Thursday, September 30, 2004


Last evening as the American Mastodon returned home from the local video store and made his way back to his apartment, he stumbled across a silly sight. In the parking lot of the pizza shoppe and olde pub neighboring his residence he discovered a large, outdoor congregation of that lecherous yet pragmatic breed of humans known as "the Asians". In this small parking lot were perhaps a hundred of these diminutive specimens, drinking alcohol and wearing embroidered sweatshirts covered in Greek letters.

As he made his way through this sea of hard-working overacheivers and notable sufferers of the "Asian Flush", he saw at least three denizens throwing up at the group's periphery. All three regurgitators were dealing with their issues alone, tending to their shame without friends or comfort.

He wonders if women of the Asian descent are equally cold, frigid, and non-comforting. There was a reason why the AM left the climes of Siberia and Mongolia for the expansive tundra of Northern America, but he knows not what it is.

The AM hopes to someday collect ample evidence in this matter and even, if possible, do his best to promote a legacy of warmth, love, and comfort in the women of this wonderful race.

Wednesday, September 29, 2004


The Rules of the Game.

There are times when the AM leaves at the door his penchant for German films from the 70's and decides instead to catch a nice French film from the 30's. Tonight, the pic of his choosing was Renoir's seminal (ok, well maybe Grand Illusion was his seminal) film that dissected French high society.

Oh, and Jean Renoir seems like one happy fat fuck. The American Mastodon would hang with him over that stuffy Godard. Like, GAWD.

You know you're envious of the AM's taste. You know why? Cause it's off the fucking heaze.


The American Mastodon had a spell where he drank quite a bit of caffeine. That lasted about 6 years, and then one day he woke up and decided to stop. He's felt much better ever since, and recommends the same to others. When you quit caffeine, you don't need that morning boost, that afternoon boost, or that evening boost. You may need a hug, or a kind word said about your outfit, but one thing you certainly don't need is caffeine to keep you going throughout the day.

Well, the AM is a weak-willed animal, and in spite of his belief that he could have an occasional cup of Good Morning America (hats off to you, Harry Dean), three weeks ago he took a good long look in the mirror and saw that he was addicted again. There is something comforting in the morning ritual of either brewing or purchasing a cup of coffee before settling in at work, getting your desk situated, and trolling the internet for Asian tween porn.

So the Mastodon cut himself off again and ever since has been following a strict regiment: purchasing a daily cup of decaf coffee at the Starbucks located in his building's basement. This does a few things, all beneficial. First, it provides a very small amount of caffeine. This gives you a little boost in the morning and tricks your body into thinking that it's going to be getting some more caff in a short bit. Secondly, there is the comfort of drinking a warm beverage in the morning. A beverage that tastes eerily similar to coffee but, surprisingly, is not. This is where the necessity of purchasing a Starbucks decaf coffee comes into play. Decaf coffee is rank and coats your tongue in a felt of foul-smelling shite, but Starbucks is just good enough to keep down.

But to date, the best reason the AM has found for visiting the local Starbucks has been the frequent and bewitching presence of a woman who is probably 30 years old and, it must be said, is amazingly beautiful. Beautiful in the best ways a woman can be beautiful. Natural, wavy brown hair, dark but not tanned skin, light colored eyes, thin in some places and not thin in other places. The American Mastodon should remind people that this is Los Angeles, where the sight of a "naturally" beautiful woman who is not an actress or model (or with aspirations to be such) is rare beyond compare. But there she is, every morning, ordering her latte con carne with a friend, bewitching the AM, startling the AM, sending the AM's heart into fits.

Today the AM was lucky enough to wait in line next to this beauty. Here he'd like to pause and invoke that oft-repeated Navajo epigram, "To every perfect object God seered with a flaw." Or something. You know what he's saying. Didn't people say that about Kubrick's "The Shining" or something?

Look, people, what the Mastodon is trying to get at is this: the woman had a mustache, ok? She had a fucking mustache.

Thursday, September 23, 2004


American mastodons had coats of fine underwool, overlain by coarser guard hairs ranging from amber to dark brown.

