Archive for the ‘Uncategorized’ Category

Twain hated opera and loathed Wagner as do I. Ride of the Valkyries is kind of a shit piece if you ask me. Twain sought to disabuse the people of nonsense. He did so. Eloquently. Old school Hunter S. Thompson style. Magicians both.

Then there was Poe. Madness and genius. Same as H. P. Lovecraft. A volatile mix. Most likely killed while voting. Seriously.

Capote, Steinbeck and Fitzgerald. Vonnegut, Irving, Bradbury, Banks, Updike and Robbins. Faulkner was always a little too deliberately obscure and symbolic for me. I did record his cousin though, Jason Falkner. Nice guy. Extraordinarily talented. Among the handful of Hollywood musicians I had reason to believe were were aliens. Extraterrestrial. No way could he be from this planet.

Not many female writers come to mind. Ursula K. Le Guin’s Earthsea Trilogy was remarkable and Ann Rice was certainly firing on all pistons early on.

I have to wonder about the origin of genius. Can’t help it. I’ve certainly witnessed it. Right in front of me, mostly in recording studios and books. What impresses me is consistency. The good ones just keep doing it until their flame goes out. They produce art because they can’t help it. They are compelled. They simply must. Among all the things I don’t understand about brilliance, this is one thing I can relate to. It’s a compulsion. I can’t not. This I understand.

“Life is a comedy for those who think… and a tragedy for those who feel.” -Horace Walpole

We can’t all be geniuses. I’m sure the chances for divine inspiration are even more remote. Heh.

Two things I know. I’m no genius but I believe I can spot it. I’ve known a few geniuses I can’t like, I’d be just as happy to hit them in the face. Two more things: Despite years of service, my toilet plunger still wears it’s original price tag. Whomever is responsible for that adhesive might just be a genius. Life is huge. Um yeah, two things.

Let’s talk about the rest. A painting that hangs over the mantel. No matter how often I look, I still like. It’s why I hung it there. A melody, a solo or a bridge you can play over and over after years of playing it over and over. Movies and books. Al used to say there’s a fine line between clever and stupid. The line between crazy and brilliant is pretty thin as well.

I can’t remember breasts ever making a single sound. This, despite the time they spend in my mind.

Artistic geniuses always bring you to a profound place. Good or bad. They remind you while they move you. It’s that ability that is the hallmark. The ugly people know who they are. There’s a possibility it’s the rest of us that are out of are minds. I’m thinking it’s quite likely.

Perhaps the artists are sane.

I wondered about the creative process and thought about how I’ve often been able to see what I’m doing before I’m done. So I called two of my best artist friends to get their take on it. What they told me was consistent with what I already know. I can see it but not completely. I don’t see it finished. Sometimes I think I do but I’m lying. Often it changes almost completely. There were times though, that I saw it almost completely. Those occasions were really cool.

Dennys gave away free breakfasts yesterday. Had to be there by two. Missed it. Hmmm.

Kobe scored sixty one points the other night. Another art.

This guy Chris Hataway called me a little while ago. He’s a genius. One of the two I polled for this piece. He called to wish me a happy birthday. He missed it by three days but at least he was early. I was happy to talk to him. I bet he still hasn’t read my book. Prick.

The Fish did me a solid today. Thank you. Friend.

Drinks for my friends.

Our Man admits he “screwed up”.

One word. Wow. Or maybe, fuckmerunnin.

I’ll state the obvious by pointing out it’s the first time we’ve heard any thing like that in about eight years.

Geitner’s imbroglio was one thing but Daschle’s had become a flaming sack of canine fecal matter on very well known doorstep. Quite another thing, see. I’m confident Our Man ordered it removed. He’s not stupid. He’s doubled the IQ of previous occupants of the big White House on his own.

Sucks cause I really like Tom Daschle. He would have been very effective. Big loss. I think that’s where the rubber met the road here. Obama, being the erudite individual so many of us fell in love with, realized that Daschle was one of the few individuals with the respect and gravitas to spearhead genuinely efficacious healthcare reform. A player.

He knew he was perhaps the best man for the job and therefore America’s best shot at equitable, decent and affordable medicine.

Sad. Daschle screwed the pooch. He did it to his own self. He mayhap would’ve rocked.

This business about Michael Phelps potentially arrested for being photographed doing a bong rip is absurd. Leon Lott, the sheriff of Richland county South Carolina is rather obviously a publicity slut. I like the message, however inadvertently, Phelps is sending. Even record breaking olympian athletes can and should smoke the Devil’s foliage if they want to.

If more Republicans did they would be less inclined to wipe their dicks on their own drapes.

It’s fine with me if you don’t as long as you take no exception to those that do. I should point out that if you read me regularly, you understand that I’m fond of beelzebub’s garden. Yes, I’m on the pot. I also like Bombay Saphire ($28.88 this week at Ralph’s), Vicodon, Percoset, Cheladas and Xanax roughly in that order.

We’re gonna go ahead and nickname him ‘Leon The Lott’ in case he’s stupid enough to pursue this.

I’m trying to make a point but nothing happens.

Denny’s gave away a free breakfast today and I can’t believe I missed it.

Drinks for my friends.

Title courtesy of Jon Stewart.

Subject: The stimulus bill.

He didn’t invite them to his table, he sought to sit at theirs. He told them what he intended to do and solicited their contributions. He asked them for their ideas. He made concessions. Diluted his ideas with theirs in the spirit of bipartisanship.

Despite such pointed magnanimity, every single Republican in the house walked away. Irresponsible, single minded, tunnel vision afflicted pricks. Shameful and embarrassing. How ridiculous. Yes Virginia, Republicans are not only assholes, but deaf, dumb and blind assholes.

He knows better than they do that he doesn’t need them. They’ve been marginalized by their own actions. They are fools and he understands this better than they do. He didn’t do this to them, they are prisoners of their own device.

He walked straight at them with hands open and they chose instead to piss into the wind. Let the record show they are damp and they stink.

Like soldiers stranded on remote islands with no evidence the war is over.

Punks. Dipshits. The most clueless union of fucktards to ever inhabit our government since they were the most clueless union of fucktards ever in power. Children.

“Why behave in public when you’re living on a playground?” -David Lee Roth

Stay with me.

Are we to expect this sort of partisan obstinance to continue? Did they not get the memo? Do they not understand that they are over? Ignorance does not always prove to be bliss. Led by House Minority Leader John Boehner (Boner), The Repugnicunts marched in jackbooted lockstep. Lemmings. They haven’t even bothered to wet a finger and hoist it. They still think it’s 1992. Chronic insouciance.

Boner quotes:

“This Was a Bipartisan Rejection of a Partisan Bill” Um, what? How can it be a bipartisan rejection when it was a single party exclusively doing the rejection? Spot the retard.

“I’m just a Congressman, so I have no opinions about what the government does. My opinion on waterboarding is classified information.” -WEBCommentary

John Boehner is a clueless dickhead. The poor dumb saps from Ohio got him as substitute teacher after Tom DeLay was forced to walk the plank.

I say slash every concession out of the bill, every unecessary tax cut and let them eat goddamn cake. Our man should take full advantage of the bully pulpit and otherwise let be what will be.

There is no tangible difference between House Republicans like Boner and the CEOs that rode corporate jets to to Washington to beg for money. No different than the megalomaniacal Wall Street captains that took tax payer money for bonuses in an awe inspiring display of ostentatious avarice.

I gotta give it to Claire McCaskill for proposing legislation that would cap salaries for Wall Street execs of firms recieving TARP money at $400k, the same as President of The United States. “These people are idiots. You can’t use taxpayer money to pay out $18-billion in bonuses… What planet are these people on?” -Daily Kos

Couldn’t have said it better myself. How many of the aforementioned would you guess are Republican? I imagine the answer would delight me.

I’m reasonably sure that this style of creep is on the verge of extinction. I’d like to believe that anyway. One thing is certain, they are no longer at the wheel and that is encouraging. Fools. Insidious fools.

If House Republicans are in any way representative of the future of their party, it may be time for them to contemplate the most flattering diorama they can afford in backward ass country fuck museums across our great land. Dinosaurs anyone? Neanderthal. Cro-Magnon at the very least. Reptilian perhaps. Assholes without a doubt.

The diorama itself would have to depict various men and women in obvious sartorial business splendor fellating a variety of other similiarly attired beltway professionals with wheelbarrows of filthy lucre at the ready and nearby. The obligatory backround matte painting would include poor folks suffering from hazardous chemical contamination, non US citizens impoverished and displaced by war and The Constitution being defecated on et al.

Don’t let the door hit ya where the good lord split ya you miserable bastards.

Drinks for my friends.

There is mad potential to read any given face. Much to be learned by countenance and demeanor. The younger you are, the fewer arrows in your quiver, fewer bullets spent, less likely you have any idea who you are. Less to know from your face.

The older the face, the more there is to see.

Beyond all that, I’m confident the human face is relatable, despite the plethora of bias and prejudice we are consistently shithammered with by institutions of religion, politics, racism, bigotry and media. An elaborate but clumsily orchestrated indoctrination that is visible on all our faces by the time we reach forty years of age. Not just America. Any “civilized” country in the world.

That sort of assault leaves scars.

Yup. Always.

There are times I’m able to see behind people’s eyes. I always look to an eye when I’m talking with someone. The trick is to pick one and focus on it. Otherwise, the other person sees you searching back and forth and that’s never going to work in your favor. It’s also your best shot at catching a glimpse.

I was downtown in the jewelry district today, trying to seal a deal for a fellow agent. I brought papers for a man to sign and he kept lowering his eyes, almost intently staring at my throat or chest when he spoke.

Disconcerting.

I began to understand the deal was unlikely to get done this day. He had legitimate points and concerns and I was unfamiliar with the history and specifics. His reluctance to look me in the eye, particularly as he spoke to me, allowed me to see this. I’m not one to aggressively negotiate when I don’t have all the facts ma’am. I might do more harm than good.

I couldn’t help but wonder what I was doing there.

I fell back to friendly and conciliatory. Assuring and soothing. I made sure he knew his agent would eliminate all wrinkles before moving forward and left the paperwork with him after seeing he had a fax machine.

I talked peripherally. Since Christmas I’ve been carrying appraisal and gem certification documents for an engagement ring I bought in my man purse. I asked his opinion on this ring I bought some seven years ago. He was happy to help. He began to look me in the eye.

