Okay, Memorial Day is approaching, which means we gotta think about dead people, and think about them in . . . nice ways. Me, I don't much care about dead people. Let the dead stay dead, that's my honest opinion on the matter. And the less time wasted on the dead, the better.

At my age, I don't know too many people who have died. I have an uncle who decided to cross over to the other side. He did that last Christmas and spoiled everyone's holiday. The bastard! However, he did favor me with a great deal of money, which I will get around to spending just as soon as I have spent the money left to me by my aunt, my grandparents, and, hopefully, my own parents, as I am praying they won't spend all their dough before they cash in their chips. And when my parents do call it quits for life, I won't be mourning them, either. Not that I don't like my parents, for I do; however, I can't see worrying about silly things like . . . well, like dead relatives.

(I think my uncle may have abused my cousin: Whisperers say this is so. But I don't know -- and why should I hold that against him? Afterall, he never did abuse me -- seems he was into abusing girls, or girl, singular, as my cousin is a girl. Or was, last time we talked. Who knows, now that she has been so fully, and perhaps fulsomely, abused. I mean, maybe she has grown a beard, or something. You never know. Anyway, my cousin and I do not talk. We were never close. We didn't even speak at my uncle's funeral (actually, he was cremated). She is upset with me over . . . over the way his estate was divided. Not that she didn't get her share, for she did. She got everything her mother would have gotten (where the mother, my aunt, alive, which she isn't. Or maybe she is, only she isn't talking to anyone. But I am rather sure she is dead, since I read her obit. I would have attended her funeral, but I was a bit young at the time. In fact, I was at that age when one is quite attracted by events like funerals. And the chance to see a dead person.)

So my cousin and I do not talk. That is okay. I have a couple more of them. They live in Great Britain. We are not close. I visit them from time to time, as they are a great way to get to Europe for free. Well, not free, but I don't have to cough up money for a hotel room, for food, stuff like that. You understand.

So, anyway, this is Memorial Day, and I feel kind of jipped. I have to work, for one thing. There are a lot of tourists in town, who aren't interested in mourning a bunch of stuffy dead people. I know this to be so, because I have asked: "Hey! What do you guys think of dead people?" The response was . . . dead silence, if you'll ignore the pun. (Was that a pun? I'm not sure.) Anyway, not only do I have to work: I have to make people laugh, and otherwise entertain them so they will be able to keep their minds off how miserable they are, and off how much money they are losing here in Vegas. That is my job. And I rather like it. Sort of like keeping people occupied so they won't know their pockets are being picked.

Anyway, not only do I have to work, but I don't have anybody to mourn. Well, I could mourn the deaths of my grandparents (not likely), my aunt (she died of cancer -- one of them did); or my other aunt (she died in an auto accident). But I don't feel like mourning them. I may, however, go over to the graveyard and see if I can rally some of those guys into having a conversation with me. (I'm sure the dead have some great stories to tell; that I have yet to hear one of these stories makes me just that much more excited about the prospect of hearing some dead guy sound off!)

I have asked the Chicks if they have any dead people we should mourn, as Memorial Day is certainly the time for such things. The Chicks looked at me in rather weird ways. D. said I was starting to creep her out. I didn't want to do that, of course, because later I fully intend to have sex with her, and I do not wish for our quality moment to come off like something out of sex with the dead, which would be interesting only were I into necrophilia. Which I'm not. At least not yet. Of course, one never knows what one will be fascinated by tomorrow.

In any case, the Chicks don't have any dead people they wish to mourn. They have several dead people whom they remember, and wish they didn't. So I just said, Okay. And then I went out to the kitchen to make myself a sandwich. When one is perplexed about something, it is always a good idea to have a sandwich.

Too, I could mourn our dead and gone soldier boys, who, if my dad is right, have died for us. (Meaning, in this instance, they died, to keep oil and oil products in our family.) Okay. But I can't see mourning some people who died just because they wanted to show that capitalism is great, and that Christianity's God is stronger than either Islam or Allah.

