Hollywood part 1

True dat.



Fuck the Joker, look at the cut on homeboy's head!



"You got any tips for me?" Get a real job.



Hand stitched.



Polar Bear Club. Face melters.





So I went to a punk rock show... Fuck you.



jailbait.



my dude right here.



What up tho... Told you I'd put you up.



The new age Zach De la Rocha.



This place was trill.



Moshpits. Really? Were still doin that?



This kid was hyped the fuck up. I remember him being the only one dancin around. reminded me of that scene in "Nick and Norah's Infinite playlist" where the little asian kid is all hype on the dance floor dolo breakdancin for that band "R U Randy" or whatever. Don't judge me. I'm a sucker for teen angst..



yeaaaaahhhh...



New fam.



Over it.



I'm about 90% sure these girls never went into the show. Just col' lampin...



This picture speaks volumes.



cool goat Anthrax guy.



If you got a beard, you're cool with me.



Thicky thickerson stage right. That was an accidental photo, but then i noticed that ol' girl was workin with some thighs but i couldn't flip it in time to peep the tail... Next time, I won't miss.



Life.





Iceberg... I think that's what he told me his name was. Peep stage left tho, homegirl's arm is livin large.



Just creeped on these cats mashin the streets with what i presume to be stolen carved pumpkins. They thought I was paparazzi, Told 'em to kick back, I was on the same team.



They put me on as an honorary star for my visit. You know what it is.



Cool cats. I tried to convince em I could bust a kickflip first try. Yeah right. By this point I had to have crushed 12 heinekens...



Walked into this bar for a piss. The bathroom was down 2 flights of stairs, when i came back up, my man was doin a serious MJ impression.



One for the money.



Quietly, this bird was kinda fly.

The rest of the pictures are cued up and loading into photobucket. If I get the inspiration to do so, I'll hit you off with another set of flicks this afternoon.

As for the rest of the night, Went to the divest bar we could find, vodka tonics and jager?? Fuck. Rolled out as the boys from Polar Bear Club were rollin in. Homie gave me the "where you goin" look, but I ain't no groupie, so we were out.

Part 2 later.

The Irony of Dying on Your Birthday:

And yes, that is indeed the title to a song by a poppy-screamo-metal band that I have spent WAY TOO MUCH time listening to over the last 2 weeks.

Oh yeah, AHEM! I'm back. Or something that might sort of resemble being "back".

God, this blog took a serious turn for the worse over the last month or so.

Let me say this, for those that are wondering, Yes, I am indeed still alive. No, I was not struggling with any form of writer's block. What I have been dealing with is more than I would wish on my most hated foe.

So here it goes, the story, the way I see it, and the way I want it told. To any and all who have played a part in this, I apologize for involving you in my mess. There I go again, apologizing. Fuck. I feel like Larry David over here.

Friday, September 11, 2009 (what an interesting day to choose to change my life ha!) I went to visit the tattoo shop. Not to get a tattoo, mind you, not at all. I went there to visit with my cousin, bullshit a little, and most importantly, I wanted to get some of that fancy carbon paper they use to transfer the drawing to the skin. I had this genius plan that it would work on canvas, and I had this pretty rad picture I drew sitting on my desk at home, just waiting to be painted.

So there I sit, chowin down pain killers like m&m's to comfort myself from the sense of loneliness and destitude that I have been wallowing in for the last several weeks when all of a sudden, I get the genius idea that I'm gonna get a new tattoo. At this point, I have no fucking clue what this tattoo will be, where it will go, or why I will get it, but nonetheless, I'm getting it.

I settle on the phrase "The Truth Shall Set You Free" over my "heart" or what, at that point, was left of it. So after the hustle of "how much" and alladat, I'm sittin in the chair, not feeling a thing, as I have been, for the last year or so, and 45 minutes later, I get up, go home, and take a look at my genius new insignia. For the record, I forgot the carbon paper all together, and couldn't for one second tell you what conversations I had, and with whom, or what, if anything, those conversations were about.

I go to sleep, alone, as I have been for the last month or so with the aid of my little yellow femme fatales. And no, I'm not talkin about petite asian masseuses, I'm talkin about these stupid little pills I've been force feeding myself to cover up the scars of emotional trauma under the guise of a fairly severe back injury I suffered back in high school.

Sleep is an excellent thing. So excellent, in fact, that I decided I was going to sleep the entire weekend away. Every time I woke up, I just took another handful and passed right the fuck back out. This went on until Sunday Morning...

The bottle is empty.

What will I do now?

That, my dear friends and followers, is when it hit me. I go to the bathroom, take a shower, and read the new ink permanently tattooed into my skin. The shit hit me like a stone Mason's hammer whilst building the Temple of Solomon (sorry, I watched a SHIT LOAD of History Channel in the numerous days to come).

"The Truth Shall Set You Free".

What a fuckin' concept.

The assessment of my life came at the urging from my mother. "You've been locked up sleeping for 40 hours straight, the fuck's your problem?"

And there it is folks.

**Time to get Honest**

I have a severe addiction to pain killers. One that ultimately had planned on sending me to an early grave, that, by this point in my life (Sunday night, not Today), didn't seem so bad.

What the Fuck? Awwwwww Hell Nah. I ain't goin out like that.

Get Real here.

So, Sunday Night I decided to clean up the act and cut the bullshit.

Despite the urging's of family members and other close confidants I said FUCK REHAB.

I am a grown ass man with the strength and will power to get thru ANYTHING.

The next Nine days of my life would prove to be the most difficult days I have ever been thru, or, for that matter, may EVER go thru.

