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2:42 pm | 09 July 2004 | also known as

Cold thuggin'

Well, my darlings, nothing fantastic presents itself for reportage this fine Friday. Oh, sure, I'm getting threatened by my boss's landlord (who has creepy friends such as "Ron" telephone and say "Watch out, Claudia" all bad/Scream 2/IKWYDLS* which, i don't know about you, but the simple act of being at work sucks enough without thugs ringing up every few hours). Maybe this Ron character thinks he can intimidate me, but clearly he did not peep my LONG BEACH purse, sailory tattooed bulging forearm, or angry alcohol-deprived morning face through his binoculars, because if he had, he would so SURELY not be attempting to front. As Will Smith (with whom I share the auspicious birthday of September 25) once remarked, "You? Tryin' to flex on me? Don't be silly.** Getting jiggy with it. Na na na na, na na na."

Nutso

Yes, I nearly ate cement on my bike yesterday because I got all nutso and "I can ride it to the laundromat!" with 40 pounds of washables strapped to my back in a pack that looked like I had an adult human in a papoose. Then I tried to answer my cellphone. While riding. With the shit. Awesome.

Foolish, teenaged

Nightmonkey and his friend, the to-remain-forever-unaliased Kirk, are descending on the Southland in just over an hour's time, and it is with a pang that I realize the following: Eighteen-year-old boys' idea of a good time is not "Let's hang out with my old, weird sister." It is probably much closer to "Give me the car and your gas card so I can go scope out Olsengängers in Venice." This, then, is what I will do. The actual words "I don't need surfing lessons! I've seen so many how-to-surf shows on MTV, I'll be fine. I'm just gonna rent a board" escaped my brother's foolish, teenaged lips, and I must concede that boys of all ages learn only one way, and that is the hard way. Let's hope I send him home with limbs intact. I love the holy hell out of that kid.

Also very good looking

I love Fengi (the person) more than usual lately, for first threatening "I'm gonna get wild ass cracker on your ass" and then mocking poets whose pieces amount to "unlike all those vapid good looking poets I have something to say, yet I am also very good looking." Killer!

Hand me my Janus mask

The other fun-ness is that I have comments now. Let's see how long it takes me to get bored with them, as me, myself and I become the only commenters! For the record, following is a list of alter egos, aliases, characters, and AKAs that I have used or currently employ, in case I decide to post as someone else. Someone else who is also, uh, me. clm.

Claudia Sherman

Claude le Monde

Charlotte Hyde (bar name, for creepy boys)

Sumptuous Claude "The Patella" Mahoney, champion boxer

Pvt. Jane Black, specialist

Bianca Heferweissen, German supermodel

Claudine Perturbateuse, Situationist

Deputy Sheriff Clod Lamont, cowgirl

Rotunda Jones, homegirl

Espadrille Sundry, lounge singer

Delphine Sashay, Southern belle

Aidan Murphy-Brwyn, football hooligan

Brickbat Hucklebuck, boondock goober

Captain Cayenne "The Crimson Scimitar" Charmagne, Cajun Privateer***

*I Know What You Did Last Summer

**See also DMX's "Party Up," which gives us "First of all, you ain't rapped long enough to be fucking with me. You? You ain't strong enough. So whatever it is you're puffing on that's got you thinking that you're Superman--I got the Kryptonite. Should I smack you with my dick, or the mic?"

***Again, privateers beat pirates, hands (hooks?) down. How many times do I have to tell you?


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