However, the above is not the only reason our boys have died in war. They died, for instance, to end the tyranny of that terrible English king who wanted us to remain little colonies!

Okay, I'll mourn the guys who died for that. And I'll mourn my lost and wasted youth. I might even mourn the fact that I haven't gotten laid -- not really well laid in about . . . oh, eighteen hours, I suppose. And then, when all my mourning is over, I shall take the chicks and go out to the lake. Where, maybe, if we're really lucky, some drunken boater will fall overboard and drown. Then we can mourn him, for about five seconds or so. Then, my mourning done, I will get down to the larger Chick business of trying to convince them to have sex with me.

Have a good Memorial Day, America. And don't forget to mourn somebody dead!

Went to the grocery store last night, something I rarely do, any way. Bought over 300.00. Wow! Chicks don't do a lot of meat. But they put a fortune in fresh vegetables and fresh fruit. And vegetables, pound for pound, cost a lot more money than meat, as I was surprised to learn. Also, we bought a ton of paper stuff. Ice cream, juices, stuff for hair, face, skin. Yogurt. Deli meats. Pasta stuff. Jesus. I call in a pizza, have done with it. But not chicks. They don't eat that way.

Still looking for a boat. Want one which will seat at least 6 people. One I can use for skiing, all forms of lake recreation. Might be a waste of a buy, as I'm not a big 'let's do the outdoors' kind of person, myself. I like the outdoors just fine when I look at it from out a window. But other than that, nature leaves me as cold as bad breath.

Cable turned on all throughout the house. Bought new furniture for the pool. Even bought two freezers, one for outside, the other for inside.

I think I am now ready for summer. And I hate summers. All that heat. All that sweating. Gross. And I can't stand bugs. Jesus.

And summers are gonna be a bitch here. Ah, makes me long for . . . don't know. Some place where summers aren't so intense.

The culture we have does not make people feel good about themselves. And you have to be strong enough to say if the culture doesn't work, don't buy it.

"Everyone knows they're going to die. But nobody believes it.

"Once you learn how to die, you can learn how to live."

-- Tuesdays With Morrie

There is no way we can make sense out of death. The best we can do by death is accept is as an inevitable fact.

H. Paul Sinclair

Love each other or perish.

-- W.H. Auden

We spend so much time reading all these books, attending seminar after seminar, trying this approach and then that, all in an attempt to discover some profound interpretations for what we all already know to be true. But we ever take someone else's explanations, someone else words to be more about truth than our own.

True is wherever you find it. And truth does not have to be worded profoundly to be truth. Truth is just what it is.

Weekends are a bitch. All I do -- did -- is work. Bigger shows on the weekends. More people, longer routines. Which means I have more people to fuck with, and more time to fuck with them. God, do I like this business.

Two women found dead at 95 and Wagonwheel, right out there on the edge of the desert out by Henderson. Of course, these two women didn't just fall over dead, right? They got murdered. Happens all the time, here. Yup. All the time. No wonder I love this city: Each new day brings a new murder -- or two or three -- for me to read about. To delight about. God, I love it when people get killed. The more murders the better, I always say. And reading about a good murder is more interesting than reading about what some crummy politician has to say. And murders are far more interesting than yet another story about how we have fucked up the environment, or about some crummy Third World Nation which is enduring yet another drought or health crisis. Fuck them Third World Nations, that's what I say! Fuck em good. I mean, outside of Bono, who the fuck gives a shit about all them poor starving people on the other side of nowhere? Know what I mean. I mean, I don't know any of them. Do you? And if I did know some of those starving and infected people, I'd say, "Hey! Get the fuck out of my neighborhood! We don't need your kind here!"

