Today was supposed to be a beach day. A Nude Beach day. I haven't been over to Black's Beach in nigh 6 years, so I was looking forward to a day of sun and cocks. Well, the day turned out to be sweat sock gray over by the beaches, so naturally that plan landed in the shitter feet-first. No sunny beach, no swinging dick.

I ended up at Balboa Park for a little sun with a couple of friends, Jamie and Anggas. Those of you who have experienced my fish-belly white skin tone might agree I need a little vitamin D in the same way a diabetic might have a hankering for a little insulin.

We laid, we sunned. We consumed double cheeseburgers with a side of fries. A little while later the Velcro fly on my board shorts stopped making threatening noises, so we decided it was time for a little Frisbee action. About 20 minutes passed in which we futilely tried to teach Anggas how to throw a Frisbee to no avail. I'm not the Miracle Worker here, and Anggas ain't no Helen Keller.

One particular throw was caught by a gust and sailed over my head, landing some distance behind me. Unbeknownst to me, a very small child had toddled over from her parents' blanket and made a beeline for my Frisbee. The little "Cindy Lou Who" couldn't have been more than 2. Barely walking, still in diapers. The Frisbee lay on the ground between us, like some friggin' obelisk from space. She moved first.

Squatting down, she lifted my Frisbee with both hands, looked up at me and grinned. Normally I would calmly take my belonging back and leave as I don't deal with children too well, but today I decided to give the little gremlin a chance. Thinking she was going to hand it over, I stepped forward as she instead wound up and tossed it behind her in the exact opposite direction from me. My mouth got away from me at this point. She looked up at me as I looked down at her and said to this two-year-old, "bitch."

It's been a little while since I posted a new entry and for no good reason, so I'll begin flogging myself shortly. Today's lecture has a little narrower focus and may or may not mean anything to you unless you're a sci-fi junkie like yours truly. I've held it in long enough, and I gotta say it: H.P. Lovecraft is a fucking idiot.

I know what you're thinking: "oh, but he's a master writer! Lovecraft gave us the Cathulutlhluthulu mythos!" Bunk! Bunk I say!

A fit of the crazies stole over me a couple months back, and I picked up the collection of "best" stories by Lovecraft. Dutiful son that I am regarding sci-fi, I decided it was time to crack open one of good ole H.P.'s numerous stories I'd been hearing so much about from the pimple squad.

Good...God...

I started with Call of Cthululhuluhlulu, arguably one of Lovecraft's most well-known short stories about a skeptical man of science who discovers the existence of ancient hideous evil sleeping under the Pacific Ocean. A quick trip across the sea reveals some hideous Baroque monstrosity of a city risen from the deeps with something unspeakable inside. No one catches a glimpse of this creature except for one porter whose hair turns white and he refuses to speak of it. All in all, not too bad of a story, but immensely unsatisfying.

I considered the lack of any detail or events in Call of Catlulu a fluke, until I read more of Lovecraft's pale, underfed stories. So, I, being the beneficent man that I am, have supplied a handy reference list below that you may look up any time the inexplicable urge to blow the patina of dust off a Lovecraft story and indulge yourself in some of his wordy brain-novocain should occur. The basic Lovecraft short story layout follows:

1) Cultured man of science with hugely skeptical chip on his shoulder eschews any views or evidence contrary to his own belief system. A Republican, basically.

2) Cultured man (or CM from now on) inexplicably receives information by letter about some bizarre goings-on from fellow CM. CM 1 and 2 have never met, but for some reason begin a lengthy and cordial correspondence.

3) CM suddenly, for no reason, begins to agree with opinions held by CM 2, and begins research which invariably gets cross-referenced with the Necronomicon and nearly always leaves CM "chilled."

4) CM receives evidence of said bizarreness in the mail.

5) CM visits site of bizarreness, converses with toothless locals, finds some artifact or other evidence of strangeness, and is always "filled with horror." Artifact found will be inevitably described as "not of this earth" and "strange geometries."

6) Something calamitous happens. CM will never see what's occurring, only hearing "unspeakable" sounds.

7) CM leaves unscathed and now bears a lifelong sense of the heebie-jeebies, his evidence about the strange occurrence has vanished without explanation, and he happens upon a single aged individual who witnessed everything, but refuses to speak of it.

8) Somewhere in the story Lovecraft refers to the hired help as either a "nigger" or "chinaman," but always in a gentlemanly fashion.

9) Story ends with a single sentence in italics expressing the twist in the story that we'd all guessed 11 pages prior. Hoo-fucking-ray.

This entry has gone on far too long already, but please, PLEASE for the love of god, don't waste your time on another wheezy, uninteresting, non-descript, detail-less, pedantic, colorless, and dry work by friggin' H.P. Lovecraft.

Today I've learned a subtle, but important distinction:

Tired is driving your roomie's truck to a friend's house, moving some furniture, and then leaving after the work is done.

Exhausted is when the truck door refuses to unlock after repeatedly pressing the remote, and a friend wrestling it from you as you begin to pry it open with your fingernails to check the battery and being told you're using the remote device from your own car.

    My mind runs in strange circles at times. It's typically during a morning commute, a late night cruise on the freeway, or in the bathroom where I'm doing unspeakable things that my brain activates some heretofore unknown circuit path. Lo, a nugget of insight came unto me this misty morn:

    It's common knowledge that when someone dies their bladder and bowels release. Not the awful trickle of an overfull bladder, nor the impotent rage of a treacherous "shart". When you die, these nasties let go with authority. I'm not intentionally being gross, just bear with me.

    A few nights ago the second Matrix movie was on 'da toob'. It was the breathtaking climax where our heroine Trinity leaps through a skyscraper window in slow motion into empty air and takes a bullet to the boob just before Keanu snatches her out of the sky trailing a noisy cloud of frightened Volkswagens in his tempestuous wake. We've all seen it, nothing new here.

    Now consider this, if ye have the stones: Trinity died in Neo's arms wearing a skintight black vinyl catsuit. She died. Hence, poop.

    Bad is if you consider Neo was clinging tightly to her. Worse is when he resuscitates Trinity and she comes back to life only to find that she has shit herself.

    In a skintight black vinyl catsuit.

    Wait, it gets better.

    In the movie, the Matrix was a near-perfect computer-generated replica of real life. What happens in the Matrix is, essentially, real. The fun comes when Trinity gets unplugged from the Matrix, wakes up in her real, meat body, and finds she has shit herself yet again after being temporarily brain-dead.

    I've never been in that situation. I can't say for sure. But if I were to pass on and fill my pants, I'm reasonably certain that I would prefer to remain dead. Dying and waking up to a rapidly cooling load creeping into my intimate crevices is bad, but waking up twice to said load, and I'd probably run towards the nearest living thing and kill it.

    I think I need a hobby.