The American Mastodon apologizes for his week-long absence. What with the news of so many other bloggers retiring and fading into the fray, the AM took time to ponder his own place in this crazy alterna-nerd-paradise known as the blogosphere. And kiddies, the conclusion he's drawn is this: blogging is a total waste of his time, but so are a few of his relationships, making his bed, and watching pretensious french films, but he does them all anyway. Out of habit? No, friends. He does it out of duty.

Not doody. Duty.

There really is nothing of interest to report. He will admit that his desire to forage and wander is growing greater with each passing day. Beyond that, our intrepid, proboscidally-enhanced and tusk-bearing protagonist admits nothing. His life has been far too shameful and sorry as of late, and for the record, there have been no visits to None at all. The Mastodon gets turned on by only two things: tubers, and the promise of tubers.

American mastodons ranged from Alaska and the Yukon to central Mexico, and from Pacific to Atlantic coasts.

Thursday, September 16, 2004


The sky has a film. Its heat burns through the salt on my skin, draws it tight. I start the truck, drive west along the highway built on the dry bed of the Teays. There's wide bottoms, and the hills on either side have yellowy billows the sun can't burn off. I pass an iron sign put up by the WPA: "Surveyed by George Washington, the Teays River Pike." I see fields and cattle where buildings stand, picture them from some long-off time.

I turn off the main road to our house. Clouds make the sunshine blink light and dark in the yard. I look again at the spot of ground where Pop fell. He had lain spread-eagled in the thick grass after a sliver of metal from his old wound passed to his brain. I remember thinking how beaten his face looked with prints in it from the grass.

I reach the high barn and start my tractor, then drive to the knob at the end of our land and stop. I sit there, smoke, look again at the cane. The rows curve tight, but around them is a sort of scar of clay, and the leaves have a puplish blight. I don't wonder about the blight. I know the cane is too far gone to worry about the blight. Far off, somebody chops wood, and the ax-bites echo back to me. The hillsides are baked here and have heat ghosts.

--Breece D'J Pancake


The American Mastodon feels as though he hasn't been using the word "tubers" enough lately.

He'll do his best to remedy that.

Wednesday, September 15, 2004


The AM is never one to shy away from discussing his rather numerous and unsavory physical ailments. He's told you before of his sexy skin issues, and he may have mentioned his lethal allergies to fish, shellfish, avocados, peanuts, melons, and - now, ladies, don't panic, there are alternatives - latex. In addition, there is the dormant asthma lurking behind every dry ragweed bloom and under every poorly vaccuumed carpet as well as his poor eyesight, his raging eczema and his brittle, frail bones. But today, dear ones, there was delivered to the Mastodon's doorstep a new and more frightening scare: the presumed self-diagnosis of Wilford Brimley disease.

Around lunchtime his body starting getting hot and he felt faint. His feet were sweaty and tingling, and his vision got blurry. Lately, he's been thirsty, tired, and he's lost weight. Do some homework, detectives, and you'll see what this all adds up to: playing Bingo next to some retirees in the local Lion's Club on a Wednesday night and shooting insulin in his thighs every two hours.

Though scientists have not concretely determined what ailment or illness eventually led to the demise of the American Mastodon in North America, there has been a growing consensus among leading researchers that the animal was befelled by a condition commonly referred to as Whatafuckinfuckedup-hypochondriacpussyitis.

As always, the AM appreciates your heartfelt pity.

Tuesday, September 14, 2004


The AM has found another way to enjoy himself at work and kill the minutes as he waits patiently for the end of the day. Here's what to do: in the upper right-hand corner of any Blogger(TM) blog, you will see a small box reading "Next Blog". Well, go ahead. Click it. Keep going. You'll find something good, eventually.

Like this one.


They put down new tile and right away it started to crack. Big fault lines in the hallways, people walking and tripping as their feet sank through to the ceiling above the first floor. Then a kid rode his bike from one end to the other and no one ever saw him again.

When the wind came it pinpointed pressure points in the corners of the windows and the panes pulsed, then broke. Coyotes stalked the grounds outside as clouds drifted overhead, moved closer to Oklahoma, then fell from the sky.