And I like reading all those sugar and sympathy stories in the papers. (Not!) Currently, these sugar and sympathy pieces are a lot about immigration -- Immigration is the issue de jour. I like de jour issues. They mean we really don't give a fuck about them or the people they really affect. What issues de jours are really for is to give us something to get pissed off about, something to feel all righteous and holier-than-thou about, something to talk about while we fuck off our day at the water cooler.

Me, I like calling a spade a spade, a spic a spic. Like Immigration: We don't give a fuck about all those Brownies from Below the Border. Not at all. And we just want them Mexicans up here because they work cheap, and because they're a lot more docile than them other dark skinned people who live up here among us. Ah, now that has the ring of real truth.

You won't swab my toilet. Black people, they don't wanta swab my toilet, but Mexicans? Now them people will swab my toilet -- and they do it for cheap. Me, I like Mexicans. I like people who work cheap and do what the fuck they're told. Shit, yes. And Mexicans, they don't mind living in sub-standard housing, and then they don't mind paying twice what that sub-standard housing is really worth. And Mexicans, shit, they and I both know they're never gonna be white, and they're okay with it. I mean, let's face it, I don't want to be brown -- and neither does any one of you. So quit acting so fucking righteous. Shit, I'd slit my wrist before I'd be any color other than white. What, am I sounding too decidedly . . . racist? Good, then I have learned plenty from each one of you.

Ah, but still I like the way you talk. All that bullshit you hand out. Sugar and sympathy. Hey, I read what you write, even when your sentences are pedestrian and your word choices . . . telling.

So, let the Mexicans come up here. Let em come all they want. I won't embrace them with open arms, I don't want them in my neighborhood, but neither do any of you. At least, I won't make on like I'm going to accept them as one of my own.

And I don't give a flying fuck whether or not they can speak my language. I mean, it ain't like we're bringing them up here to teach college, practice medicine, or write great works of social commentary. Fuck no! And if they can say, "You want fries with that, Mister?" Then they're speaking our language just fine.

Me, I speak Spanish just great. Taco. Burrito. and -- How much to fuck your little sister, you greasy-skinned beaner? Ah, I just love it: America's splendid command of every fucking language under the sun, except our own language, of course.

And I have some very specific thoughts on Emigration. I like it. I mean, we got beauty standards on our fucking fruit, right? Trust me if you didn't already know that, because we do. We waste all kinds of fruit because it ain't pretty enough. I mean, who's gonna eat an apple if it ain't pretty enough, right?

So, if we got beauty standards on our fruit, why not beauty standards on our people. I mean, Americans are getting too fucking ugly for my tastes. Seriously, I was at the Denny's the other night, eating and chewing on a steak, when I chanced to look up and saw, and sitting at the table right across from me, a couple of the ugliest people you ever saw. Why, the bile rose right up in my throat, my stomach churned, my dinner was ruined. And I was pissed. And so right then and there I said to myself, something has gotta be done!

We gotta Emigrate all them ugly people. If they're fat, you know the kind I mean, men with bellies too big for their belts, the kind of bellies that hang over way beyond their toes? Let's get rid of em. Not the bellies, the person. Let's emigrate em! And all them fat women with two bellies, one belly above their waist line, another distinct fat belly below their waist line, let's emigrate em.

Bald headed, balding headed, thinning of hair, ship em the fuck out of here. We don't need their kind of ugly!

Men, women with lank hair, all oily and disgusting, pack em on a boat! Get em the fuck out of here!

People with bad teeth, no teeth, teeth missing, get em the fuck out of here. Ship em off to ugly land!

People who ain't got this limb or that, people with missing arms, missing legs. Punt em the fuck out of here! We don't need a bunch of limbless fucking people!

And we ain't gonna be shipping our uglies back to Europe. Fuck no. Europe, I been there. I know most of you haven't, but you can't go over there because you're poor. Europe ain't got no use for poor Americans. Europe has enough poor of its own to hate and abuse, and otherwise in-tolerate.

Yep. And I got enough respect for my European ancestors not to want to throw my human garbage back at them.

