Once I was walking down the hall in the office, back when Gooxanne still worked here. It was bizarre - I turned the corner down the hallway where the editors are, and it smelled like a bathroom! Like shit! Merde! Mierda! Horrid! Anyway, I walked into Gooxanne's office and, realizing the source of the foul odor, exclaimed, "Oh, this is where it's coming from." She turned bright red.

I am continuing to pass the gas today with the greatest vigor, and my effluvial activity has brought remembrances of you to the brain, wet and pungent. The brain has another brain, a secret brain within the brown. The Braun to Brain.





Well, Ed, it pains me to say this, but the Prozac Ed and the "natural" Ed
were two VERY different people. Prozac Ed was $ure of himself, dressed well
and seemed happier. "Natural" Ed was moody, dirty, and a vicious cunt at
times. Prozac Ed, I'm sure, was the one that made b00gynda-lation with
Gamammagazoobla. I'm surprised you don't remember the mirror. You carried it
around for about a week and kept looking into all the time, repeating
(loudly):
"You are FINE! You are FINE!"

You carried it around for about a week and kept looking into all the time, repeating (loudly):
"You are FINE!
You are
FINE!"

Destiny seemed to conspire with it by providing the ideal environment for great dreams of city, a small Florida town of shuffleboard courts and white-bread space bars; where high-school football games ignited traffic quagmires and the scourge of the local middle school wasn’t drugs but cinnamon toothpicks; a town — whose highest boast was as the setting for a country-fried B-movie featuring a painted-pink water-skiing elephant (named Bubbles) as its main attraction — called Mount Dora.

The story has an ambitious town mayor and cohorts desperate to avoid a by pass leaving them isolated and potentially insolvent. They resort to increasingly preposterous methods to save the day. One involves an elephant - an unwitting symbol of the whole movie project.

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The experimental googlometer entry:

Janet Jackson, what a day! Whew! I never thought in all my days that I would have had such a day. It started out when Mary Kate and Ashley Olsen invited me to play tennis with Britney Spears naked. Sure, I said, but let me call Anna Nicole Smith (who, predictably, was masturbating at a five-star restaurant in New York), Gray Davis (who declined, mumbling something about recalling Angelyne and George W. Bush), Avril Lavigne (who was creating some kind of Harry Potter futures market with Christina Aguilera; Justin Timberlake and Ann Coulter were there too, arguing naked about friendster, enemyster and warez), Jennifer Lopez (aka JLo, who kept talking about Saddam Hussein, relatedwwwhotornot.com, depression and wellbutrin, the Patriot Act and gay marriage. Apparently she has quite the queer eye and thinks a lot about gay marriages, especially with Gigli coming out) and Howard Dean (who is getting a little annoying - he's stuck on the subjects of weapons of mass destruction, Tony Blair, how to avoid SARS and celebrities nude. I posed them all a question: What does the Martha Stewart insider trading scandal have to do with the US unemployment rate, Miss Universe and terrorism taken into account? Well, the replies were flabbergasting, practically ending in a celebrity deathmatch! The topics! Pam Anderson nude, gay porn, David Beckham, metrosexuals, smallpox vaccinations, beta codes and on and on and on.... I'm getting tired just writing! It's like I have fibromyalgia! Or Chronic Fatigue Syndrome! Imagine that - with my depression and Adult ADD, and the PMDD I think I'm coming down with too! What in the world would the prescribe? Viagra? Prozac? Wellbutrin? Klonopin? Ritalin? Oh my, I'm starting to sound like Brandon Vedas. Or Winona Ryder! Or Elizabeth Wurtzel!!! All these names - I need to lay down.

Everything smells like kitty litter lately.
Everywhere I go - kitty litter.



I was starting to wonder whether I was hallucinating the whole thing, since yesterday I'm walking to the bathroom in the brownstone, the scent of kitty litter permeating the atmosphere, and I look down and there is a brown ball adjacent to a brown smear. Cat shit! I thought. How the hell did cat shit get into our house?! We don't have a cat! I would have explored more closely, but I don't want to get near cat shit (hopefully it's not rat shit or human shit - too small to be human shit - too horrible to even consider). That's when I was really wondering whether I was somehow hallucinating. How could cat shit not only

1) get into the apartment but
2) be completely ignored?!