He showed me actual wholesale price sheets detailing current rates for a stone similiar in color and clarity to mine broken down by carat weight. He confessed there were newer price sheets, his were well worn. It may be worth more. We parted friends and he gave me his card letting me know he’d be happy to introduce me to the right person were I to decide to sell the stone. He shook my hand and patted me on the back as I left.

I’d done my best. I went in search of a greasy hot dog to tick up my countdown to angioplasty, preferably from a street vendor. Grilled onions, mustard and some lemonade. Looking for the real deal and I found it. Three or four blocks down Broadway under a red and blue umberella. Plenty of napkins. I ate it on a bus bench. Stayed and had a smoke after, while I watched the people.

The afternoon shadows imposed by towering spires were epic. A static parade and a moveable feast.

What I saw in their faces was astonishing. Not so much pain as indifference. Hopelessness and resignation. Not like a mall, where there is empty optimism. The malls here are ghost towns these days anyway. No trouble finding parking.

Far more organic with a much stronger pulse. What they wore in their eyes and on the fronts of their heads was far more visceral and genuine than what’s available in a mall. Nothing to hide. A matter of least concern.

Desperation was a step these people had already moved well beyond. They live and that’s all. One day, one hour at a time.

It hit me that I was simultaneously in love and in hate with the world. No ephinany, just realization. Neither good nor bad. Reality. My reality. Everyone has their own.

I loathe boxing movies. No suspension of disbelief. I like submarine movies.

Drinks for my friends.

She was an ugly woman. Homely. A tremendous lantern jaw with a prominent cleft in a hemispherical swell at the tip of her chin. Any attempts to restrain the growth of the spindly but wiry black stalks and the requisite follicles of her upper lip and below her ears, was futile.

Discolored craters in her cheeks partially filled by a face paste not nearly up to the job. She was more than uncomely.

Her legs, given the task of supporting her all but shapeless largesse, appeared impossible. Unlikely to support her bulk for an entire day’s activities. Like the stems on a giant piano that would no doubt fail to afford any ambulatory activity. Her ankles gave me specific pause. They appeared to be seconds from snapping despite being stationary.

She wore copious perfume, acrid and never adequate in masking the natural funk of her secretions. No matter the garish garment she wore, her back and under arms seeped stains and were an obvious source of her elaborate pungence.

She spoke loud, with shrieking enthusiasm. She shouted “gotdamn” because she was God fearing. Normal to her in her head. A menthol fueled guttural cough and a viscous chuckle.

Her teeth were grey, gapped and stained by cheap lipstick, coffee and cigarrettes.

She sold Avon. She was from Oklahoma. Her husband’s name was Melvin. He looked like a Melvin. He possessed a grotesque tongue. It was always on display when licking his thumbs to count money or shuffle and deal cards. An organ that escaped his maw to reveal scarring and sickly violet color. He eventually elevated himself to City Supervisor. An elected post. They lived in a trailer about a mile away off a dirt road.

She was an awful cook. Her yams were stringy and her turkey was always dry. Lumpy mashed potatos and gravy without flavor.

She was the sweetest woman you could possibly imagine. Her name was Arlene. They were hicks. Oakies. But very good people. She loved me because she loved my parents. Always very good to me. She had love in her heart.

Two daughters and a son. Mike, Barbara and Mary Jo.

I remember Mike losing part of his heel to a motorcycle. He later spent a stretch in jail. Mary Jo took it upon herself to become popular. She was a cheerleader. Possible in my hick town despite one’s lineage.

Barbara often babysat me along with her mother. Barb was smart and saw something in me I think. She read to me in Spanish and from the bible for the beauty of the language.

I always recieved Christmas presents from them but for a few years there were presents from the family and an exclusive present from Barb. Arlene was generous with Avon products intended for young men. Barb bought me board games and things she imagined would stimulate or encourage me.

I learned on my last trip home for Christmas that Barb had passed. She had abundant red hair and wisdom and humor beyond anyone in her clan. Welcome to haunt me. To be a ghost in my slumber should she choose. I always felt like we never finished.

Sometimes life is a well maintained pinball machine. Other times it’s a ball peen hammer on the glass. There’s always blood.

Drinks for my friends.

Studio City. Never seen a hooker walking the street in The Valley. Goes without saying I’ve never seen a transgender hooker in The Valley.

Suddenly, there was one in the 7-11 two nights ago buying condoms. They always have the most impossible faces. Distended in the strangest directions. Cheek implants and lips like sausages. Eyebrows drawn on over bald, or plucked into a clown arch. Femininity exaggerated into the realm of caricature.

This one was black and had the longest face I’d ever seen. Her chin was enormous yet came to a point. First glimpse was confusing but not unpleasant. The second glimpse bought me a little more than confusion. You just never see trannies in The Valley. She ambled out expertly in five inch stilletos and climbed into the passenger side of a Mercedes SUV parked just around the corner. She was soiled. Dirty. She was doing her best but she looked like she’d been sleeping outside. As neat as she could manage, but not clean under the Kelvin temperature of a convenience store glare.

Tonight I’m coming around the corner and there are four of them, including the one from two nights ago.

My first thought is they’re like animals driven from the forest of Hollywood, much less to be had there these days. Like wolves or raccoons searching for sustenance. It’s a sad thought.

None of this really bothers me. It’s more color in my life. Entertaining. I lived in Hollywood for over a decade and transexual prostitutes were just a part of the scenery. The Fish and I had a game called “Spot The Dude”, upon catching sight of one dude looks like lady, one simply uttered that phrase and it was up to the other to clock the shemale in question. The grocery store, Rock and Roll Denny’s (RIP) or the mall. Good times.

I’ve always had what can best described as a morbid fascination for personal ads. When I first moved to Los Angeles, I discovered the LA Weekly, a full bowl of personal ads. Didn’t take long for me to notice the hooker paper, “The LA Express”. It was full of personal ads with a special section in the middle for hookers and trannies in full color.

I swear I’m going to wrap presents in it someday. It’s awesome. The shemales can’t seem to spell the word ‘functional’ and the publication doesn’t give a mad fuck. The straight ones not any better. Babey, breats, mines…………. I leave it on the back of the toilet because there’s spectacularly bad articles too.

They’re enigmatic to me. Chicks with dicks. I’m not sure why. I want to talk to them but I have no idea what to say. What is their ideal? Where exactly do they expect to land? I want to tell them that as a kid growing up in a small town, I never would have imagined they existed. I also want to tell them that sometimes they try too hard. Tell them that they end up looking like 80’s vampires or aliens. Can’t they see that? Do their customers like that?

Halloween everyday.

What’s the deal? Do you want to look like that or do you have to?

I’ve seen some pretty ones but they aren’t nearly as interesting. The pretty ones are always clean. I can’t discount the idea that females are born in a male body

To this day I still peruse the personals on craigslist. I can’t help it. “I’m a intelegent women”. Sheezus. I love it.

Seems to me that those ‘Lunchable’ jobbers from Oscar Mayer used to come with some lube.
Honey mustard or some goddamn thing.

Drinks for my friends.

We made this record once. Turns out it was brilliant.

Lush and complex, with balanced flavors of spice and chocolate milk. Nestle’s Quick. Cinnamon pastries, wasabi, soy and ginger. Kung Pao and various sauces including Hollandaise, port reductions, gravy and marinara.

Flowers and rainy wind. Lazy motes in a sunny meadow.

Nevermind the textures and colors.

Nearly a decade went by, I never listened to it. I didn’t care about it. Dug it out one night to impress a girl because the acoustic tracks were pretty and I could tell by her eyes she would like them.

It’s one of the very best things I ever had anything to do with.

I barely remember making it.

Alex.

It was Alex, that little fucker made sure it was a great big lovely record. His feather gathered mass over my anvil. He knew exactly what he was doing. He walked me through it, using my anvil when he needed it. You can hear where he did it. He used a bullhorn to demand my anvil. Emasculating. I was a monkey with a hardon for a beach ball and he saw it. He began by showing me pictures of the ball. He continued with elaborate puppet theater. Towards the end, hypnotisim.

In no time at all, I was a sideshow.

The production is extraordinary and it really is there the soul of Alex.

I was lucky.

His creative musical genius for arrangement and nuance amazes me. Born on the same day, we were otherwise polar opposites he and I. He was the architect, I was the general contractor and the subcontractors were all spectacular lunatics. You can almost never go wrong when pairing eggs with cheese and champagne with fruit. Champagne with eggs, cheese and fruit.

I like brunch.

There was Betsy, leader of the lunatics, exceptionally bright, extraordinarily talented and somehow, we’d earned her trust. She sang celestial and played with terrible conviction. She composed like a vulnerable wraith.

Betsy gathered quite the formidable parade of shiny muses. Calliope and Euterpe. Melpomene to Thalia. We had a blast. I don’t know how I wasn’t in love with what we’d done or her. I remember working at a pretty grueling pace and sometimes being confused by exactly what overdub we were in the middle of.

But that shit was normal.

Michael Whitaker too. He’s all over this thing. Crazy bastard. Feedback Monarchy. Mellotron mendacity. The personalities in that tiny control room left a pastel vapor trail that would show up like smoke under certain sensors to this day.

Actually, we only did the first nine of sixteen songs on the record. Michael P. Tak of Carnival Art fame recorded the rest at his home studio, “Sweaty Elvis”. Those songs were mixed at Triad in Seattle.

Our assistants were Bamford, Srebalus and Sperger. Bamford ended up playing bass on the song True Fluid and he fucking nailed it. He engineered a Weezer record a few years back. Srebalus has produced a documentary film. Sperger is a bathroom attendant in a Vegas titty bar.

Somehow, I didn’t really get it by the time we were finished. I was still upside down.

Al often shined (sic), but never more consistently, never so inspired, as on this record.

He had fun. There was a point where I surrendured the entire thing to him. Maybe it was early in the mixes, but I think it was well before that. He knew exactly what we were all doing. I did the best I could to be a shit hot engineer.

We ended up bringing in an auxilliary console for some of the mixes. Eight channel Neve broadcast consoles on wheels we called “Sidecars” for submixing etc. A ton of experimenting and ludicrous methodology. Backwards tape and lotsa flangers. Those days, A&M studios was a mall for gear sluts. We were prostitutes just inside the mall’s main entrance.

We earned a decent living and never wanted for gear.

Betsy slept in the live room. Not because she had no place to go. She was owning it.

She gave me a first edition Steinbeck, “Tortilla Flat” with the sweetest most honest letter I’ve ever recieved folded in it’s pages.