New Orleans filled up with sewage and 50,000 people died.


Is a damn good book. Read it. The AM wishes BushCo possessed the intellectual curiosity to read good novels, let alone newspapers.

Here is the statement released today by Abu Musab al-Zarqawi, the terrorist whose group bore responsibility for the morning's horrid car bombing: "With the grace of God, a lion from our martyrdom brigades was successful in striking a centre for apostate police volunteers". This sort of language is eerily reminiscent of the prose of Endu's book.

It saddens and angers the AM that Bush could not possibly understand what al-Zarqawi truly means, since, in the AM's opinion, Bush's faith is of the worst possible kind: inflexible, fraudulent and transparent.

Eh, just one mammal's opinion.


Last evening the American Mastodon headed to Vidiots to grab the seminal Buddhist fave "Spring, Summer, Fall, Winter...and Spring" (big ups to Shaktacular), but unfortunately for the AM the film was checked out. Faced with the perilous decision of actually picking out a movie for himself (the results of which, if any out there have borne witness to this calamity, are not pretty and tend to last close to an hour), the Mastodon finally walked away with a film he's wanted to see for quite some time, "The Son". This latest film from the dynamic Dardenne brothers of France is...well...ok, so the AM didn't finish it, but so far, he likes it a lot. After watching about 40 minutes he passed out on the sofa and when he came to, it was well into the midnight hours. He will say this about "The Son": damn if there aren't a lot of shots of the main character walking around his carpentry shot with the camera trailing him. Even after only 40 minutes, the AM feels like he can safely say he knows the man's back side very, very well.

Monday, September 13, 2004


The American Mastodon had a fantastic weekend. Thanks to everyone who came to the cookout and didn't complain, and acted like they enjoyed themselves. The AM hopes you enjoyed his Magic ChickenTM, and that you will all someday come back for more. Big ups to that Sarah girl who brought Sparks and who called the AM a celebrity. That was cool. Thanks to everyone for not laughing when the AM wore his friend's small, womanly shirt with the bra straps in the back. Seriously, he's NOT GAY. Well, not that much. Thanks to the peeps who drove him to and from Jumbo's Clown Room, as he was obviously not in a state to be operating vehicles.

Message to Jumbo's: baby, you just get better.

But seeing as how he wore himself out this weekend, the AM is very much looking forward to tonight, where his plans include running, making a little dinner, and hitting up Vidiots for a DVD rental. So the AM implores you: what should he get? Suggestions should be pretensious and dated, and involve at least one actor with a hyphenated name.


Question: What's the hardest part about being a person who chooses to campaign for greater custody rights for divorced and separated fathers by scaling the front wall of Buckingham Palace and deciding to dress for the occasion in a Batman costume?

Answer: Still not being able to tell your father you're gay.


To be sure, the American Mastodon is a worrywart. You would be, too, if you spent most of your waking life fleeing scantily clad indigenous people and their pathetically constructed wobbly wooden spears. However, his worries tend to be of the personal and private matters, like whether or not that salve is working on that open wound on his foot. On the other hand, the Mastodon's older brother, the Wooly Mammoth, is a mammal to whom the words, "just relax" don't apply. His worries tend to originate from larger, more cataclysmic concerns. E.g., the possibilies of a nuclear holocaust, a city-razing earthquake, an Ebola outbreak, or the invasion of the Russkies a la Red Dawn are all more likely to keep him from sound sleep.

Therefore, he is undoubtedly twittering the night away in worry of the possibility of not one, but two mega-tsunamis in the near future: an imminent Hawaiian volcanic eruption, sending a topshelf into the Pacific and wiping out the western American coast, or, more dire still, the combo of a North Korean atom bomb being detonated for the purpose of the world's largest mega-tsunami - those bastards are trying to send a whole mountain into the ocean! It'll kill everyone!!

Friday, September 10, 2004


The American Mastodon and his roommate, a young biologist adept at the art of capturing damselflies, are having a cookout tomorrow evening in their new abode.