I'm pissed. I want the mad cat shitter brought to justice!!! I'm praying to Mary - Mary J. Blige:
No more shit!
No more shit!
No more cat shit in my life! No more mystery dung!
No more shit!

Ugh. I have to go to the gym now. And this time I actually have to work. Once upon a time I used to like going to the gym, but now I don't. And I'm a huge FAT FUCK.



I hate having a gross stomach. Isn't there some kind of pill already?!?! I actually found a pill a couple days ago on the floor of the locker room floor, but there wasn't a brand name on it, so I left it there. Could it have been some kind of steroid? Sigh... Beep!

I
need
some
sort
of
life colonic.



Wash out all of this:

Wash in some of this:

Flush this: Flow this:

Toss this: Bring in this:

Where do they do these procedures????

A TRIBUTE to BARCELuNA TWATRoCKeT

Off-road motorcycles continue to tear up hillsides and meadows and provide an additional source of fire danger this time of year.





See how the Fire king leaps in his joy! As his dead minions haste to destroy;
See how the homes, once peaceful and fair,
Wrapped in the flames, melt in air......
Haste then, and help them, who from their home
Shelterless, foodless, wearily roam,
Pity their anguish, list to their prayers,
Lighten their labors and cares.......

A wave of tissue damage rolling across the brain has been spotted by doctors scanning the head of a teenage schizOphrenic.
They suggest that scientists should be looking for ways to halt this rapid loss of brain tissue, likened by one professor to a "forest fire".

People have PYROMANIA only if they meet all of the following signs:
* set fires on purpose more than once
* are very tense or very excited pussy pussy pussy before setting the fire
* seem fascinated or attracted by fire and objects, people, or twat cock pussy twat cock buginda situations around fire and
* experience twatrocket pleasure when setting or watching fires



BLAMN!!!!

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A comment left in my xanga the other day:

I LOVE the new photo of you, it's a hallmark (small h), and you don't look bitchy at all, not in the least! It makes you look like that guy Mark in high school, who I felt up, in the back of some fat girl's Camaro, on the way to Rocky Horror. He just sat there, face forward.

Jacob wrote this in the yahoo group today:

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Check out this exchange. This is why gay men in NY suck. Talking one week, then he flakes, then he turns up having a boyfriend already. How mice.

I hate everyone today (not because of this). Work sucks. Ever been in the office all weekend until 2 am every day and then get slammed again on Monday morning. I hate banking.



> From: ""
> To: ""
> Subject: jake ain't for sale no mo'
> Date: Mon, 28 Jul 2003 14:29:32 -0400
>
> I am kicking around - 'bout to blow my brains out - WORK
>
> but otherwise . . . dating !!!
> I think honesty is the best policy - I am off the market
>
> A boy and I have gotten major serious in the last week or so and I am real
> excited about it - and exclusivity is my middle name
>
> soooooooooooo - yeah
> make sense?
>
> jakers
>
>
>
> Original Message:
> -----------------
> From: ""
> Date: Mon, 28 Jul 2003 05:55:35 -0700 (PDT)
> To: ""
> Subject: Re: text messages are kinda fun . . .
>
>
> You disappeared?
>
> > Hi Jake - got your techie message from last night
> -
> >
> > so my week is shot - I am booked through tonight up till Saturday night !!!
>
> > > So we will see what happens, but maybe we can pull
> > something together for Sunday? -
> >
> > I am away next week till Saturday morning - ugh!!!
> > - on a shoot for ads
> >
> > now I guess I know how you feel - blah .
> >
> > How is your day going?> >
> > -jd

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from zeebahtronic:

Wow. Muy tack. For quite a while, Lau®en and Î have used the word "sex" to describe sõmething ør someone that is the absølute õpppppõsite of sexy. Accidently wearing your shi®t tucked into your underwear? Yõu are so sex. Dining øut for breakfast unshõwered and unable to remove yøur hat due to your g®easy hair? The ultimate in sex.

