Saturday, May 19, 1990
5-19-90 Phantom Dog Leap (The night I decided to crash Andrea Enthal's studio at KPFK)
Friday, May 18, 1990
Saturday, May 5, 1990
'90s Nutjob Personal Ad Response (unsubmitted, of course)
Biker Personal (1990-ish)
Friday, May 4, 1990
More tasteless stoned, drunken personal ad ramblings (this is why you're single, dude)
Hey, you sweet little thing. I'm Andrew. And I like a big ass-kickin' woman. No shit. I really dig a broad with balls. And a hairy ass. Yeah, right. Sow-ree. I hope youz ain't disgusted by now.
Ow righty, hey, lemme ask you a quessshun. What's yer name? I think you are- so beautiful. Look, no! Look me in the eyes! Yes, yess, yes.
The police found a marijuana garden in the Malibu Hills. It took them two days to find it. No one was arrested, but they said it had an elaborate system of irrigation. What do the police plan to do with all that marijuana? Burn it.
"Downwind, we hope," said Jerry Dunphy.
Yeah, right. I hope I made my point. So what sort of irrigation system do you have?
I am Andrew. I said it before. I am a man. I reside in Downey. I stand approximately five foot nine inches tall. I weigh in at a sturdy one hundred and fifty seven pounds, subject to change with lifestyle. But I love to eat like a pig. So who don't?
I also like to drink like a fish. I have blond hair and sparkling green eyes. Except when they're glassy, or red, or closed, yah, yah, yah. I sport the Easy Rider, neo-biker sixties look, with a California transient musician twist. Yah, yah, yah.
So what have I left out? I am not a bum. I will treat you right. I will be as Frank as Anne. Or a Hoffy Hot Dog. They both plump when you cook them.
Hey?! Who's writing this monologue? You're killin' me. Ok, sorry bout that. The script was taken over by the Gremlins.
So, back to my ass-kickin' woman. She's gotta be tough. When we go out and get into fights with strangers in bars, I'd like a woman who can hold her own. Maybe help me out.
Yah. So I like romantic things like nature and moonlight. Or rocks. I go crazy over rocks. Oh, man. And slightly desert canyon passes that go through to small one-diner-towns called Bodfish, population who knows what (those horny country shits).
I love motorcycle ridin' and makin' out under a shady tree, on the top of a hill, with a view of Ernest Borgnine's backyard. We could run down into his meadow and go for cow rides. I know it is not as romantic as horse riding, however, Ernest only has cows.
Oh, we could go chicken or pig riding if you like, but I don't see the point. They usually die after you crush them to death. Ok, so that's cruel. We all make mistakes.
Hey, babe, I love you. You're the greatest.