She was effusive with fruit. Ask me about it sometime.
She brought in a machine to make us lattes.

“incidents and accidents…….hints and allegations…..”

I’ve spoken to her a few times in the last few years but I’ve been a little self involved and have no idea how to reach her now. She has no idea of my sheer joy with this record. I started to tell Alex but I need to finish. This piece will help.

The bottom line is this. If you don’t like this record, the fault lies with Alex as he took it upon himself to rest his nutsack on my left cheek and all the while I allowed it. He was driving. I rarely remember taking the wheel.

It get’s worse. He then took the best I could possibly do and directed it towards his own vision. He used me. A kind but insidious man.

His hands were always much larger than his feet when it came to mixing. He’d have this schedule of mutes and fader moves we had to perform perfectly before we could go home. Just about every record we did was manually mixed. I was there to make things girthy and/or pretty. Once I did that I was thinking about whiskey and noodles in that order.

Al was way more musical. He was the doctor and I was the monster.

I liked making cymbals sound like silver air. Drums like mountains. Guitars like giant vibrating walls of electricity and dirty oil. Bass guitars taste like chunky peanut butter on mayonnaise covered popcorn with a side of maple syrup. Brass, woodwinds, strings, harmonicas, concertinas, banjos, percussion, all tasting like cheese from mild to sharp or fruit from sweet to sour. Sourdough toast with butter and orange marmalade. Best job ever. Except it never leaves you.

Do it right and you end up with a very drinkable wine.

You can take words but never even attempt to borrow a concept.

Drinks for my friends.

Last night I was full to bursting with ideas, things I wanted to tell you about. Sinister and lucid. Piss and vinegar. Last night my adorable cat Beddy (short for Bedhead – nom de Fish), successfully executed her new hobby of tipping over any liquid bearing vessel into my wireless keyboard. Dead in the water. Pun intended.

Gin may have faired better due to the lesser electrical conductivity of alcohol. Beats me.

Tonight I got nuthin. Tonight, my goddamn Direct TV is out so I can’t count on television to piss me off. Don’t worry, I’ll come up with something, I always do. It will be the inaugural voyage on my new, really cool, post modern Mac keyboard. Excited? Good. Me Too.

I got sock radar. If there’s two clean socks in this place, I will find them in minutes.

Excuse me while I smoke some pot. I like pot. It’s like a push up bra. It makes an already good thing better.

Good. Now, I’m pretty stoked over the bold moves Our Man has made in his first few days. I’m impressed.

New White House press Secretary Robert Gibbs reiterated the Obama administration’s commitment to overturn the Don’t Ask Don’t Tell Policy on the change.gov website. No time table but pretty cool. The positive rhetoric in a number of Obama’s campaign speeches regarding gays and lesbians, particularly in the context of minorities was like a lighthouse to us bleeding heart lefties. No, I’m not gay, but I welcomed it as evidence that our man sees the plight of the gay and transgender communities as a black and white civil rights issue.

Again, pun intended.

He’s so cool.

Broad and profound ethical, even moral implications. Precisely why government should abstain from any involment or policy here. Our military will neither discriminate nor favor any group based on ethnicity or sexual orientation. You hypocritical conservatives who pine for smaller and less involved government must have blown expensive post lunch single malt out of your cake holes over this one.

Obama reversed the “Mexico City Policy” as well. First enacted by Reagan, it prohibits any family planning organization that recieves American money from offering abortion services or abortion counseling. A really dumb Christian ethic to impose on third world countries. We should be bombing Africa with condoms and birth control pills.

Our man called it a “political wedge issue,” and said he had, “no desire to continue this stale and fruitless debate.” -CNN. Another move so disconcerting to the neo religious conservative dickheads, that they called for a man named Bob to to sponge their collective square pants.

Then there was this:
“As of today, lobbyists will be subject to stricter limits than under any other administration in history. If you are a lobbyist entering my administration, you will not be able to work on matters you lobbied on, or in the agencies you lobbied during the previous two years. When you leave government, you will not be able to lobby my administration for as long as I am president.” -Rachel Maddow

Wow. The collective pucker and panic over that one most likely impacted the carbon footprint of the entire beltway. There were some cries over Our Man’s near instant plea to bend the rules for a former Raytheon exec. he wants for Deputy Sec. Def. Campbell Brown got a little indignat and weepy over it but she would do well to realize that if this were Dumbya and friends, we wouldn’t ever have known about it in the first place. We still don’t know who was on Darth Cheney’s energy task force or even what they decided.

Limbaugh and O’Reilly quacked liked ducks and crapped like geese this week.

Bill O’Reilly had this to say:

“Besides his lack of experience, Panetta opposes many of the CIA’s anti-terror measures. He’s against any kind of coerced interrogation, wants the FISA overseas wiretap law repealed, and would completely disband the rendition program whereby the CIA sends captured terror suspects to be held and interrogated in other countries.

Without those tools, which former CIA Chief George Tenet and others say have been very effective in uncovering terror plots, the agency’s ability to disrupt potential attacks would be gravely damaged.” -freerepublic.com

There was more but I need to stop this fucking pinhead right there. George Tenet is a clueless, inept mouthbreather. No better than Mike Brown of Arabian horse fame and the former head of FEMA. You really want to keep your stock in a retard like Tenet instead of giving a smart accomplished guy like Panetta an initial benefit of the doubt? You sir, are an idiot. A buffoon. I suspect your penis barely functions.

Limbaugh pulled that little string and this gusher ensued:

A week after saying he “hope(s) he fails” about Obama, Limbaugh this week said, ”We are being told we have to hope he succeeds, that we have to grab our ankles…because his father was black, because he’s the first black president,we’ve got to accept this.” -MSNBC.com

I’m barely employed so I have very little to lose. I’m thinking I might move to Florida, discover the Human Shitsmear’s most favored eateries and rub my dick on everything he eats.

They are over. Both of them. Read my lips.

In the meantime, looks to me like he’s walking straight at it. His name is Barack Hussein Obama, he’s from Chicago by way of Hawaii and he’s not here to fuck around.

Drinks for my friends.

God is good, God is great, thank you for the food on this plate.

My three favorite words: Former President Bush.

What sort of populace gets behind a John McCain and a Sarah Palin? Sheezus.

Barack Hussein Obama is our new President. A lovely, classy and intelligent wife, Michelle Obama, is our new First Lady. Along with Malia and Sasha we have a shining new First Family.

Kinda golden.

Already so much light and hope against such obvious contrast of our last First Family and the politics of fear the entire administration breathed and exhaled. Dark, evil bastards. Insert stir sticks into each of their penises because they all sucked so bad. Yes Condi too.

Pricks.

The pooch could not have been screwed any harder, more egregiously or with any more violence. History will judge, in a matter of fact fashion and the administration of George W. Bush will either be seen as the catalyst for the end of humankind or the worst in in American history. Pray for the latter.

With all my anticipation, hope, skepticism, doubt and excitement, I still can barely believe this is happening. Such a profound accomplishment, such a miraculous turn of events. I’m only able to liken it to some monumental but individual achievement. Lance Armstrong or Michael Phelps. Unbelievable humans but it really is so much bigger than that.

Exponentially larger.

The thing is this; one man has inspired an entire nation more than enough for it’s people to move in concert with a singular purpose.

Surreal indeed. Huge. In the context of world history, in the course of human events, massive, a gravity all its own.

So very disillusioned, disenchanted and disgusted with my fellow Americans, I wasn’t able to imagine a day like today. There were times so long and bleak, I assumed we were lost. Too far gone. Eight long years with every bigot, redneck, head in the sand ignorant bastard, gleefully but unwittingly complicit in America’s demise. The great unwashed appeared to have prevailed. All the good and the just forgotten and those who had dared pay attention could no longer be bothered to care. Stupidity and apathy ruled the day.

I championed Kucinich for his outrageous honesty. I still adore The Little Paste Eater. Then Edwards for his sincere populism and what I saw as enough charisma to make him electable. I will tell you that a year or so ago, I didn’t believe Our Man had a chance. I never doubted him, I did however, underestimate the American people. Forgive me, I had every reason.

Best mistake I’ve ever made. As thrilled as I’ve ever been to be completely wrong.

He began to remind us that this thing was not about him, it was about us. He was right. Unmistakably. That really is the short answer to how this happened. It was his confidence, composure, intelligence and cool. It was his message, his conviction and the unmitigated, egalitarian truth of what he was telling us.

The other thing is this; he does not hesitate to remind, this is about us. In other words, if we fail to stay engaged, forget to pay attention and participate, we will be lost. Exactly how we got this far is how we will succeed. Nothing less will do. He tells us without reluctance that he will falter. He says as much to let us know that when he does, the onus is ours to rise up and be heard.

He’s does not merely ask us. He’s telling us.

It is obvious that Our Man is antithetical to the last man we called leader. One hundred eighty degrees opposite. Phase shift complete. A crisp, abrupt and elegant reversal of ideas and approach. Above all, inclusive as opposed to exclusive. The size of government matters far less than whether or not it actually works.

He stands and he will deliver. He is extraordinarily capable and adroit, but each of us must assume responsibility. Individually and collectively.

He’s telling us this won’t work unless we are right here with him, his family and all the lawmakers and bureaucrats around him. Without you and I, America executes a pristine belly flop, an immaculate face plant, an end of times as we understand them.

Let me explain something else to you. Real Blues music is there to make you happy, not sad. See, they sing and play about hard times but The Blues is about performance and passion. If it’s real you walk away with a smile and your heart is a little bit lighter.

If it’s real, it’s like putting your hand in rich dark soil and coming up with an onion or a fat carrot.

I’m here to tell you that since there is no rest for the wicked, there is barely a lungfull for the rest of us.

Miles to go before we sleep.

Drinks for my friends.

The most elaborate and imposing apparatus ever constructed to paint a room.

Lit like a boxing match.

See it from a mile.

A ridiculously grandiose set of circumstances.

The wall of one room removed for a live cutaway. My house. Where I grew up. Tree in the front yard. Moon in the backyard. Pancackes, pot roasts, dead cats, snow, rain, early mornings and late nights. Genuine random. One constant was the smell of my feet. Another was my drumkit. Comic books. Chewing tobacco and dark beer. My house dissected like science fair project. Absolutely impossible yet it all took place.

An enormous, convoluted steel and hydraulic apparatus for the painting of one small room. It stretches through back yards and occupies most of the block well before it begins to even labor and pump. Thrust, grind and mash. Pulverize and obliterate. It’s huge, smoking and steaming and spewing.