I will not be specific in dosage amounts for sake of comparison to you or your friend's pill habits, suffice it to say, there was a LOT.

I'll do you a favor now and spare you the details of what was set to transpire, but this person I have been and was slowly turning into permanently was going to get the fuck gone, and your boy would be standing on his soapbox triumphant once again.

I can do this...

Whew.

Here I stand today, after 9 days of an agonizing detox coupled with the thrill of taking a loss in the realm of love, proving to myself, first and foremost, that I am capable of functioning without the use of those little crutches.

I guess that just about sums it up.

In retrospect, maybe this post should have been called Sunday Morning? Eh?

Bump that. Young Ollie in the building, and bout to shit all over the internets as soon as I get my strength back.

Thank you.

P.S. There is no chance I would have gotten thru this without the help of a few select individuals. No name droppin' tho, just know, without you, shit wouldn't have happened. LOVE.

I'm almost Back...

-Kevin M. Smith.

Michael Jackson, Haunting From the Grave

Yo, peep this wild shit. Maybe it's just shadows, but nonetheless, it's "thrilling"...



-Olls

Yo, On Some Real Shit...

Michael Michael Michael you my nigggggaaaaahhhhhh...



Ron Artest, you a fool for this one.

-Ollie

I'm Bored

The only thing anyone in the world seems to care about is the death of Michael Jackson.

I know I said I wouldn't be discussing it anymore but some new stuff has come to light.

People are commiting suicide over this "tragedy". Seriously. TMZ or some other stupid website reported that there have been at least 12 confirmed deaths by suicide since the king of pop bit the dust.

What the hell people?

Also, there is supposed to be an open casket viewing of the body, OPEN TO THE PUBLIC on Friday July 3rd, 2009.

At least I got that going for me.

-Olls

Michael Jackson Died:

My man Bill (what up Bill?), loyal BAMA reader #9 (I think) out in Colorado hit me with an e-mail stating his disappointment with the lack of content concerning the tragic death of Michael Jackson...

In all seriousness, I had planned on just moving forward and letting the rest of the world pine over this "loss" and never saying a word about it.

However, since I was specifically asked for my take on the situation, here are my sentiments regarding the untimely death of Michael Jackson:

First of all, death sucks. No matter who has died, someone is hurt by their passing. As a result, I will try and sugar coat this to spare feelings for the time being.

Suffice it to say that I was shocked. With Farrah Fawcett dying just hours before M.J. it didn't seem real to me.

With all of that said, I don't really care that Michael Jackson is dead.

I didn't look up to him.

He wasn't a big influence on my life.

Sure, he gave us mad classics in his day, but in all honestly "his day" was well before I was old enough to care about what was/wasn't classic.

By the time I was old enough to concern myself with Michael Jackson, the only tangible things for me to associate with him were his wild ass antics:





***Side Note*** My homie Sherman that lives down south once told me about how he went to Neverland Ranch as a school field trip. Now I'm not saying Sherman got touched, but he is definitely a wierd cat and took the loss of MJ harder than the rest of us. HAHA.



So for me to sit here and say that I am going to miss him, or that I am saddened by his death in any way would be a lie.

I mean, in reality, I don't care becuase I'm a heartless bastard, but more importantly I don't care because it does not effect me personally AT ALL.

Everything good Michael had to offer us musically had already been recorded and released, so the loss of him as an "artist" is unrealistic. The cold truth of the matter is that he was an old man, past his prime, and the stigma of his legal battles would outshine him for the rest of his career.

Furthermore, I want to discuss the general public's reactions to this death.

There seems to be two accepted responses to the death of Michael Jackson.

1. "Fuck him. He was a child molesting sociopath and will be burning in hell."

OR...

2. "Michael was a huge influence on my life. The most important person ever. I don't know how I am going to live without Michael being alive."

Wah-Wah-Waaaaahhhh.

Both of those opinions are stupid and contrived.

#1. FACT: MJ never touched you or anyone you know. He was never convicted. Shit, in all seriousness, he honestly didn't see anything wrong with letting a child sleep in his bed. Now, that may be creepy, but it isn't technically illegal. I wouldn't let my kids sleep with MJ, but that doesn't mean I want him to burn in hell. He was a victim of circumstance. Dude had ZERO childhood. His father was an abusive lunatic. He seriously thought there was nothing wrong with hangin out with a chimpanzee and playing house/doctor with children. Dude was unstable to say the least, but I am not completely convinced that he was the monster that the extremists make him out to be. Don't get it twisted, I am not condoning ANY of Michael's escapades, just saying, for the sake of argument, maybe he wasn't as bad as people made him out to be.

#2. All these "Michael was such an inspiration in my life..." bullshitters. FUCK YOU.

To anyone under the age of say, I'ontknow, 25 (and thats being generous), that says Michael was the reason you were in show business and that you wouldn't be here without him and alladat bullshit, SHUT...THE...FUCK...UP. No one cares. Seriously.

And the white people. Punk rockers. folk singers. etc...



(Yeah I'm talking to/about you John Mayer. You fucking dork.)

you just sound dumb. MJ didn't do anything for you personally. He didn't care if you were alive or dead. Why the fuck do you feel so special or entitled?

What it all boils down to is this:

If you didn't know M.J. personally, you shouldn't be grieving his death. It makes you look like a dick.

Let's let the man die and remember the cool things he gave to us:

The moonwalk was fucking awesome and groudbreaking in it's day:



and these L.A. Gear's were the business. I bet they are fetching a pretty penny on ebay right now.



That is all I have to say regarding this topic and am now closing the vault. I hope that is sufficient.

-Ollie the Heartless