Summer Lovin' & Circuit City

I'm ready for summer! Can't wait to invite my buddies over so we can party in an inflatable pool with my hi-fi and blender nearby.

Hard at Work

Here I am working on my new novel. So far, it's called "Loomis Rides the Bus." It's going to be awesome. Nineteen-year-old Loomis lives with his beloved grandmother who dies at the beginning ... a well crafted epic on finding your way, friendships, love, MySpace, Portland history, and a mall shooting. As you can tell, it's going to require tons of concentration and hard work.

Dying from Greenery

At least I don't have scurvy. I have all my teeth. It’s my leg that’s bothering me. It’s been itching for two weeks straight, twenty-four-seven.

I have a full blown case of poison oaky. It’s now in a state of protruding red bumps and nerve endings screaming for a skin transplant. At times, it feels as if my leg hairs are bleeding, but come to find out, it's not blood. It's just yellow leakage from lesions that are apparently storing a large supply of poisonous sap.

You know what? It itches like hell. You're probably wondering how I contracted it. Let's just say I was doing some neighborly-community-service chores without a jumpsuit and was probably a little more adventuresome than I needed to be. It was New Year's Day. Evidently, I was rolling around in a ditch while my Linnton Portland neighbors removed one-hundred-year-old ivy from a one-hundred-year-old cement wall.

I don't know what to say other than poison oaky is some nasty shit. First of all, by the time you know something is up inside your skin, it's too late. You don't realize you're dying until after you've been unbeknowingly scratching yourself like crazy while watching TV or eating popcorn or whatever. It's sneaky as hell. I wouldn't trust it ever. I tell you what: it's crazy shit.

From what I gather, I just need to let the red pustules run their course and let this botanical disease continue to course through my veins until I arrange for a transfusion or until my leg turns black and falls off.

People close to me think I might have something more sinister which might require amputation. Personally, I was thinking about finding an ebola specialist. I don't know. I suppose I can wait until I start losing more muscle mass. Not sure, but I do know I'm a survivor and I plan to keep it that way.

Weddings and Me as a Cake

I have friends. But you know what's exciting about that? It's like this: my two friends are getting all married to each other. They're foodies. And therefore it only makes sense that I let them know about the "Self Cake." Or "My Size Cake." Or "I'm So Excited About My Special Day that I Want Everyone to Eat a Likeness of Me" Cake. Or "Oprah Cake." Anywho, I'm thinking of commissioning a wedding cake like the one in the picture, only it would look more like me and less like an African American woman with a large bosom. So, why a Me Cake of Me and not the bride? Simple. Because I'm awesome. There's that, but also there's the little fact that my dear friends have announced to me that I'm their official chosen minister of vow administration responsible for closing the deal. And as the responsible party in the center of this beautiful storm, I'm going to propose that we all arrange for a Me Cake sitting in the back of some awesome bakery with human size ovens. Yep. It's the perfect touch. The cake would look just like me, head to toe. It would be awesome. Me as a cake! It really doesn't get any better than that. I would taste fantastic. My spleen would be particularly scrumptious, with my esophagus a close second.