E-mail the AM if you're in the LA area and would like to stop by.


The AM knows how you adore him when he tells you of his dreams. So, let him dazzle you once again:

The AM stumbles into work hungover and takes his seat behind his computer. Is it obvious to everyone around that the AM is in such a sorry state? The HR person strolls over and asks to see the AM in her office. Busted. As the door closes behind him, the AM notices the HR woman sit down and sigh exasperatedly. She puts down her glasses and looks up.

"AM - it's about your hair." (The AM should note that he recently had his head shaved, or shorn, or rather, perhaps more appropriately, "buzzed")

"What, does it not look good?" the AM replied. "I thought it looked pretty good."

"No, it's not that. It does look good. It's just that - well - we here in the office thinks it makes you look like a Latino. We hope you'll cut it differently over the weekend."

And then, not surprisingly, that was the end of the dream.


The American Mastodon has set out to decipher, empirically and through the use of proper methods, the allure of the blogosphere. He has, in essence, brought it upon himself to become a "blogologist", thus studying the newly formed science of "blogology".

Any good scientist will tell you that the appropriate and time-honored way of approaching a problem is by filtering observations through the scientific method. What, praytell, is the ``scientific method''? Well, let the AM walk you through it, as he ambles along himself.

1. Observe some aspect of the universe.
The Blogosphere.

2. Invent a tentative description, called a hypothesis, that is consistent with what you have observed.
Bored people with too much time on their hands stumble into the blogosphere and are intrigued by a world they had not been aware of. They jump from blog to blog, find new ones, comment anonymously, then start their own blog. After a few months, they tire of the tedium of the medium and move on with their lives. Perhaps they get a real job.

3. Use the hypothesis to make predictions.
There will always be new blogs to fill the void left by the retirees. Thus, the blogosphere, though not maintaining a consistent population, will continue to slowly grow. Like China.

4. Test those predictions by experiments or further observations and modify the hypothesis in the light of your results.
More on this later. See: for evidence of carousel bloggers.

5. Repeat steps 3 and 4 until there are no discrepancies between theory and experiment and/or observation.
To be published later in Modern Blogology

Thursday, September 09, 2004


The American Mastodon has basically given up on the idea of getting his "winter coat". His frame and genetics just won't allow it. But after hearing from friends and family that he is looking "way too thin", a charge that was repeated last night in a worried voice by his own parents, the AM has decided to make it a personal goal to gain some weight. He's shooting for something like a fall jacket.

This morning started off well - he had his normal bowl of oatmeal (maple and brown sugar, Trader Joe's stizz), then supplemented the meal with four strips of bacon and two eggs. That was all well and good, a breakfast fit for a lumberjack or small-parts machinist, but during his daily lunch-time break, the AM had no appetite and could only choke down two bites of a delicious Taco Bell Grilled Stuffed Burrito(tm). What's the deal with that? The AM can turn on any talk radio station and hear of the great and lasting effects of Cortislim, but where does one turn when they are desparately in need of adding the pounds, not losing them?

And in case you were thinking of suggesting it, no, he's not going to go to GNC and buy those protein shake things. And no, him typing "protein shake" isn't some weird reference to a blow job.


Today Sweden has officially announced that the Great Lake Monster, a mythical inhabitant of central Sweden's Storsjon lake, will soon be fair game for hunters and curio seekers. Before the proclamation, the animal was protected by Swedish law from Werner Herzog and other international fake-monster bounty hunters.

The American Mastodon wonders what it is, exactly, that makes the myth of a gargantuan serpent so common throughout the world. There is, of course, Scotland's Loch Ness Monster, Norway's "Selma" and Argentina's "Nahuelito". Though these creatures are well known in their own right, no creature has created a collective stir of imagination and awe as was witnessed during the 1949 incident in Churbusco, Indiana, when a young boy, returning to his home a bit tardy on a beautiful summer evening, witnessed what he claimed was a snapping turtle the size of "a small car", thus explaining his otherwise inexplicable late arrival.

Folks, that is a large turtle.

