Mr. Chinaski’s children

The following is a work of fiction…Mostly.

“What’s the verdict?” Sienna asked as I put my seatbelt on.

“That guy? He’s queer as 3 dollar bill.”

“No way,” her deflated tone made me chuckle. I admired Sienna’s insanity about such things. We were always one conversation away from meeting someone new. Her boldness was inspiring. If the clerk at the liquor store had been straight, she would have gone inside and introduced herself.

“Believe me, you ain’t the first crazy white man I met.”

Sienna lit a cigarette and laughed in response. We drove to my parent’s house. It was still early and we had Tequila and German beer. Yum-a dum dum.

The intro to Iggy Pop’s Nightclubing runs a scrambled wave into my ear set. Into my delirium. And after watching the show Legion, everytime I listen to that song, I can’t help but think of the Shadow King.

Honestly, I can’t tell anymore, if what I’m doing would be considered art or just a junkie’s aversion to reality.

My 2nd story is just about dead in the water. I am close to finishing it but this process has been so God damn slow. The idea of writing witches and deranged entities who haunt tweakers as they floss the tile in their kitchen seemed fun, at first. It even seemed like something I could pull off after writing my first.

I have no idea what this is but I found it at ma’s house

It feels as if, most of this…whatever the fuck this is, has been just to keep the wolves at bay. And I’m starting to question the grotesqueness of my lackluster nature.

I was hyped about writing the next Twlight Zone. But with hand jobs. For some reason, grinding out another vowel has been…Hard? Yeah. That.

Life was okay. Inspite of it being another birthday.

Sienna and I spent the night yelling profanity from a park bench. It was nice. We smoked and just knocked off like a couple of misfits at a bullshit public school.

“Who are you waving at?”

“That woman by the river, down there. But I don’t think she can see me.”

“She’s not waving. She has the sun in her eyes. She’s using her hand as a visor.”

I turned to my right and set my beer down with care on the pavement. Sienna was up and walking toward the woman with sun in her eye.

“Where are you going?”

“She’s never gonna see me from way over there.”

I began to wonder if it was a mistake when Sienna stopped taking her Lithium.

It’s like E.T. but with handys

Cassie’s pale pink fingers, neatly packaged my meal. As she wrapped my food, I thought, ‘say something. Anything stupid!’

“Are you a supervisor?”


“Ah, that’s were the air of confidence is.”

Yeah I have no idea what that means either. When I finally decide to talk to a woman; that’s the horseshit I come up with?

My social skills have really taken a turn for the worse. It’s been a slow process recalibrating socially since my last break up. Also, it doesn’t help that I generally avoid most socializing situations like they were AIDS.

On a relatable subject I found this line in the book Hollywood by Charles Bukowski. The part about shutting off when people talk is a kick in the sack of reality.

The words in this pic belong to Charles Bukowski. Courtesy of his book Hollywood.

Cassie and I made small talk. Her placid green eyes lingered as I sat down for lunch. I noticed there were alot of guys at the restaurant.

I thought ‘how much of this sausage fest’ is on account of Cassie’s playful, attractive nature?

Sparkly bright shit has been used to sell crap since the beginning of time. That’s not my gripe.

Factually, I’m not even sure what I’m saying would be considered a gripe.

I worked as a bail bondsman for about 9 months and I remember the owner always hiring pretty girls. Mostly ex strippers. There’s alot of fuckery involved in being one of the only men working in all female environment. And not the good type of fuckery.

Writer’s block with my 2nd sci fi horror story was getting better. I have figured out a way to double my productivity. I hired an assistant to help submit my work while I write. I agree that sounds pretentious but hear me out first…I feel you judging me😙

I couldn’t stop thinking that I should be submitting work. Always. And at the same time, I also worried that I wasn’t writing enough. And nothing was getting done.

“Well, I think you should allow yourself to meet someone new,” my bff from work Fran said in her motherly tone.

“Francine, it’s just work…I don’t even…”

“But you never know J.” She was so optimistic and cheery. I couldn’t argue.

I think Francine was just tired of seeing me walk around with heartbreak on my shoulders. I knew better than to argue with a woman. Besides, Francine had a point. Walking around with misery in the lungs doesn’t do much good for anyone.

“Maybe you’re right Fran.”

I read some of Tim Ferriss’ book the 4hour work week and he suggested hiring someone to do the shit you don’t necessarily have the time or the skill for. To paraphrase, he said why waste time achieving mediocrity at a skill when you can achieve greatness with what you’re good at. So I hired a friend to do the shit that makes me yawn. It’s better than hiring a stranger from Craigslist.

The story I stopped working on, or as I call it, ‘the pain in my entire ass,’ has many themes. One of it’s themes comes from dating a feminist, who once indoctrinated me with the propaganda premise, “…if women ruled the world, there would be no wars.”

“You are so right.”

Someone get me a time machine so I can Michael J Fox the stupid out my ears.

For about a month I was worried about using the real name of Valerie Solanas. But my story’s main concept is based on an alternate version of Solanas and Warhol’s history.

The following is a quote from one of the more entertaining books I’ve read. The SCUM Manifesto by Valerie Solanas. It’s worth a read, regardless if you are a feminist or not.

“…the male is, nonetheless, obsessed with screwing; he’ll swim a river of snot, wade nostril-deep through a mile of vomit, if he thinks there’ll be a friendly pussy awaiting him. He’ll screw a woman he despises, any snaggle-toothed hag, and, further, pay for the opportunity.”


Labor day always makes me think of the term manual labor. And that makes me think of the name Manuel. Which is really just a vowel change away from Manual.

“…and you’re like, okay Hemingway, I see what you’re saying.”-Tom Segura

Tom Segura’s bit called, “Pregnant while Mexican ” is one of the funniest things I’ve heard.

I’ve only read 43 pages and the book “Three Women,” by Lisa Taddeo is already giving me nightmares.

My crush has soft brown hair, soft eyes, and pouty Germanic lips. Suckable. Her long slender frame reminds means I almost have to stand on my toes to kiss her. I pull her beside me. Her clothes are contagious to she.

I been watching alot of the series, “my crazy ex” on Tubi. I fucks with it heavy.

The reenactments are hysterical. This one episodes’ climax ended with this one gal being caught living on this dudes’ roof. She had been there for the entire month they dated.

The guy figures out she’s been up there when one day he stumbles across her tent on the roof of his apartment complex. She came out of the shadows lookin’ like a goblin. With leaves in her matted hair and soot poorly painted on her face. Man oh man that one had me fucked up! For real son.

“An uncle Juan.”

My buddy Kevin explained to me one day, “an Uncle Juan is a Mexican version of black folks’ Uncle Tom.”

It’s a phrase he coined for Mesicans who think they are white. Bleaching your hair doesn’t make you white cabrona.

Continue reading