Nope, besides, Europe is a beautiful place, that fancy tower they got there in Paris, whatever its called -- and that big ass clock over in London, I forgot its name, but its worth getting your ass over there and taking pictures of, even if you can't remember the clock's name. And then there's all them church bells which chime in Rome? Why you've never heard such a fucking racket, believe you me, but, still, all that noise is historical. Like all them birds in Rome. Here, we just got dirty fucking pigeons. But them pigeons over there in Rome? Them's Italian pigeons. And people come from all over the world to look at them there birds.

Yup. And then there's them Spanish Steps over there, and we sure don't want a bunch of our ugly people hanging out around them Spanish Steps. Nope. So what we're gonna do with our uglies, instead of uglying up Europe, we're gonna send our uglies back down below the border. Sure. Just makes sense. Makes good fucking sense!

See, we keep taking people in from down there, we're gonna get to fucking heavy up here, this side of the border, and we're liable to tip the fuck over, or something. Now, I know that don't sound much like good science, but it does make good sense. Sure. Balance, boys and girls. It is all about balance. Can anybody say, "Racial Balance"? No, of course you can't.

Can anybody say ethnocentrism? Can anybody note that being ethnocentristic isn't all bad, or always bad. Oh, sorry. Now I'm not being entertaining, anymore. Now I'm actually expecting you to think, unlike most of the . . . shit I get to read which just asks me to "Feel as I feel. It don't make much sense, but it ain't supposed to. It ain't about making sense: It's about feeling."

Right. And a famous person once said: "The weak will always identify with the weak, the strong always with the strong."

Spent the weekend shopping. Bought two sofas, one for Yvonne's room, the other for Dana's. Went to Oak Express, bought a new bedroom suite. Then, went to Wal-Mart -- Hey, now I have been to a Wal-Mart! Dana and Yvonne talked me in to going. Bought them both clothes, accessories, stuff for the pool, the lake.

R. called. She is going to spend the summer here. She is bringing along a friend of hers. They are supposed to spend the summer in London, but both think Vegas will be more stimulating.

Okay, I'm spending the summer with four girls. (My voice dripping with acid.) What can possibly go wrong with this picture?

Went looking for boats. Lake Mead is great. (Thank you once again, Captain Morgan for suggesting doing the tour out to Lake Mead. Otherwise, I may still be ignorant about one of the best things about Las Vegas: Lake Mead!) All the boats there are inboards. Any of you guys know anything about boats? Leasing will cost me 600-800 a month. Buying will cost 60-80K, depending on the size of the inboard, how many I wish to seat, etc. I'm thinking about buying. Dana looks so delicious in a bikini, not that I will allow her to dress thus at the lake, but at the pool is fine. And the pool has a pine-fence around it for privacy. However, she does look nice, and she is wanting to do the lake thing this summer. I have never owned a boat before. Don't know anything about them. One of the dealers has offered to teach me boatmanship. Yeah. Right.

Yvonne is working hard on her recovery. I am very proud of her. I wanted to put her on my insurance, but since we are not married, and she is not a relative, the company won't go for it. And then there is all that talk about 'pre-existing conditions.' And I need the insurance to pay for her doctors (a psychiatrist and a psychologist). Clinics here suck. You get what you pay for. She is going to need a good doctor, someone who can understand what she has been through. Yvonne sends me emails daily telling me what she can't say face to face. They really touch me. I am paying her (and Dana) to keep the house clean.

Dana is now sleeping in my room. Don't ask me how this came about. We were just doing the grunt and groan thing -- but now she is staying in my room. Maybe it is because I have cable tv in my room.
But I will be hooking up in the rest of the house this week.

When you are paying someone for sex, and they are living in your house, the parameters quickly get lost. Dana and I are . . . we had a business relationship. Had. I guess now, with her in my room, the relationship has . . . been taken to a different level.

