
it spreads like a virus into my computer,
smears like mucous onto the pages of tiny notebooks.
it finds its way around, here and there. everywhere



i’m really excited about this new project. trying to learn about where i come from; stuff you can’t find in books. things other people may not have related yet. maybe these are secret thoughts nobody has the guts to think anymore. things like, oh i don’t know. you know.

yadda yadda

Seven years in Ogygia

it's monday morning; yesterday was my day off. and a fine day off it was, though there's very little of it i'm able to remember at the moment. one can still find traces of the day's activities in my hair, my breath, my shirt. expired time lingers like old spider webs in the corners of the ceiling.

i've been drinking coffee and alcohol all day, smoking all day. sometimes i wonder if subconsciously i'm adopting the writer's lifestyle, disregarding entirely such trivialities as making sense in conversation or actually producing work for others to read (rambling blogs don't count). i'm lucky at least to have other similarly dysfunctional creative types around as company. this way i know i'm not crazy.

did we go to georgia today? i think we did. poor waitress.

adam: "the difference between our parents and us is that one day we're gonna have to deal with our kids seeing our myspaces."
bobby: "i feel worse for the kids. they're going to have to deal with pictures of their myspace-slut of a mother all over the internet. sad little bastards."

lately i've run back into the arms of an old lover (jean-paul sartre). haruki murakami waits in our apartment, sitting alone at the dinner table as our food gets cold. don't wait up for me.









adam: "i'd say it takes about a half-hour to get there."
charlie: "no way, man. it's definitely closer to 40 minutes."
bobby: "what you fail to realize, charlie, is that we operate on 80-minute hours."