Sleepy Still

I'm always sleepy. I wish I was a gorilla juice head instead.

Young Beard

My beard is young. He doesn't know the bad things that can happen in the world quite yet. He still smiles at simple things, like the smell of laundry or an extreme close-up of a naked lady's butthole.

If that's not naiveté, I don't know what naiveté is.

What's naiveté?

Writing Tired

It's tough to be a writer sometimes. You run out of coffee, your pen breaks, you realize you've been masturbating for hours.

And sometimes you get tired. Being tired is to writing what being gay is to having sex with women. Meaning, things get confusing and it ends in tears and man-stained socks.

I'm tired right now. See what happens? None of this makes any sense. Why is Hillary Duff in this Bridgestone commercial? Pillow eggs.

Stealing The Ice Cream Cone Holder

I was getting ice cream earlier tonight at Cones in the West Village. They have tasty ice cream there, which means lots of different kinds of people like to go there... not just other balding Jewish guys with unconnected beards. No, Cones is not like Midtown Comics. Or the third stall in the bathroom of the Jersey terminal at Penn Station.

When you get something broad and mainstream and yet also great, you're often forced into interactions with people you'd rather not be forced into reactions with. Case in point, two blonde girls in their early 20s came into Cones about a minute or so after I got my ice cream. Skinny, tall, ectomorphish, obviously publicists.

That's cool. They can exist and do their thing and whatever. I don't discriminate. But as soon as I saw them come in, I started to eat my ice cream faster and faster. I knew something unpleasant was just around the corner.

As I quick-licked my dish full of Cones, I tried my hardest to tune out these two blonde girls; when they sampled four or five different flavors before deciding to share a tiny, one scoop ice cream, I focused elsewhere. When they whined about Cones' cash only policy, I stared hard at a poster in the corner of the room -- wow, that piece of cheese cake has a lot of cherries on top.

But then one of the girls obliviously grabbed an ice cream cone holder they keep on the counter and bring it back to her table, I lost it. I stood up right then and there and threw my remaining ice cream in the girl's face. Suddenly, ice cream started flying everywhere, from all the customers and employees. Soon we were all covered in ice cream and then we were knee deep and then neck deep in ice cream.

After hours of ice cream throwing, the chaos died down. The two girls were laying, face down, in a pool of melted pistachio gelato, their bodies cold and limp.

That's what happened.

The Real L Word

Have you guys checked out Showtime's "The Real L Word" yet? At first glance, it's a typical docudrama in the vein of "The Real Housewives of New York" and "The Hills;" you know, cute characters doing quasi interesting things, having relatively boring conversations.

The twist, of course, is that these cute, "real" characters are all lesbians. And cliched as it might seem, there's something eminently groundbreaking about depicting lesbians and lesbian relationships in quasi interesting but ultimately boring light.

The Valentine's Day episode of "The Real L Word," for example, was a patchwork of interesting and mundane, certain characters and storylines standing out more than others. But seeing ALL the couples enjoy their Valentine's Day was nice. The entire episode could've been seen as a hammy, overstated plea for legal gay marriage, sure -- "Hey, we're just like straight people! We have romantic Valentine's Days! We're not deviants!"

But for those of us who already agree that marriage should be equal for everyone, it was cool just for how uncommon the whole thing was. Seeing four or five lesbian couples just enjoying themselves was pretty great. It's not appointment TV, per se, but it's a reality show that actually has a lot to teach the uninitiated.

Also, boobs. Thanks Showtime!

Daily Letter To The People Reading My Email, June 25th, 2009

Another letter to my (maybe non-existent) cyber stalkers!

Hey dude;

I gotta roll in a sec. I'm actually expecting a pretty important email
later today. So do me a favor... DON'T READ MY FUCKING EMAIL ANYMORE!!

Seriously, though... if it comes, let me know. But respect that
boundary between us. You know, the one where we pretend that I don't
know that you read my emails? So like, send over a sign... like, have
me send myself an email on accident as if my blackberry is emailing
itself. That'd be cool. But make sure to copy and paste the Sprint
BBerry sig if you do that. Otherwise, I will know.

LOVE!

Lukas Kaiser

Daily Letter To The People Reading My Email, June 23rd, 2009

More letters to the dude (or dudes (or chick (or chicks!))) who may or may not be reading my email:

Wow, so Jon and Kate are getting divorced? Oh... hey there, as well.

Nothing really fresh in my email today, huh? Lotta band spam. You're not too interested in that stuff. You're less into music than into, say, reading other people's emails. That's more your "bag." If someone was to paint your portrait, the painting would be you, with your back to the viewer, looking at my emails. Right? RIGHT?!!!!!

It was a keylogger, wasn't it! You had one installed at that Frogurt/Internet Cafe place where I checked my email, once, like three years ago. Wow, you really soldier on. I would've given up already. I mean, doing something, day in, day out, that is entirely fruitless. It bares no fruit. Absolutely nothing. (War, huh! Good God Yall! heh... wait you don't listen to music, never mind)

So, what do you think about this Perez Hilton vs. Will.i.am thing?!

FUCK YOU. Stop reading my email.

I miss you.

Love Lukas Kaiser