I don't know what D. and I are going to do when R. gets here. She and I . . were once . . . right. Say, maybe I can get the two of them to agree to something decidedly French. But I doubt it. I think Dana likes me. I know R. does.

Had planned on flying out to New Haven to see L. Plans have changed. She is set on what she wants. And I don't want the same thing -- but I don want her. However, the way I am acting, you'd think my feelings for her are no big deal. Not true. I just like . . . girls. Well, mostly I like sex. But you need girls for sex.

Brought a cutie over here yesterday. God, did that ever not work out. Note to self: Take em to a hotel!

Dana is driving my M.B. She forgets to move the seat back when she is through driving. (She isn't supposed to be driving it. I told her, "No!!!!" I guess she didn't listen. Either that, or when you're sleeping with someone, they get to use your car as well as use your credit cards. Help me out on this one, America.)I called this morning, put her on my policy. She wrecks my car, my mom will kill her.

My favorite pick-up line (Done while I'm driving around in my car)"" Excuse me, sweetie, but I think these hundred dollar bills belong to you: They have your name written all over them."

To date, the coolest, like cutest cutie response: "They can't be mine. My name has more letters than that!"

Leave it to a cutie to know her true worth!

Okay, you've been a splendid audience. Good night, have a great time, because right heerrrrrre it's alllwwwaays Las Vegas, Baby!

Saw an advanced screening of The Da Vinci Code. Had read the book. The book was . . . airy. The movie is a disaster. Tom Hanks and Ron Howard team up to take us on a voyage of the absurd.

And sports fans, if the code is correct -- and I think you're all missing this -- not only was there never a Jesus, but, and more importantly, there isn't a Heaven or a God -- And, therefore, there isn't an afterlife. Pray, pray very hard, boys and girls, that your dear little God exists. Otherwise, you work you work you work, and you stayed mostly bored as hell, and then you die. End of story.

(Mine, and I'm sure yours is as well, a need to feel life very intensely. And like the only time I feel truly alive is whether when I am on stage, or when I am in bed with a girl. And I am worried about this. I have had enough training to know about hypo-mania and Bipolar II.)

Earlier I saw "Poseidon." The movie is not a remake. And it is extremely well done. If you want adventure, scares, thrills and excitement, I can highly recommend it.

But my favorite is "Over The Hedge." This is great. Pixar just keeps getting better and better. This show is cute, clever, refreshing, and fun. And it even allows something of a message. Enjoy it.

North Las Vegas (not Ls Vegas) is the third-fastest growing city in the nation. Currently it has a population of 250,000. It also boosts a crime rate which is out of sight. However, and thanks to the recent spate of condos, and other high-price habitations (250K-700K), the social elements currently responsible for all that crime will soon be replaced by yuppies, retirees, and the well-to-do, which might not be such a bad thing.

And plans have been signed to tear down the Stardust, currently the oldest casino on The Strip. We will miss the Stardust, for it is quite a chunk of history.

Average monthly cooling bill for a one bed room here in Las Vegas -- $148.50. (It must be a small! one bedroom.)

Average price of a gallon of unleaded gas here in the Valley: $3.15.

And interesting sign I saw yesterday on the way to work: "Lurn (sic!) to speak english(should be capitalized) or get the fuck out!" Yeah, Right. This person should definitely be giving lessons in how to speak our language!

No luck with the cuties last night, and I still spent over a hundred. Jesus. I'll always buying liquids for the babes -- and getting naught in return but . . .

Anyway, got lucky this morning when I got home. And it didn't cost me anything. Wow. Life. Living in America.

Well, gotta rush. Work calls. And I do like what I do, regardless of how much I bitch about it. And, yes, I realize how lucky I am to get paid for saying whatever is on my mind. (I just thought it needed to be said, America.) And, for the record, I am getting more and more of my ideas for my routines from my fans. They talk, I listen. And I spend more of my time visiting with them at their tables (which I then charge the house for) then I do on stage.