Workers scurry, pound and shovel. They shout and signal among themselves. I’m wearing a hardhat. Eye suffocating goggles that relentlessly shift from yellow to green to blue. Some mask for breathing. Feels like I’m in deep sea gear.

Illuminated like the scaffolding at midnight on a twenty four hour casino job.

Sprawling and archaic. I explain the deed can be done easily with aerosol cans or a rented compressor. Rollers and pans, brushes and cans. So much easier than this. They won’t hear me. So much simpler.

I’m so angry I choke the ends of my sentences.

They don’t listen. Not as though they can’t. Much more like they won’t. It spooks me.

They keep building. Assembling with machines themselves the size of houses. Monstorous vats filled with molten metal and boiling concrete, bubbling like simmering sauce. Cauldrons baking the damp earth in my chilhood back yard.

Splattering sparks and startling discharges of air and steam. The periphery of my senses kept busy with all things making me flinch.

I’m trapped here and there, now and then, by the giant engines and the things they are building. Malicious, mindless. Climbing out while watching for sudden tons of movement or keeping distance from an industrial dragon gone senseless.

Madness and they won’t listen.

I make it to the bathroom in time to witness all water pissing on every book I’ve ever owned. Hundreds, maybe thousands. My bathroom. Familiar. No soap. No shower curtain. No valve for the water. Nothing to do. The water slows pissing and stars gushing. I haven’t stepped foot in that bathroom in almost twenty five years. It haunts me, that bathroom.

Dad is on the roof hammering so hard the noise is from a cartoon.

Construction continues so before I know it I stand in the middle of what appears as a refinery Sunlight from the west glances off it’s gleaming spires. My boots are dry but caked and heavy. Wild iron contrivances looming like Vegas billboards along the 15, the size of office building skeletons without yet any concrete or glass for skin.

Bristling with cranes and open elevators, lifts and chutes.

Equipment dangles and sways. Before I know it, everything commences to swing and twirl like carnival rides and it’s all I can do to keep from getting crushed by the whipping insect head of an oil pump or sliced to ribbons from braided steel blown and slashing by an impossible tempest.

It’s these machines I fear the most as no human sits atop them.

Death is everywhere until a young latin boy in a tailgated old Chevy shows up on a construction elevator with hot dogs, tacos and flan but no onions or clean napkins. I see the front of his facade is a regular food truck and we’re dealing out of the back. I speak spanish to him but he ignores my requests or acts as though he can’t understand me.

I know better than to ask for mayo.

Just then, one of our forklifts is completely obliterated by a heavy metal object orbiting with abandon from a crane broken loose for reasons I can’t grasp or even see. I watch it’s arc and hold my breath at it’s apogee until it comes all the way down. The violence of it is breathtaking. It obliterates the dense little appliance like a wrecking ball vs. an ice sculpture. The forklift explodes and I see a man’s head cave like an egg filled with berries and pale pudding.

It’s chaos and massive amounts of burning steel lands like munition everywhere but where I stand. Destruction so sudden and extreme I can’t run.

The smell is is metal and fuel exhaust, fossil lubricants and the grit that finds it’s way into your lungs and under your nails. And burning. Burning. Tar. Constant fire.

The irony is not lost on me as it’s all for a very small thing. A task for two humans for an afternoon, maybe two.

At this point, I begin to wonder why my mind is playing me this movie. It’s not the first time it’s done this sort of thing. It’s crazy, my mind. It does this sort of thing. It plays me really weird movies.

It’s not who you are but where you are. Waitaminute. Not where you are but who you are. Something like that.

Who wants to go sledding?

Drinks for my friends.

I’m gonna tell you something and I’m not sure why.

I’m not religious at all. I have nothing but disdain and disgust for any organized religion. It’s a joke. All of it, Santa in the sky with diamonds for adults just about anywhere. People really should know better. That’s not a picture of God in that book, on that candle or in that fresco.

What it is, is mankind’s single most pervasive and insidious problem.

The concept of sin is a different matter. It’s not as simple as not believing in or caring about your God.

I’m well acquainted with sin. I do my best but I falter. Yesterday, a lifelong friend; one who has stuck by me and never let me down. I let him down. I disregarded him, his loyalty and his concern merely because I was able to solve my problem without him. Stupid and thoughtless. Nevermind the anger, the pain in his voice was humiliating. I know sin.

He knows I’m sorry but it’s not enough right now and I understand.

A good man with shoeboxes of integrity in his closets. I took him for granted. Huge stupid thing to do.

I’ll make it right. I have to. Not just because I depend on this man, but because he deserves it. I can explain some of it so it’s not the worse thing he was thinking, but it is ultimately my thoughtless mistake. Not entirely thoughtless because I was thinking of only myself.

Among the worst sins, are self involvement.

Sin.

I’m disappointed in me and so is he. Sometimes close friends are a mirror, actually, most of the time they are. They allow you to see yourself and hopefully you’re able to return the favor. If each of you are so lucky, you don’t always like what you see. That’s the gift and the tragedy of letting someone inside. No free lunch, but when it’s just a cheeseburger, sometimes it tastes like a juicy pork chop wrapped in bacon with shrimp and a nice zinfandel.

I’m not gonna dwell on it but I got hit in the face with a serious lesson yesterday and I totally had it coming.

Sometimes, I’m still a dick. It happens less these days but seems to matter way more everytime.

It’s of the utmost importance to figure out who you are. You will struggle with it constantly and you may never figure it out completely, but you really must keep trying. Sooner or later one must own one’s self. You cannot even begin to estimate another until you begin to understand yourself. Do the math.

The ego is a curious thing. The id is a walk in the park. Not really, but my best advice is to get a grip on the id. Duh. Grab it by it’s skinny goddamn neck and wail away. I did. I didn’t kill it, I established dominance. I’m better for it.

No matter how old you get, there’s still growing up to do

It’s allright, but I still do things I shouldn’t. I try not to tell anybody.

People are people wherever you go.

Drinks for my friends.

What I don’t understand would fill volumes. Shelves. Fucking municipal libraries.

There are days when everything I encounter confuses me. On those days, at the ends of those days, I am nearly mad.

Then there are days, when I have the entire universe by the tail. Far and few and once again, lots of real estate between them.

I’m not about to bitch. I’ve been up, I’ve been down.

I can’t stand it. The space between.

I’m thinking about faking my own death. For the money. Gotta figure out how to make money on it first. Ha!

I saw someone today I’ve known for nearly two decades. I can’t describe it. Studied, well thought out attire. A disaster though. Not a good look. As I approached this person, to do the hug and hello, I was doing the mental ‘what the fuck’. I’m no fashion maven, but it was a trainwreck in technicolor. Tragic.

Anyway, did ya see where Dick Cheney slipped and fell into a transexual today? It’s all over the news. Afterwards he tried to beat her. Thank the powers that be for the Secret Service. Google it. Dumbya choked out again on the couch. Fell on the floor. Pissed himself. This time it was a hot dog. They say there was a half empty bottle of cheap whiskey in the room.

Serious journalists everywhere wondered if the bottle wasn’t actually half full.

Also today, Condi Rice was photographed in the midst of a tryst with her oral hygienist. No word on the hygienist’s gender. Reports are conflicting, she appears to be a very submissive but masculine female with an excellent record of dentistry. An aspiring oral surgeon with an emphasis on cosmetic procedure. Hobbies are weight training and curling. Boxing and cello.

Scooter Libby, although not facing prison time, was ass raped recently by a gargantuan Samoan. No word on gender. The stock market rebounded and a nice cake was served at Gitmo. Minorities across the country were lighthearted.

A similiar fate met Roberto Gonzales today. All accounts appear to indicate Rudolph Guiliani as the masculine part of the duo and it seems this conjoinment is at least somewhat consensual. Apparently, Gertie was willing. Eager. I’m guessing he’s not down with long and uncut.

It’s all true. Really. Mimes are hanging out with rodeo clowns. Middle class Republicans are beginning to realize they’re gay. It’s all leading up to something. Soon there will be log cabin villages where there was once forests. Plants are about to be burned as fuel like you can’t believe.

I can’t remember the last time I owned a toaster. Did you know most folks don’t like mushrooms? I didn’t either. I just made that up. Nobody likes colostomy bags though. Nobody.

Are there ghosts? Of course. Are you alive? Yes? Then there are ghosts. Simple. A walk in the park. Lemonade and hot dogs. Dew on the grass. Sun in the trees. Somewhere a fire. Rain on asphalt. Ghosts.

You want God? Way harder. Far more complicated. Disgusting. Might just be ridiculous. Seriously, who wants to know? Trust me, it’s beyond us. That’s the point. Don’t be stupid.

Humans are so profoundly flawed. So weak and helpless as we grow, forge relationships and figure out who we are. Only the very best among us achieve anything resembling notoriety. Fame and infamy are as often as not, hurricanes or tornados. Hot and cold collide, people drown or get blown away. Survive that and you’re Howie Mandel, Jewish Canadian.

Gotta get that pumpkin soup recipe from my sister.

Lately, the weather in Southern California has been such that I only require a flannel sheet for a gentle goodnight. I’m an active sleeper. Just ask the women. I get most of my exercise while unconscious. Inevitably, slumber is interrupted by a chill as I’ve twisted my sheet around one leg into a giant DNA strand that makes me dream of pythons and asphyxiation.

Logic dictates I find two corners and kick until covered anew. Odd visits the middle of the night however. Upon extinguishing the last light, my sheet ceases to be a rectangle and morphs into a triangle, thereby making it impossible when grasping two corners to cover my feet. What devilry could cause my flannel shelter to transform from parallelogram to delta?

I’m insane or the world is.

Yeah, I know it’s both.

I can’t find my pillowcases. My rate of sock loss, considering that I have washer and dryer in unit, is absurd. Somewhere there is a giant beach ball sized wig of linens in my apartment. All balled up and tangled. Ever hear about those huge tumors inside people that have hair and teeth? I can’t find the beach ball sized wig growth because it can move on it’s own.

Sheezus.

I’m of the opinion that mayonnaise is one of life’s essential lubricants.

Betcha thought I was gonna write about Dumbya’s speech. I listened to it. Otherwise, I can’t be bothered to give any less of a mad fuck. Good riddance you inept, clueless arrogant prick. You had no business running my country. I knew it long before the Supreme Court handed it to you. I’m still so frustrated so many others couldn’t or refused to see it. If I could leave you with one last thought, I’d have to tell you, you really sucked and I wish you had the capacity for shame and disgrace.