Eventually, as all know, the turtle was given a name (Oscar), search parties were organized and performed diving missions, an international press corps was assembled, and, in the end, a farmer's small pond was drained. The efforts of hundreds of men and women, as it were, turned out to be for naught. For you see, dear reader, the magic of the elusive water monsters is their unparalleled skill in the art of elusion.

Well, either that, or fucking idiots who would believe a 13-year old kid who was out smoking a pack of his dad's Old Gold's behind the local Lutheran church and, after his mother reams him for showing up home late, tells her he saw, "a real big turtle."

Ah, the birth of legends will always amaze.


The American Mastodon knows of at least one person who will find this study not just interesting but empirical evidence of a long-held hypothesis. Whereas the AM sees some truth in the data, he also knows that his mood is affected by various circumstances; relationships with friends, work conditions (or lack thereof), weather, and natural environmental changes. But he also knows there is a reason besides just simple faith that his father and his uncle and his grandfather and a long line of Mastodon men have chosen to abstain completely from alcohol (that includes you, Bartles and James). The Mastodon line, though particularly fond of tubers and shoots, often lacks the ability for moderation and, rather, has a tendency for indulgence in all manner of living.

And yes, ladies, that includes love. Roar!

Wednesday, September 08, 2004


Last eve the AM did something he hasn't done in a good, long while: veg out on the couch in front of the television set and bask in its warm, comforting glow. Since the Mastodon lives in the infuriating western time zone, he was only able to catch a few snippets of live US Open tennis coverage. Apparently, in the tennis world, "the man" still has it out for "the blacks", and he is doing relatively little to hide the fact.

After his whistle was properly whetted with the site of women in short skirts and visors running around and sweating, the AM went for a quick run, made a delicious meal, took a shower, and settled into his davenport for a viewing event that only the programmers of ABC Family could have possibly devised: a prime-time showing of "Karate Kid", the seminal 80's film that proved to millions of kids that if you could train to be a karate champ with on old, over-acting Japanese man, be bequeathed his amazing classic muscle car, and beat up your flame's previous lover, then surely you could also convince the beautiful Elizabeth Shue that she should be making it with you, a skinny wop from Jersey, instead of getting handed diamond tennis bracelets and pearl necklaces from the 30-year-old golf pros at her country club. Not like anything like that's ever happened to the AM, or anything. (Winnie Rake, watch your back.)

The American Mastodon realizes that that last paragraph contained quite the run-on sentence. He hopes you forgive him. Or he'll Put You in a Bodybag!!

Tuesday, September 07, 2004


The American Mastodon has never been known as the animal kingdom's most graceful member. In fact, though he is considerably more agile and adept than his big brother the Wooly Mammoth, let's face it: the animal is a large, furry elephantine monstrosity with a long trunk and over-sized, outdated tusks.

Still, it was with surpisingly lack-of-grace that the Mastodon was able to get inebriated enough to break not one, not two, but three glasses full of various alcoholic beverages on Saturday night. Undoubtedly, the AM's gracious host was more than a little perturbed at the seizing youngster's fits of uncontrol. But part of the AM's charm is his utter inability to function as a normal adult, and thus, to be sure, all in attendance were charmed.

The rest of the Labor Day weekend was spent similarly. Drinking and talking, and not breaking things, a block from the ocean, hundreds of miles from LA, and in the company of the world's most fantastic bulldog.

Belee dat.

Friday, September 03, 2004


Are they going to heaven?


Then there was an old man
Kind and wise with age
And he read me just like a book and he
never missed a page
And I loved him like my father
And I loved him like my friend
And I knew his time would shortly come
but I did not know just when

The American Mastodon is not one to flout his political partisanship on these here electronic pages, but he found this article so interesting he couldn't pass up the opportunity to post it.

7: Number of Arabic linguists fired by the US army between mid-August and mid-October 2002 for being gay.

Those goddamn fag Arab's are fucking up our Military!!!

Thursday, September 02, 2004


Did anybody see this?

Did it remind anybody of this?

If Zell Miller had his own show on TBN, you better believe the AM would watch it. He'd poke some smot, pop some Orville, and giggle like a schoolgirl.