This
is
an
amazing
zazazing
book.

Someone
please
buy it for

me.

Wheeeeeeeeeee!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

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BE STILL, AND KNOW THAT I AM ED SHEPP.

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õ õ õ õ õ õ õ õ õ õ õ õ õ õ õ õ õ õ õ õ õ õ õ õ õ

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I d on't personally expect my artistic idols to have the m ost informed or grounde d political views, but somehow I expect better se nse from someo ne of such exquisite sensitivity. At any ra te, let me po int out that Ispend my day/s dealing with anynumber of people who are in danger of becoming disenfran c hised and/or impoverished, and I think that anyone who looks at them sympathetically or feels for their plight is a blithering idiot.

idiot

idiot

idiot

- Alan Thomas

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It’s Tina Taliban! Ask her all of your most pressing
etiquette questions and get an answer that strictly
conforms to Islam, the religion of peace.


Dear Tina Taliban,
I’m a vegan, and I can never find a New York
restaurant that serves food I can eat. Is it rude to
constantly request specially made vegan meals?
Confused Cath.

Dear Confused Infidel,
It is more than rude, it is an insult to Allah! Islam
is a religion of peace. You must be taken into the
public square and stoned.


Dear Tina Taliban,
My wife wears too much perfume, and it sometimes makes
me sneeze. But I know how much she enjoys it. Should
I tell her, or should I just take some Claritin?
Sneezy Sam

Dear Sneezy Infidel,
Islam is a religion of peace, but a woman must never
insult Allah by wearing perfume! She must be run over
10 times with a tank and then boiled in tar!



Dear Tina Taliban,
Sometimes I don’t wear a sweater when it’s cold out,
because I like to show off my summer fashions. Should
I wear a sweater anyway, to avoid catching cold?
Shivering Shirley

Dear Shivering Infidel,
You must wear a burqa at all times! Islam is a
religion of peace. You are an insult to Allah! You
must have a building collapsed onto you and then be
eaten by rabid tigers!

--Tina Taliban. Peace to all of you, except the
infidels.

---

beep

Ron Oddyssey wrote in the depression blog that I had been billed for anal rape. We'll probably do some shopping, visit some other friends and take it realtively easy the next few days. Around the same time that video games got to be extraordinarily beautiful, we stand nude in the kitchen discussing Buffy. Well, my sisters and my mother are in love with California. Ugh...I'm glad that's over with. There are no original ideas. There are only



original people

original people original people original people original people original people original people original people original people original people

Mary Kate and Ashley Go to War

E D S H E P P

Confederate Fagg. Fascinating

Where the fuck is Ron Oddyssey?! How am I supposed to find this bootatch!?!?!!!! How how how how how how how how how?!!!

I wrote this in the depression blog today:

And I hate writing. I love it, sort of, and I hate it. I love the idea of it. Sometimes I actually like to do it. I love what the finished product is, when it's good. But I also hate it. for a million reasons. It's fucking hard. And I can't think of anything when I actually sit down to write anything. A zillion ideas fly through my head when I'm not thinking about anything, but when I finally get down to actually writing nothing is there. It's just like when you walk into a record store and then suddenly can't remember what kind of music you like and it won't come to you for anything. I also hate the fact that writing is the only fucking thing left. It's the only thing that doesn't cost a million bazillion dollars. It's the default creation for me. I can't record, which I would love love love love love to do and it wouldn't seem like a chore at all (I know this cux when G lent me his computer I couldn't wait to get started on the music, and then I would work and work and work and work for hours and hours and hours and hours well into the night and then get up and start back with it), but it's too goddamn expensive to go to a studio and I can't afford my own computer. Acting, which I don't want to do (unless, of course, someone's throwing a zillion dollars at me to do a film; only a total idiot would turn that kind of thing down), requires you to get headshots and all that other crap. And everything else costs a million dollars to do too. I STILL haven't done anything with my Ed Shepp Report, and I don't think I ever will. I mean, even if I did put it out there, who would carry it?! And I still still still still want to do some kind of flyer art shit (a while ago I would have called it 'conceptual art,' but I'm willing to admit out loud that conceptual art is a full and complete load of shit; and anyone who does it isn't talented enough to do something real), and I don't know why I don't. But it's so fucking hard to just call the mofo that puts up the flyers, and then of course you have to contend with these motherfuckers who take your flyers down just to be assholes 2 minutes after you put them up, and you also have to wonder whether someone from your job is going to see it and then that would put your job in jeapordy, because you're doing something 'unprofessional' in public or some other shitload of garbage. I hate this fucking world. I fucking HATE IT!!!!!!! And I hate everyone in it.