Hey. What’s the difference between Sara Palin’s mouth and her vagina?

Wait for it……………..

Only one retarded thing has come out of her vagina.

Drinks for my friends.

You know, I’ve been kicking this guy forever. Honestly he’s got it coming. Ridiculous. A “maroon” in the words of Bugs Bunny.

I would teabag him in a heartbeat. Brand a giant L on his forehead. Shave his eyebrows. Shit in his bed.

If he would simply show some remorse. Some regret. For the hundreds of thousands of deaths, nevermind ethnicity or country of origin. The suffering, carnage and profound horror. He’s an idiot and a sociopath.

Flippant. Nonchalant. Arrogant. Clueless. Never any indication that he’s fucked this whole thing up worse than anyone in American history. It’s like he’s not remotely cognizant of how how bad things are and how directly culpable he so obviously is. It is astounding. His ignorance is breathtaking.

He has soiled the institution. What country or individual now has any confidence in the President of America or it’s people? The answer is none. They hate us.

What the electorate did in response is exceptional. Not because Our Man is half African American, notwithstanding that fact at all. We overwhelmingly launched this man into an office that has been transformed into a mere titular head of the free world. We did so, in part, because we hoped he could reverse phase and morph it once again, into the most important and prestigious position in the world.

We are trading the dumbest guy in the room for the smartest. We have done a very good thing.

Did you see the the smirky snarky little bastard on Larry King tonight?

He says he sleeps well at night. Don’t know about you, but rent keeps me awake pretty regularly. Senseless death does too. Weird huh?

Unbelievable. Surreal. He’s sleeping ok. I’d be contemplating suicide. It’s one thing to screw up a job. It’s another to be responsible for lives lost by virtue of sheer hubris.

The truth is, he was the worst public figure for the job. He manifested as the worst person ever at that job.

He says we don’t torture. No pause whatsoever in our treatment of prisoners. From Abu Ghraib to Guantanamo Bay. Live on Larry King he said that. That statement, translated into truth, can mean only one thing. George W. Bush thinks you are stupider than he is. Somebody get me some whiskey.

Look under Stepford in the dictionary and there is a picture of Laura Bush. If you watch his eyes while she talks, he’s like a ventriloquist. He’s got his whole hand way up her ass. Her mouth was crackling dry, like a dog in the company of only strangers. Nervous and afraid. Fear and loathing.

“big national outfit”, “cold blooded killers”, “seize up”, “big time”, “my favorite color is blue and I love enchiladas”, “thank ya darlin'”

He doesn’t know if we’ve ever even come close to finding and capturing Osama. Seriously, says he doesn’t know. Sheezus.

A stark disconnect with acres of landscape in the between.

Obstinate on the subject of pardons. Methinks he has more controversy yet up his sleeve.

By the way, he says, “I have enjoyed it (being President)”.

I would like to link you to Helen Thomas for a retrospective on this Presidency. I’m lame so I’ll have to ask you to cut and paste but it’s worth it. She is one of the best journalists still alive. She rocks: http://www.truthout.org/011309B

Dumbya is 180 degrees out, the kick drum and bass disappear. Me, I’m still at 90. Do the math. It’s only 25 percent. 50 for Dumbya.

Drinks for my friends.

I remember when I had my first beer.

Instead of the Hostess cherry pie my father usually bought for me at the Country Store on the way back from the dump, Dad furnished me a Bud tallboy. We came home, I opened it, set in on the fence and started mowing the lawn. I don’t think I finished the the lawn or the beer. Suddenly, I needed a nap.

GOP Senator George Voinovich from Ohio announced today that he won’t seek reelection in 2010. Kit Bond from Missouri, Mel Martinez of Florida and Sam Brownback from Kansas are all walking away. All Republicans. Salt in the wound, Jeb Bush, “the smart one” says he won’t be running. Thereby proving he’s at least somewhat smarter.

Forgive my cynicism, but what I think is going on here is that the proverbial fat lady has sung. The GOP knows this, they got theirs, oh boy did they get theirs. Now it’s stage left and a pile a filthy lucre. Bush, Cheney et al. can’t wait to get out and with a little luck and black cancerous evil, they will all somehow avoid prosecution for war crimes.

These are very bad men.

Ask yourself how you can let this happen. They are dirty filthy bastards. Criminals. Scum. Sewage. Picture Cheney’s face. Dick-in-Bush should be consigned to an 8 X 10. A glossy and a cell. Dumbya is in good health. He’ll last forever. Cheney has five years, he will expire from a huge greasy black hole in his useless heart.

Dick Cheney is an asstard. He sucks. I want the glossy, autographed.

A familiar refrain I know; but we’re fucked. The planet is fucked. The economy is as fucked has it’s been since it was the most fucked ever. 1933 through 45 or so. The world hates us. Our rights to privacy and everything else constitutional are fucked. Civil liberties out the goddamn window. We fight unjust wars and then torture those who would object along with anyone else. The rich are richer and the poor are poorer. This administration has orchestrated and overseen the largest redistribution of wealth in the history of man.

Check it out uncle Tyke, it’s true.

The Republicans were evil and the Democrats were pussies.

Now, one by one and in groups, they will walk away. Gleefully and without remorse, they will leave this new generation of hope to shoulder a burden of filth and impossible moral turpitude. Events and policies that stain the perception of a once great country for decades.

A new generation with a moral and fiscal defecit.

Now I’m going to give you some culinary advice for the dark days to come. There is no actual nutrition to be had here. Merely a greasy, very satisfying gut bomb that will not end in you shitting like a goose.

Two packages of Top Ramen and a half stick of butter. In a smallish four quart pot, bring water, copious amounts of salt and hopefully some olive oil to boil rapidly over the highest heat. Violently. Plunge the noodles. Have a smoke. After a while, when the noodles are pasty and gluey, drain the water so that it barely covers the noodles. Add dry suace packets and sesame oil if you have any. Have another smoke. Make a short phone call, check out some free internet porn, watch a little of the Daily Show. Whatever.

Use your ears. It will begin to smack and splatter.

Wash a shallow bowl and a big fork. Drain almost all but a little bit of the water from the noodles and add the butter. Reduce the heat to about half. Add some canned peas or maybe some supermarket brand deli mustard, whatever you got, but be conservative. At this stage, the noodles are delicate and will absorb flavors like a sponge.

You’re frying over pretty high heat so stir vigorously.

Once the water is boiled off, upend the pot into the bowl and eat in front of a fan. The fan cools the noodles to an optimum temperature before you shovel them into your maw. Try to take really big hot steamy bites. It is a most satisfying density into one’s gulliver for less than three dollars. You’ll sleep well if even if you’ve been drinking. No need to worry about morning mud unless you flirt with hot sauce or canned vegetables, delicious but their may be consequences.

Now, back to the future and the legacy of the GOP. Expect the exodus to continue. They can’t possibly face their constituents after the ass rape they’ve subjected them to. They will walk away quietly. Clever but not smart, greedy shallow men. Horrible people who lack a mad fuck about anyone. I can’t stand it.

We’re about 90 degrees out. The world may have caught up with me.

Drinks for my friends.

I can’t even tell you.

My dick is in the dirt.

Anyway.

I’ve got a poem for you all but I can’t finish it. I’ve only been working on it for four months. It’s about a corn dog. In the Fall.

If you want to help, send cash and pills. Xanax, percocet………

Starbuck’s cards. Pretty good sandwiches if you stop by the 7-11 for packets of condiments.

I’ll bet this economy will see the disappearance of the mayonnaise packet. It’s so fancy and such a luxury. I adore it, being able to squirt the right amount on each bite.

The only mayo in a jar is Best Foods (Hellmanns), the only mayo in a squueze jar is Best Foods (Hellmanns), but the best mayo ever is only available in attractively packaged silver fuselages from Heinz. You can take as many as you like from the 7-11.

Or so I thought.

After I made my purchase tonight, I went back over and scooped a wad of Heinz mayo envelopes into my ridiculous purse sized plastic bag. It’s always this tag team of Middle Eastern, South East Asian and Latino clerks. So the indian guy follows me out after I scoop this kinda fearless wad of mayo into my purse.

I turn and stare him up about ten feet down the way.

I spend money there almost everyday.

It’s clear it’s nonconfrontational, but then I realize there’s no cigarettes in my pale plastic purse. It was a pretty warm night.

Symmetry. Phase in motion and a pretty sound lock.

The man who would confront me, he gave me the look, sees me walk back in with my receipt straight to his station. I reach over his register and flick him hard on his nose. Then I bitch slap him and begin smashing things.

Just kidding. Not really. I did show him the receipt though. He was all cool and acquiescent. Gave me my smokes. I gave him knuckles. We parted friends. It’s advantageous to be on the good side of your local grocer.

It’s really bad out there and pretty bad in here.

Both men and women have a taint you know. The area between your starfish and your gonads. Other than that, we have very little in common. Things like a fondness for a certain kind of cookie or Kung Fu movies don’t really count. Stay away from women that like Kung Fu movies or women that go nuts for ultimate fighting. There’s a chance they’re not women at all. They are most likely broads.

“And I see lonely ships upon the water
Better save the women and children first
Sail away with someone’s daughter
Better save the women and children first

I hear music on the landin’ an’ there’s laughter in the air
Just could be your boat is comin’ in
Yeah you’re leanin’ back an’ yeah, a foot tappin’
Ain’t got your head right
There’s a full moon out tonight. Baby, let’s begin

And she said “Could this be magic? Or could this be love?” Uh, oh
An’ I said “Could this turn tragic? You know that magic often does” -Van Halen

Another thing, I loathe the tit tattoo. Why introduce graffiti onto an otherwise lovely decolletage? Stupid. Misguided.

I’m just one guy, but if you have creamy cleavage or nice shoulders, no need to distract me from that loveliness.

When I see people with tattood faces I can’t help but wonder what happens if they lose their job.

There was a time when ink meant something. Now it’s just an indication that you were a pussy in high school.

People try awfully hard to belong to something. Anything.

I gotta tell ya, I’m not a big beer drinker but I’m addicted to these “Cheladas”. Budweiser and Clamato. Genius. Really. I do wish they came in a smaller can. 16 oz. is just too much for me. Maybe with sushi. Or pizza.

