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Name: Melancholy Hauser.
e-mail: mel@whatever-dude.com
Sex: Pseudopod.
Date of Birth: Libratic Condition.
Hobbies: Spitting in the wind, throwing
caution to the wind, breaking like the wind and painting
with all the colors of the wind.
Favorite moviemakers: Tony Fuckin'
Anthony, Terry Gilliam and Jim Jarmusch, among others.
Favorite "Friend": It's a
tossup between Hodge and Lucero--the quotes are
well-earned when they beat me up and take my lunch money
every time we go on a drunken literary roadtrip into the
black unknown.
Dawson or Pacey?: AKINO -and- Ayako
Hamada.
Ideal Partner: A cross between Harley
Quinn and Velma, with astounding pop culture knowledge
and an unhealthy penchant for enjoying the films of
Golan-Globus.
Pop Culture Heroes: Clint Howard. Hunter
S. Thompson. Tony Fuckin' Anthony. Danny and Richard
Elfman. Lester Knight Chaykin and his alien buddy. All
the DJ bombadiers over at remix.overclocked.org.
A little about myself
I wish I had some clever train of serrated thought that I
could lash out with here, but the truth is, it's four in
the morning and my last two working braincells are barely
making sparks. So I'll summarize.
You probably don't know me. You probably haven't seen my
work. You might not care, but I respect you anyways. I'm
a geek. It's been proven time and time again, and I'll
let blood before I repent on that fact. I don't give a
fuck about much. I hate any music that involves an angry
young white man screaming about his girlfriend, or how
much he'd love to kick my ass. I learned everything I
know concerning grit from a fine malt blend of Los
Angeles cornfed rap music and the teachings of the beat
writers. I'm not a wigger. I don't tawk wit' uh accent.
You'd walk right past me on the street. I spend half of
my time inside my skull and the other half looking over
the moment in anticipation of the future. I call Clint
Howard to ask how his par was. The most stupified fifteen
minutes of my adult life were spent on the phone with
Susan Tyrell, who spit me up sex-side then regurgitated
what was left into a shotglass and still smiled about it
the next day. I'll drive all night into the black pitch
of the desert, only to stand at the base of the world's
largest thermometer and wonder silently.. what the hell
all of it sums into.
I'm Melancholy Hauser. I'm nobody. And I thank you
profusely for reading my grey matter given binary breath.
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