And what I hear really opens my eyes (terrible metaphor). I mean, these guys speak of a life I'm totally in the dark about. They talk about jobs, families, relationships. And they talk about God and country, politics, in ways I've never heard. They interest, even fascinate me.

Gotta run.

Now is the time for all of us to ask ourselves just what it is which makes us tick. I certainly know what it is that makes me tick -- my heart. That and an all abiding sense that, and regardless to what I hear being said, this (life and everything contained by those parameters) is all just a waste of time. Life is futile. You live, you die. End of story. No Heaven. No God. No getting to do it over. No winners. No losers. This sucks. It does.

Anyway, I'm dealing with it. Life. I'm working, making money, having as much sex as I can -- and wondering just what in the Hell I am going to do with the rest of my fucking life, except have sex, make money, spend money, eat, have more sex. Ah, but is that all there is, my friend? Is that all there is to life? Hmmm. . . I fear that it is. Meanwhile --

In 2004 Las Vegas took in 38 billion in gambling revenue. That's just . . . I don't know what that is. And it is no wonder that the state doesn't have a state tax for wages.

On other fronts, I am bored out of my fricking gourd! And quickly am I growing tired of Vegas. However, I have already bought a house. I have also furnished this house. I remember when I came here: I was going to do the tourist-thing, then I was going to head off to Canada, thereby just seeing what gives out there, while avoiding the effort required to do anything with my life except have a good time. Now look at me. I am not having a good time!

And it is getting hot here. I do not do summers well. I hate to sweat. And I am losing weight. It's like my youth is back with me. In my early teens I had to eat two malts a day to keep my weight constant. And when you gotta eat them every day, two malts becomes an effort. Ah, dear! But I do look good in pictures.

Honestly, I think I look like a fucking skeleton. And I hate having my picture taken. But I am in a business where my picture is taken nearly daily. Jesus! I hate that.

And girls act like . . . I don't know, like being this thin is . . . I don't know what it is.

And I have a new car. An MB. A gift from my dad. It runs good. Looks good. The chicks love it. What more is to be said?

Yvonne is staying firm on her resolve to give up coke. Dana (the certified cutie) discovered that we have a laundry room here in the house. It is just off the garage, in fact. (She discovered the pool the first day she was here -- and you go right by the laundry room on your way out to the pool!) Oh, well.

But I think Dana is thinking about staying here: Her dad called here last night, left a message saying she called him to have her possessions shipped this way. He told me to call him back. I haven't yet. Not because I mind her staying here: I don't. I just don't want to get too chummy with her dad.

I spent the morning acquiring new clothes. It seems like I go shopping every week. I don't know why, just the boredom, I guess. Nothing to do with the money but spend it. I have plenty saved. Don't have to worry ever about that.

And Dana is so hot! God. But there is such a difference between 18 and 23. But she is delicious. I can just eat her up -- and I do.

Well, I am here for the rest of the year. Signed a contract. Can't break it. Could, but mom says I open myself to all kinds of legal shit if I do. I am adult now, and I gotta play by the rules. Jesus Christ!

Well, enough of this. Thought I was going to put something up that mattered. None of this matters. Think I'll go to Hard Rock and check chicks until time to go to work --

Work -- all I do is say whatever is on my mind. Meaning, I am not the least bit nice. I put everything, everyone down. Find fault with life, the world. With people. And people laugh. They love it. Of course, they think I am fucking kidding. They're crazy. I'm serious as hell about how fucked up I think life and people are. And I don't believe in God, but everybody figures I do believe, otherwise why would I be so vulgar about it. "You fucking make your living off making fun of God! And I just love it!" One drunk fan told me. She was old, wrinkled, and she smelled of booze and tobacco. Naturally, she had to kiss me. And then get her fucking picture taken with me. The old prune! Why are so many of my fans old women? I mean, go fucking figure! I'm outta here --

It's cutie time!