I myself wish to distinguish myself as a writer. See, in my own mind, I think I’m a bit of a genius. That may not be true but the the idea of it has served me well so far. I understand that at the very least, I’m not stupid. At the end of the day, that works for me.

I mean, as long as I’m not a member of the great unwashed.

It has become a tragedy to those who feel and to those who think. The world’s collective consciousness teeters on the brink of a third world war. Einstien said he couldn’t guess at the weapons for such a war, but the fourth world war would be fought with sticks and stones.

I understand he was a pretty bright guy.

Maybe Joe The Plumber will hook it all up. What a douchebag. This guy has no humility. You can bet I’ll be tuning in to the Pajama network or whoever hired his dumb ass. I’m anticipating red asphalt and carnage at the end of a bloody smear. Gore and eggs, weird shaped pasta, some teeth and some hair. Bones, thrombus, the gore and detritus of a dipshit’s consanguinity.

Why does this piss me off so much?

It’s because he’s such an all American jackass. He asked a hypothetical question and ended up being the straight man for an out of context soundbite that McCain ground his knuckles against while attempting to make it an issue. Sam Wurzelbacher landed on the stage without a single goddamn idea in his head and now some of you still care what he thinks.

That’s my problem. Until Americans can take fifteen seconds to estimate the measure of someone like Joe The Plumber, and decide he’s not worth of anyone’s attention, and as a reult of our apathy he fades, until then, we suck.

We are just under 45 degrees out.

I’m still flirting with 90.

Drinks for my friends.

It was the dog farting.

2.6 Million jobs lost. 11 million looking for work.

I cannot think of a single person in my personal life who’s not struggling.

Two, that’s right two, virtually unwinnable wars.

This, as we contemplate another. With a country twice as strong as the last two.

Anyone with a lick of sense understands that the Sunni awakening and the fact that we’re paying over a hundred thousand “insurgents” not to fight us has far more to do with the reduction of violence in Iraq than the goddamn surge. The surge was an after the fact stroke. Ice cream, no cake.

Without similiar conditions, a troop surge in Afghanistan will result in nothing more than a breathtaking faceplant.

Any possible solution to the absolute horror we’ve manufactured in either country will never be one of military dominance.
We really need to understand this. Afghanistan kicked the shit out of Mother Russia for crying out loud. The fourth most impoverished country in the world handed the the Soviet Union it’s ass. We underestimate them at our peril.

I hate this shit. I always paid attention, studied the issues and voted for the right guy. It’s not fair. I did my best.

Then there’s Israel and it’s romping in Gaza. Are you aware that the U.S. gives more aid to Israel than the rest of the world combined? All the famine, rape and genocide on the continent of Africa and the United States Government deems Israel somehow more deserving of our help?

Forgive me, but just what the fuck is going on here? This is bullshit.

How did we get here?

For those that would accuse me of antisemitism, piss up a rope. I got nothing against Jews, so shut the fuck up. I don’t have anything against Palestinians either. I object to my tax dollars being spent in this conflict one way or another. I hate that we’ve chosen to endorse Goliath over David in a conflict we have no intrinsic interest in anyway.

I think Israel needs to try harder to get along in a region in which it has only fomented hostility. It’s American hardware, wielded by Jews, killing Palestinian civilians. They get away with it because of the twin biceps of America. I for one would be fascinatinated to observe just how Israel would handle this without American money.

They would seriously and legitimately consider a peaceful resolution. They would have no choice. I’m sure it’s naive, but let’s pull the funding and send instead an army of diplomats. We’ve done nothing but piss fuel on this fire for decades. It’s not working.

No more my dad can beat up your dad.

Time to hit that polarity button. Time to shift phase.

The world seems to be around 55 degrees out. Me, I’m rapidly approaching 90.

Drinks for my friends.

Once again, I got nothing. So I figured I’d get started.

I like the word Gonad.

As I write this, Feline Beddy is all over some plump bodied winged insect that I can’t identify. I loathe bugs. Especially ones with wings. I’m counting on her to prevail so I don’t have to worry about said insect ending up in my mouth while I sleep.

I worry about the gargantuan clusterfuck this new administration is inheriting.

Can you imagine subsisting on potatos and cabbage for an entire winter? Man. Seems like everyone in history was way tougher than me. I worry I’m not so sturdy. That I’m fragile. Having inhabited this vessel for forty three plus years, I know I can be very vulnerable.

Angela Bassett is hot, Gotta do something about the hair though.

Beddy is still on the case, manning the spot where she last observed the beast.

It’s an evil bug. It just now lit on the fluorescent fixture in the ceiling of my my kitchen. Both girls are on it now. A vigil. I looked at it. It’s an ugly prehistoric bastard. It’s brain can only be the size of an eye booger or smaller. Part of my fear is that they’re so obviously amazingly stupid and random. Entities far too dumb for their size. I loathe bugs.

A fat clumsy thing with wings. Smacking and bumping. I hate it.

Disappointment is a huge thing. It looms large. Not a day goes by. Not even yesterday. Not even today.

The beast is now inside the light fixture. It will die there. I will stare at it’s shadow for days. Maybe weeks before I figure out something to step on so I can reach high enough to dump it out. The least violent end to a situation involving two soldier felines.

I’m grateful there won’t be bug on their breaths in the morning.

Can’t believe the hole, the whole I’ve dug.

Today I’d say we’re about 46 degrees out. Me, I’m about 70.

Drinks for my friends.

Larry Flynt and Joe Francis lead the charge for a five billion dollar government bailout of porn today.

Joe The Plumber goes on his way to Israel.

Fuck me runnin.

Only in America.

The headline should read: Clever Porn Kings Mock Government Bailout While The Epitome of Stupid America Visits The Most Explosive Region In The World.

A really good phase shift is totally unpredictable. Usually sounds pretty sweet though. Not this time.

Goddamnit. We really suck. Really. Today, January Seven two thousand nine, the year of our Lord, will live in infamy. You people are killing me. Some of the smartest guys in the room are Porn execs. No disrespect intended, I hold Mr. Flynt in the highest regard. Like him or not, he is an outstanding American; one who’s paid a heavy price for his convictions.

Now, Joe The Plumber shouldn’t be allowed to visit Vegas even. His name is Sam Wurzelbacher, he’s not a plumber, he’s a loser. If I were from Ohio, I would have to object to this idiot representing my home state in the beautiful but strange enviroment of Las Vegas Nevada.

What happens in Israel, does not stay in Israel. His idiocy will be on the world stage.

I don’t know what to make of this Blair House thing, but it occurs to me that there was obviously gonna be a new sherriff in town, seein as how there weren’t no incumbent in the contest. See what I mean? They shoulda knowed it would be disrespectful.

Dick-in-Bush are cranky.

Sarkozy’s over there with everyone else except Dumbya. Dumbya’s done. He left us more fucked than even I imagined. He’s spanking it to brush clearing and mountain biking. He’s launching a bootlace over drinking again. The worst President in our history and over fifty million people voted for him the second time. He can’t wait to get oot of there and play with Legos again.

A quick Dewitt update:

Dewitt:
“You’re still in third grade punk. Your obscenities declares your ignorance. I don’t engage in debate with schoolyard punks who think they sound tough if they can say all the “cuss” words in the English language.

If you wish to have a conversation with adults try talking like an adult.”

Admin:
“You know very well that my use of expletives in well written and thoughtful rebuttals et. al. does not declare my ignorance. I’m far better informed and probably a great deal smarter than you.

Your characterization of me as a “third grade punk” or schoolyard punk” is laughable and transparently disingenuous. Despite my “cuss” words, I out write you and out think you.

You my friend, are afraid to answer for your irresponsible vitriol. You are hiding. Defend yourself or you are a coward who only shows up long enough to take cheap sleazy shots and then run away.

Your positions and ideas are far more vulgar than any obscenities I may choose to utilize.”

I’m a pompous bastard. I have a real bug up my ass for this douchebag but that’s a little embarrassing. Ah well, fuck him. He’s a penis whipped drink.

The night is young and I’m feeling desperate. I’m guessing the world is about 57 degrees out of phase.

Drinks for my friends.

I used to try to get out of the house before I got too fucked up. Now I get as hammered as possible before I leave. It’s crazy. The strategy of poverty.

I’m contemplating the 7-11.

Always employ the interior of the wrapper as a resting place for your processed food in between bites as opposed to it’s exterior, a fuming petri dish of virulent germs. Never use condiments from the condiment bar at the 7-11 for the same reason. Me, I can’t help it. Don’t do what I do, do what I say.

I’m not shy about grabbing a fistful of napkins.

You know what? That iced coffee from McDonalds isn’t too bad as long as you get it unsweetened. I got Starbuck’s gift cards for Christmas.

When I was a little boy, four or five, I ran away to the local Safeway. I figured they had everything I needed. My parents were more than willing to help. I didn’t feel as though my needs were being met at home. I wanted more freedom. They dropped me off after hours. I couldn’t get in. Already there was a flaw in my plan. Thankfully, they took me back.

I really don’t understand overly spicy food. I like for the wasabi to cause my nose to run or break me a little sweat but I can do that by peeling an orange or standing outside too long. I like a little Tapatio in my noodles. Any thing beyond that confuses me at best. Pain in the interim. Then there’s the aftershock of the assfire morning constitutional.

Forgive me. I just really like to pick at this guy. He’s perfect.

How’s that for a segue?

More Dewitt:
“I deleted your idiotic comment from my blog. If you would like to re-post something a bit more respectful and less retarded have at it, but stop blog-dicking. Put it in line like everybody else.”

Admin:
“I like that I may have gotten under your skin a little. My purpose is to shine a light on your bottomless ignorance and fear, so either block me or I’ll be coming at you on the first page when I have something to say. Coward.

Come to my blog, I won’t censor you.”

Dewitt:
“Grow up. Third grade was a long tima ago, and you’re still a school yard punk. I have no desire to read anything you have to say. If you post obscenities on my blog they will be deleted.”

Admin:
“I’m no punk. I’m well informed, educated, have the courage of my convictions and most importantly, an open mind. Your’s closed a long time ago.

I thank the powers that be my parents aren’t anything like you.

You consistently object to my “obscenities”, yet never exhibit any inclination to engage me on any issue I take exception to in the crap you spew.

That’s cowardice.

Of course you have no interest in reading anything I have to say. It all flies in the face of your fear driven beliefs.

The truth is, you are are archaic and obsolete. You no longer matter. The world is changing without you. You are being left behind.