This whole weekend I couldn't help thinking that this whole stupid fucking city is dead. It's just a fucking neon lit morgue. The city and everyone in it is dead and gone. This place is a worthless heap of rocks. I want so badly to get out of here. I want to get the hell out of here and leave all these bastards behind.

I am very slowly allowing myself to accept the realization that I will never, ever accomplish anything. I saw this poster in SoHo last week that said it perfectly: It had some photo of Marilyn Monroe on it with the eyes blackened out and it said something like: "And all of a sudden it hit me: I am not going to be famous. I am not going to be a rock star. I am going to be doing work that does not interest me for a very long time." How much clearer can you get than that? That's a statement that's so visceral and so true that you could dress it up in the fanciest language that can be invented and you wouldn't be able to make it any better than it is already. That statement is perfect. I'm realizing that it's doubly true for me. I can't accomplish anything. Anything at all, even with all the pills in the universe. I suppose maybe there's some talent hiding down there inside my carcass, but how it could ever possibly come out I have no idea, and it's probably too rough to ever do anything with. Someone told me once, trying to console me, 'You're not going to be a production operator forever.' Hmmph. First of all, I probably am - if not a production operator, then something just as horrible and shitty and what not. An administrative assistant, a clerk, a bookkeeper, something horrible like that. And it's not like there's any hope of advancing into anything that might actually matter professionally: Who would hire me to do anythingthat matters?! I have no real skills, only this stupid computer garbage and some writing/audio/graphics skills that have nothing to prove their existence to anyone. But anyway, the whole thing misses the point! I'm not anguished cux I think I'm going to be a low-level nothing all my life; I'm anguished cux I'm not going to be the luminary that I always dreamed of being! I know now, beyond every shadow of a doubt that may have ever existed, that I won't be a pop star; I also know that I'm too old to be a movie star (too old for both); I'll never be some superrich businessman (you have to have gone ivy league and be conventional); I'll never be a performance artist (I hate the idea of performing; I'm too scared; I don't know how to break into it and I know no one in the field). So writing is the last frontier. It's the only thing left, literally. This is not a good thing - people who write (and are successful, at least) are the people who grew up in that literary world. They always wanted to write. They love writing. They've read libraries of books and know exactly what they want to say. And I'm not sure I can even write, really. I'm really not fond of it.

I've already completely, uttlery given up on everything love-related, in as much as that's possible. Of course I can't completely erase all of it from my life cux that's biologically impossible. But I've accepted the impossibility of dating and finding a relationship and all of that crap. I just don't see how that could ever even happen. Consequently, I'm not sure whether I really want to continue with going to the gym and all that crapgarbage - it's such a waste of time. My body never changes; I see no need to continue it. And what if my body did change? What would be the difference?! Dating is still impossible.

You know what? If I were not at work today (I've really got to take some vacation time soon; I'm kinda saving that for October, thoug, I think) I would probably be at the Astor Place Starbucks. I love that place. Why don't I just make it my permahangout?! I really do kind of hate the Big Cup, even though it's about the only damn place that's open real hours. It would be good for me to define a new hangout like that. And I know that, so why don't I do it?! And would it do me any good to know why? I doubt it.

