» Full Dark, No Stars - Stephen King's new novella questions mankind's ability to trust others.
[02.21.2011 by Bridget Doyle]


 » The Top 30 Albums of 2010 - Fashionably, fabulously late, our favorite music (and believe me, there was a LOT) of 2010, the year that some have called the best year for music ever. And only some of those fools work here. Plenty of usual suspects, lots of ties and a few surprises that I won't spoil, including our unexpected #1.
[12.24.2010 by The LAS Staff]


 » Live: Surfer Blood/The Drums at Lincoln Hall, Chicago, IL - Remember when Weezer used to put together records that you could sing along to and rock out to? That's what Surfer Blood's show was like!
[11.04.2010 by Cory Tendering]

Music Reviews

Screaming Females - Castle Talk
»Screaming Females
Castle Talk
Don Giovanni
Trent Reznor & Atticus Ross - The Social Network [Original Soundtrack]
»Trent Reznor & Atticus Ross
The Social Network [Original Soundtrack]
The Null Corporation
Deerhunter - Halcyon Digest
Halcyon Digest
No Age - Everything in Between
»No Age
Everything in Between
Sub Pop
Robyn - Body Talk Pt. 1/ Body Talk Pt. 2
Body Talk Pt. 1/ Body Talk Pt. 2
The Walkmen - Lisbon
»The Walkmen
Fat Possum

April 21, 2000
Nothing is Evil.

I don't purposely labor on this column anymore, as I am busy constructing a fort(?) on minimum cash, though some things did happen before a certain release of wrong-doings.

The word cash isn't remarkably associated with Thomas S., seeing that even a dangerous intellect with added clout and unduly stiff integrity (not with religion whatsoever - I speak of science and philosophy, damn it), doesn't surmise God's plan of having Money be obtained through professional crafts, but rather slowly and sparingly.

Being an expert in English, and going for walks to prove it, sometimes odd ways become explained, and especially when there's a phone jack available, which thank the holy ghost is not the case in this Hollywood apartment.

None of it is really true, and I have no connection to what gets related or made factually, it's all just personality run-off. And very little of it gets kept or paid for. Where are those color slides? They could be adorning walls in large formats. I could be a great artist, honored in a museum.

I don't believe in evil anymore, thinking that a woman's actions don't add up to any reality but their own, and unless the woman happens to be your wife, then it doesn't matter at all, either way.

I'm not knocking women in the slightest bit, but I do believe in this, well - what they say about how when you act unseemly to one then she will not hesitate to put you in your place. Which is fine, if she is beautiful or smart. To the others though, the crude rejects of common labor and trailer park sodomy, with jaws agape with a genuine implacity - be a woman; if you like me, don't do it because of what another girl said or did. Please, be a woman, and if you find someone interesting or attractive, go for it, you stinking whores. There will be no more erections; I quit with the drugs and I have written in various rooms for 26 months.

Here is a bit of wisdom from my pen: There's a hefty amount of unfortunate shit that happens during life's sentence, especially when you are myself, writing about a malfunctioning and scratched That Dog* disc. But in actuality it is the disc player itself. Though I guess to have never been holed up in a prison cell without even a door to run free from for no more than a week is a triumph in itself, so I write in relief.

(*That Dog is a very popular band from LA with perfect pitch. I noticed that the lead singer, Anna Waronker, was at the same birthday party as me one time. She is very pretty blonde and I like her a lot and enjoy to watch her play the electric guitar in a sundress. I hope to locate her this time out in exotica, drama relief and central circumstance happening to unitize time and space in the city mid-district.)

Unfortunately there's some shit I need to buy though. Soon I hope to take the Bukowski approach to living and stare at the ceiling with my cell phone turned down for the better part of the high and dry afternoon. The soles of my feet are healing, the effects of the dry heat have taken a toll on them.

But today it was raining, and there was a medium fog hanging misfortunately, or rather bemusingly, over the top of the hills and palm trees were visible halfway in the foreground, very tall, and I was wondering where I was.

I did attend a cantina with Mr. Johnny Knoxville, my personal hero and true-to-life savior; one that I could actually see walking around in his mirrored shades, which led me to believe that something very fun would be happening shortly. Afterward, to my benefit, and between the sips from a tall glass bottle of Sapporo, I received a handy massage on my fingertips and non-burger ridden mainframe by Helen of the southwest, who has a nifty technique that is a lot like the Mexican's that I read about.

Immediately afterward I felt relatively human, as Mr. Bukowski himself said in a poem I read, in horror, that very morning.

I say goodbye to the girly girls of the Midwest; you don't appreciate me and I never liked you in the first place. Maybe the stare of a coward, or the wisp of the American that thinks like such a fool for cash and clemency, would have sustained in the grief-stricken concepts of fame and real glamour.

None of this is in actuality evil (or stupid), for I am no longer a complex and half-crude man. Philosophy is written out of necessity, pending an unseemly indigent stay in the Midwest, where I was found to prosper not. But in sight of a clairvoyant mind I find that I did, in ways not yet realized, this particular installment aside of course.

In the near future I will spend an evening with a very tight character-leaden lady, and take out a zero amount of disgust upon her. My Midwestern potbelly is in a slow decline, I am on a diet and have just given up burgers for five years. To boot, I have been using the Ab-Slide at my friend Jeff's hill getaway, and generally running amuck between episodes of Faulkneresque slope walking.

Being sore and nearing a physical peak not witnessed since last skateboarding in these parts a couple of years ago. Intimacy shouldn't have to be searched for, I realized that and actually had to move. You have to be a total mastermind to get laid in this day and age, but I am learning, and through Helen's expertise am approaching the look of a certain chick magnet pro snowboarder type in a striped cap. Basically just doing the star thing and hoping that will work out for... something.

Tom Schmidt
No one really knows anything at all about Tom Schmidt.

See other articles by Tom Schmidt.



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