Honestly, it makes me sad.”

Moving right along.

Sheezus this Burris thing is odd.

In my mind the Democrats look like pussies. They knew who they were dealing with. Blagojevich. This guy is an arm’s dealer fucking peacock who’s got ice in his veins and a hairstyle that leeches intelligent thought to sustain itself. Have you looked at his eyes? Like binoculars in reverse, you can see what’s behind him only way smaller.

Shave the little bastard’s head and he’ll drop. Kinda like Sampson.

Still, the fucking Democrats couldn’t man up enough to smite this boy down in time to prevent him from swinging his own sword with precision.

He appointed a Jr. Senator for his state as he was not only privileged but required to do. What did they think this guy was gonna do?

Today they turned Roland Burris away. Shameful. I’ll be the first to admit this guy Burris is a little more than a little loose, but this was embarrassing nonsense. The newly sworn in Senate fucked this up. They should never have allowed it to get this far. Yes, Burris is a joke, but he’s an accomplished joke. The new Democratic leadership cheesed this one. Stepped on their dicks. Good job Mr. and Mrs. Reid-Pelosi.

The other side should be ashamed as well. You dickheads tried to turn this into some sort of racial imperative. I count on these assholes to do the wrong thing and they just keep doing it. Race. Sometimes it’s like mammals against reptiles. The big lizards are gone and the rest are small and stupid. Fuck you guys. How stupid is that? How fucking irresponsible? It makes me furious.

The body politic still disappoints, misleads and makes a hot mess of things. Yet it’s not even close to a push. Let’s just see what we can do. Really. Stay in the game.

Drinks for my friends.

Slow news day, with the exception of Al Franken as the “provisional Senator” from Minnesota, the slaughter in Gaza, Roland Burris as maybe the new Senator from Illinois and Leon Panetta picked for the CIA.

Other than that. Yeah.

There’s an idiot on myspace that I just can’t help but fuck with on occassion. If you read me regularly you may be familiar. I’ll give you a URL at the end in case you want to wade in. I couldn’t be less concerned about increasing his numbers, you people need to to know about people like this.

From his latest blog:

“Thanks to the lame stream media’s unwavering commitment to national socialism, B. Hussein Obama has been elected POTUS and will be making appointments to the Supreme Court in the near future. If any five members of that august body agree that your 12 year old daughter has the right to obtain an abortion without your knowledge, or that Adam&Steve have the right to become husband&husband, or that those pesky Islamic terrorists currently housed at Guantanamo Bay should be released in your neighborhood, well; you get the idea” -Dewitt

Heh. You’re a jackass. You’re worried about this stuff now? You must be kidding. Really. Clowns can’t even get work these days. You must be retardedretired. The worst of what you speak is about to be over. Forgive me, these things have your panties in a bundle today? This kinda shit keeps you up at night now?

Adam & Steve? Notwithstanding that it’s clearly a civil rights issue, exactly what about this frightens you so much? I can honestly tell you that were my religion to take exception to homosexuality, I wouldn’t give a mad fuck. You my friend, could better spend your time pissing up a rope. We have much bigger fish to fry.

I have giant boner gay naked rage for your ass to be penetrated now. I’m simultaneously completely heterosexual.

By the way, no worries here, I’m agnostic.

Sheezus! Islamic terrorists from Gitmo in our neighborhoods? Do you honestly buy that crap? Are you really that far behind the curve? Your shit is ridiculous.

Last but not least; twelve year old girls having access to abortions without parental involvement? If those other two ridiculous scare tactics didn’t make me spew Bombay Saphire and nearly squirt creamy fecal pudding………….

Then this, from a blog he posted but didn’t write:

“Mine was a people’s campaign. I was the surprise candidate because I had emerged from outside the traditional paths of politics and was able to gain widespread popular support. I offered the people hope that together we could change our country and the world. I spoke on behalf of the down-trodden, including persecuted minorities, but my actual views were not widely known until after I became my country’s leader. However, anyone could have easily learned what I really believed if they had taken the time to read my writings and question those people with whom I associated, but they did not. Then I became the most powerful man in the world. And the whole world learned the truth.”

For all intents and purposes, a direct and overt comparison of Our Man to Adolph Hitler. This guy is a world class pencil neck douchebag.

If you’re just spewing this shit without owning it, you may be a sociopathic, redneck dickhead.

If you believe it, I hope you wear a helmet and have supervision in public.

Either way, you suck bad and should always be monitored by the government you’re so desperately afraid of. You ARE the problem.

I would never endeavor to censor you, but I would urge you to shut the fuck up. You’re a goddamn fool. If you were next to me in a cubicle I’d throw shit at you all day long. Steal from you. Piss in your chair. Rub my balls on your phone.

If you were my neighbor, I’d perfect a powerful short range catapult.

Can’t you just go somewhere?

Drinks for my friends.

http://profile.myspace.com/index.cfm?fuseaction=user.viewprofile&friendID=132557808

To not see a man’s eyes is hardly ever a comfortable thing. Take off your sunglasses if you want me to talk to you.

Giving is receiving, yet people are people wherever you go.

Forgive me for getting didactic on your ass, but I’m about to.

Electricity always goes to ground. So automatically, being “grounded”, looks like a bad thing.

I’ve lifted the ground, flopped the phase and inverted polarity. I have a friend who invented a device that allows for the shifting of polarity at any point along 180 degrees of the protractor. Other than that, I’ve devoted very little effort and much less time to the idea.

Fuck that. As a former electron director, I was obsessed with phase. Still am. Enough to feel guilty. I was a phase fag.

I dreamt about it last night. I wasn’t good at it. Woke up despondent. Cold feet, sweaty brow. Today kinda sucked.

It’s a tricky thing. It borders on Voodoo. Put the batteries in the remote incorrectly, effectively opposing the crest to trough relationship on which the appliance is designed to operate, and the circuit functions not at all. Drag. Might take you awhile to figure out if you’re baked.

Tesla invented the polyphase motor, making alternating current (AC) far more practical, efficacious and safe than Edison’s model for the distribution of electricity, direct current (DC).

Had Edison prevailed, it would have really sucked. We’d all been killed.

Mustard and pickles always on a grilled cheese. Always.

Flop the phase on the kick drum or bass guitar right before you print and sometimes the bottom end of the mix blooms or at least tightens. Sometimes Pandora’s box yawns long into nightmare. Polarity can be a drum of serpents.

I can’t tell you how many engineers I worked with that had no concept of phase. Any given piano in any given contemporary recording is at least forty five to ninety degrees out. If you reverse polarity and can’t hear a difference, you’re probably ninety degrees out. Do the math.

Wanna hear good phase on a piano? Fiona Apple, “Tidal”. That’s a large piano.

Well paid engineers, with two microphones literally facing each other and never even looking at the button on either module. That used to kill me.

I promise I’m going somewhere with this. Can you tell I like my subject?

Word has it the earth’s magnetic field may be inversing. The last such event, the “Brunhes-Matuyama reversal”, occured some 780 thousand years ago. Planet earth may be on the verge of reversing it’s polarity. It’s like the world is changing it’s own mind.

Speculation as to the effects are exploding. Migrating birds, fish and mammals suddenly unable to find their way. Dogs and cats living together. Republicans voting Democrat. Photomats making a comeback. Seismic events. Volcanic stuff.

I don’t worry about it because there’s nothing I can do.

On the other hand………

Almost without reservation, I welcome the rather dramatic shift in American politics that’s manifested over the last few years. Americans, indeed people in general, are reluctant to change, much less throw everything into reverse.

Now, with what appears to be a near consummate abruptness, people seem willing at least, to subsume drastic new direction. A can of beer for each of you.

No secret there, it’s because it’s all so completely fucked up.

Change is hard and not always good. Don’t doubt that it can be necessary. This movement is beyond necessary. It is vital. Our last best chance? We have long since lead the world in cutting off our noses, to spite or perhaps despite , our own faces. Incredibly reckless and self destructive behavior.

Fucking stupid.

We’ve behaved like dope fiends. An appropriate metaphor for how difficult, Herculean, this change will be, is that of a crackhead. Time for rehab kids. If you’re successful, you’ll alter your entire intellectual construct in order to exclude this addiction. You will change your own mind.

It will not be without considerable sacrifice and pain. The most pious and indoctrinated among you will suffer the most. It will, however, touch us all.

With that, some luck and hope or maybe your God, the crests and troughs will begin to align with more congruency, coherence and maybe cooperation. See what I’m saying?

Forty five degrees to right of north on the old oscilloscope.

For those of you who don’t understand or haven’t yet busted a move; “phase” is the best analogy. The simplest. This way or that way. Allowing greed, “values” and fear to dominate our very conversations about how we should and would be governed has been Democracy’s biggest mistake. As I write this, it is exactly why we are so fucked. Time to hit that button and walk the other way.

It’s trite, but one definition of insanity is performing the same action over and over while expecting a different result.

This one’s for Don Carlson.

Drinks for my friends.

What’s the rumpus?

So yeah, the Xmas vacation.  Pretty cool actually.  I brought the best bottles from my dwindling stash. Leonetti and Pejut.  Pedestrian tongues drank Two Buck Chuck or beer and they were happy.  I’m only selfish with my grapes to the extent of anyone’s ability to appreciate them.  Know and understand what you’re drinking and you can have all you want. I will only share my wine with them gullets that can appreciate it. I’m a dick like that.

Some still call me The Cock.  

I was asked to say grace at Christmas. Heh. I took it upon myself to thank the powers of the universe for family, friends and health, as well as the wisdom of the American people in their overwhelming support for Barack Obama as President Elect of The United States of America.  The caveat intended for my beloved uncle Tyke, an unapologetic Republican. 

At least they laughed. I’m sure they saw it coming.    

Dinner was excellent.  Culinary rockstardom visited upon us by my sister bearing an extraordinary mixed green salad with pomegranate seeds and an absurd pumpkin soup.  Dear cousin Marlow played an excellent solo with her fresh green beans, almonds and ham melody.  Otherwise, an excellent medley of turkey, mashed a’ tatas, gravy and various appetizers. Oh, and cauliflower in cheese sauce.

It was all I could do to not rub it in my hair.

Then there was the bloody roast beast with horseradish. Had to look away.

Among the pies were chocolate, pumpkin and a perfect pear and cranberry with crust to die for from my mother. She tells me she nails grandma’s crust better than any of her sisters. I don’t doubt it. I wonder if they know that.