I wrote this in my Yahoo Group:

Hi. Is this Doctor Boob? OK, hi.
I have a wisdom tooth in the back, the only one I have left, and it's
starting to hurt - I think it probably needs to come out. The only
thing is that the last time I had a wisdom tooth taken out the doctor
put me under the anaesthesia and when I woke up my butt hurt. And
the room smelled kind of, um, kind of like shit. You know, like I'd
been buttfucked in the chair or something. Well, I thought maybe
there was some kind of dildo on the seat that I accidentally sat on
or something, but when I checked, there wasn't anything on the seat
that could have poked little brown eye. So I let it go, but then I
noticed on my insurance statement that I had been billed for 'anal
rape.' I didn't realize that I was going to be anally raped as part
of the procedure - obviously; I mean, if I had, I would have douched,
right?! Anyway, I wanted to ask you what your record is on anal rape
during wisdom tooth removal. Do you practice it? Do you find it's
necessary? Do I really need general anaesthesia? If it is
necessary, is there a way to get my insurance to cover it? What
digestive precautions should I take beforehand? Are there exercises
I could do to make it more effective? Should I have regular anal
rape therapy? Where can I learn more about anal rape in dentistry?

Yes.

Yes. Uh-uh. Of course. www.analrapeindentistry.com? Wait, let me
get a pen. And www.analrapeforhealthyteeth.net. Great, thanks so
much. Right. Right.

Well, thank you Dr. Boob, you've been very helpful. I'm going to
look at those sites and I'll give you a call back. Thank you! Buh-
bye, Dr. Boob!

This is from popdizzy:


This is from the peculiar one:


This is from Moby Dick:

Why does no one I know keep a motherfucking blog?! I keep noticing all these people talking about all their friends, linking to their blogs, within their blogs, and I don't know anyone who can do that for me. Cux none of these goddamn motherfuckers even keeps a fucking blog!!!! I hate these goddamn motherfuckers!!!

You know, there is this group on livejournal - from skimming their blogs as I do, I think they're all in rehab together!!! Fucking imagine!!! A bunch of bloggers in rehab together! Who the fuck KNEW!! And then there are other bloggers who room together, and bloggers who date, I imagine, and then just bloggers who hang out together and all that shit. I can't even imagine all of this. I can't fucking even imagine it. I mean, the main reason I started blogging was to document my life. it's the same reason why I made hours and hours and hours and hours and hours of live tape of the life I once had at the Big Cup and other places. If someone mentioned me and their life with me in a blog, regularly, that would be like a dream!!!! I really need to get a group of friends who are filmmakers, photographers, writers, journalists, flyer-artists (if this category of personhood doesn't exist, then I just invented it), etc. so someone else can be documenting my life. If it's just me doing it, then that's a rather tenuous documentation - it might as well be that I don't exist at all, even! Damn, if someone could just fucking write about me, and not the usual crap that people do or the usual pagoogle about what they write about, then I think I would feel as if I were actually living. maybe I could actually do something. (Probably not, see here). Still, it would be nice to finally be on the receiving end of the recognition. It be nice to be on the receiving end of anything, for that fucking matter - a gift, a sincere compliment, a cock attached to someone actually hot, a pay bonus. I'm always the one on the receiving end of the short side of the stick: I get stuck with switching schedules at work with some fucker cux I'm single and can actually do the switch; or I get stuck feeding someone's cats; or I get the difficult work in the department cux I'm the only one with a little tiny bit of goddamn competence. Or I fucking get people talking shit about me because I'm better-looking or more talented than they are.

Oh how ironic is all of that: people have talked and done shit to me for so many years because I possessed more potential than they ever did; but the result of all of it was that it stuck. I have no belief in myself. I can't accomplish anything. Yet I still try to persevere on, but I usually feel like I'm wading through some gigantic swamp, and I have to take all these rests and usually never even make it to my destination. I know that I should be a lot further along in whatever than I am; I know that I'm capable of more; I know that I have talents here; it's just impossible to bring them to anything. There have always been so many insurmountable obstacles in my way that I've basically just given up. I want to triumph, but I don't think that I can.

Dammit now I'm more depressed and full of rage than ever. All I ever wanted was to really accomplish something. To really matter. And now I just hate the world. Fuck you ALL

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