Extraordinary people looking a little Norman Rockwell, yet moving at the speed of real life. Sharp, funny, pointed, loving and respectful. No matter where the day took me, no matter the people I was with, there was not just a glue of shared experience, but the bond of loyalty and acceptance. Dialog, debate and discussion almost all optimistic. Hopeful.

The first white Christmas in Northern Nevada in twenty years.  

Christmas eve, a study in silliness and inebriation.  I always have a party, but my father’s illness and the weather over the Sierras have conspired against it for the last two years.  I ended it at the house of my cousin’s Marlow and Derrick on the eve.  No worries.  I found myself in bed with cousin Derrick as well as Uncle Tyke.    

Decidedly outta hand.  Gorgeous.  Good to love and be loved. To be tolerated even. 

Visited the Madame. She was classy gorgeous.  

My sister the city planner, has changed the entire face of downtown Carson City in a handful of months and she’s managed to put an ice rink right on top of the town anthole. The rink thrives.

I’m here to talk about Uncle Tyke. Roland Emil. Sometimes I worry his eyes may be too far apart but he’s a crafty bastard and I can’t help but adore him. An excellent man despite being a shameless Republican. Uncle Tyke’s wife is aunt Bobby and she’s the shit as well. A devout Catholic who still manages to be completely honest and very funny. I adore them.

She was my smoking buddy but she quit. Replaced by daughter Marlow.

So, they begat Marlow and she chose Derrick. They all four rock. Marlow has gorgeous completely, an enormous heart, sweetness and honesty. Her husband Derrick slays me. I think he gave me the benefit of the doubt because of my father. I’ll take that. The respect he has for my Old Man, they for my people, makes my heart swell. I try to do my best towards them all.

This is a subject. These folks are real.

Derrick says, Hey you fat bastard, first time he lays eyes on me. Inside is the beautiful house he built with my father, his father and father-in-law-uncle Tyke. Inside, my little shit cousin Marlow puts out a delicious Christmas Eve spread. The salt in my ocean. No shit.

I ate with my hands. That just occurred to me. Hope I wasn’t offensive. Everyone else was doing paper plates. I’m sure I was loud and drunk but I’m just as sure I wasn’t the only one.

My feet stink like broccoli. Like babyshit. Lysol.

He drives a race car and can build just about anything this side of a nuclear reactor. Derrick. They tell me he’s pretty good. I don’t doubt it. He’s both fearless and egoless. I couldn’t take him down without a bat or a shovel. If I didn’t like him so much, I’d crack him with either.

My brother in law Todd worked up some powerful anticipation over three dollar roast beef sandwiches and dollar beers at The Carson Station. He did do the most remarkble thing by arranging to have Don Carlson meet us for drinks and then he and my sister held him there while I enjoyed pork chops with my folks. The overwhelming priviledge. Awesome. Marvelous. Thank you both.

My sister, who can best be described as a house afire, has taken it upon herself to broker my birthday present in the form of the brainspank logo on cousin Derrick’s race car. I understand the near matter vs. anti matter dynamic here. But to have my logo on a my cousin’s fucking race car. My sister, I still call her Pissy, is a genius.

Trust me when I tell you that she’s changing downtown Carson City at a rate that is making the old guys look really bad. She’s really starting to floor me. I’ll have to get published or this sibling rivalry thing might be over. I’ve been coasting on a gold record for a decade. It went triple platinum but that horse is dead.

She’s wicked, my sister. It’s not that she’s exceptional. It really is that she’s almost always exceptional. Goddamn Tam. Enough is enough. I’m here to warn you that your brother is comfortable as second superhero in charge. I’m reminding you that you may never enjoy the respite of second most accomplished sibling ever again.

I may choose to rest on my laurels.

You, as most accomplished sibling, have the burden of higher expectations. More Superhero stuff. I intend to get by with a few flourishes and self sufficiency.

I cannot believe the amount of food in my parent’s refrigerator and pantry. One can choose between a handful of different kinds of cereal, soup, crackers, chips, nuts, vegetables, fruit, sauce, spices, grains, pastas, vinegars, oils, syrups, mixes, dressings………….

The pantry is a huge closet with a divided glass door. Somehow it’s light is the most comforting in the house.

Three appliances. My guess is the one in the garage is long term parking.

I checked out Tam’s larder. Very impressive as well.

I spent more than a few evening’s end with the Tripod named Billy Jean. A sweet black Lab who lost a front leg while training with my house afire sister for a marathon. She assured me she would stay happy and spread it as best she could to all involved. She included a special promise for my Mom and Dad.

I made her swear.

I get home to discover my handsome refrigerator ceases and desists. The upside of being broke is that there wasn’t a damn thing in the freezer or the fridge. The downside will be a repair bill. It’s rough all over.

I hear that despite all logic, the universe continues to expand.

Drinks for my friends.

It’s actually the space between.

I’m going home and I can’t wait.

I’ll bring etchings and wine.

I hear I look like Toby Keith, despite his being a douchbag and all. Huge dipshit.

Whatever.

I need to tell you that I just don’t understand the contemporary image or model of the overly skinny, oftentimes emaciated woman proliferating the visual media. They always look a little skanky to me. I just don’t get the little boy look. Give me hips and ass at least. They always have raccoon eyes and fragile ankles. No hips.

Moving right along.

Yes, I am afraid to die. I’m not done yet. What sane human under seventy five isn’t afraid to die? Show me one that isn’t afraid and I’ll show you one that’s out of his tree.

I once knew a bartender named Diane. She had gorgeous tattoos of dolphins on her arms. A yellowing front tooth in the very front of her head. Rosewater perfume, giant blues eyes and the reddest lips I’ve ever seen. Porcelain skin. One of the most beautiful women I’ve ever met.

We were friends for years. Went on a date. To a movie. Naked Lunch. William S. Burroughs. I moved to kiss her that night and she asked me not to embarrass us both. Damn. I don’t believe I’ve ever been so humiliated. She crushed me. Bittersweet. We somehow grew closer. I became a protector. A role I couldn’t stand but it was the only part in the play.

The Whitehorse on Western just north of the boulevard Sunset. It fell to the ground in the ’94 Northridge quake. Thank Zues.

The first bar in the world to put my etchings on the jukebox. I drank whiskey and beer in those days. Jim Beam and Budweiser. Cognac if the overtime was good. Cockroaches and all. It was a flawless shithole.

The Powerhouse. Highland and Hollywood. Lost my wallet there more than once. I actually had sex on that bar. I’ve since stopped carrying a wallet. The second place to put my records on the juke. Everything I did for awhile. Down By Law to Everclear. I played drums there one night for a band that was without a drummer. I think I did ok. By then I’d switched to gin. We played Wild Thing and Iron Man. I kinda did a solo through the breaks. Only way I knew to keep time.

They locked the doors just before two and let their favorite people keep drinking. I was always one of them.

Not long after, I split the atom. People were impressed. There were parades. I was given a space suit eventhough I had no use for one. Candles and food on my doorstep. Women swooning. Short, overly tanned men tried to lease me cars, suits and jewelry. I eliminated most of them in elevators. These dickheads were orange.

What would you have done?

I had to kill almost all of them. Stabbed them in the neck with a pen or a letter opener. Stupid wide lapels and a too quick familiarity. Ridiculous tans in camel colored suits with absurd ties. Idiots. They thought the neutral colors excused the circus ties. I killed every one of them. Thought they could fool Mother Nature. Oh my.

When you scoop from a jar for your toast, careful and mind what your knife brings to light.

Might be fresh berries, could be caviar, maybe mold, turds and wax.

Hey Jody, sorry about that.

Drinks for my friends.

Fall flat so as to consult Oliver Platt.

Bake awhile and take awhile.

Introduce yourself to Joe. Don’t trust him. He will know.

Undue and undo to you

It is after all, all that you knew.

Whatever he says cannot be new.

Not to you.

She hides.

Pretends it’s about the color blue.

Patented, patent leather blue

This opportunity to tell you a thing, at least two.

People who stare don’t care

Then there’s us, me and you

We look away

Too much ado

We cannot survive the blue blue blue

Well, that’s my shotgun attempt at rhyme. It is what it is. I leave for home the day after tomorrow. I doubt I’ll write from there. You never know. I want to wish you all the utmost warmth you can find with family and friends etc. Our darkest days have yet to come but there is light. Not all of us are our finest, but so many of us are.

We deserve to take some measure of pride in what we’ve accomplished. It’s pretty goddamn cool. It’s a start. A start. The mountain is insanely, unimaginably high. We stand the remotest chance of coming together. You my friend must be willing to embrace a few rotten mouthed neocons if only to keep your enemies close. Get used to the idea. Embrace it.

NO FREE LUNCH. No such thing.

They have us so afraid. So many Kool Aid fiends.

Almost anyone will steal from you, lie to you or kill you. It’s just not true. Many people are not what they seem. There’s an assload of sociopaths. Check out the current administration.

Then, think about the people you know you can trust.

So there it is. Don’t be stupid.

Nobody gets away with everything forever.

Drinks for my friends.

of all I know.

Spent the afternoon drinking with my best friend. A fine Saturday. I don’t know where my girlfriend is. Toto’s Hydra is an amazing record but the bottom sucks. I hear the mastering engineer on the new Metallica asked not to be credited.

The guy he hired to replace me, a man we all thought was a ringer, ended up nearly burying the business. A liar and a thief. Watch for me in dark alleys you prick. Terry.

You really can’t trust anybody. Well, I trust my Mother and Father, Sister, My Friend and my Girlfriend. Certain other people I’ve known for decades. Cats.

“you can’t trust anyone, trust me I have” -Agnes Gooch

All women have what I think of as a pooch. Unless they’re bodybuilders or prepubescent gymnasts. It’s the lower abdomen. Below the button. I spent time with a gorgeous woman who named her pooch “Gracie”. I adored her for that, among other things.

He’s a whackjob, my old boss and best goddamn friend. Within the last week or so he’s had to deal with his ex-wife crashing into the front of his house and turning other women away as a result. Someday he’ll let me write his book.

Crazy as a shithouse rat and one of the finest people I know. Showed me his guns, been working out with El Muerte. Ha!

So anyway, it’s been cold here in LA. It’s always weird when the sun is that low and still fat in the sky. Making heat in winter.

Not long ago I sought to impugn the character of my ex fiance’s new man by labeling him a giant vagina. I apologize for that. I’ve never met him. I imagine he’s a man of character and integrity because my ex is whip smart and has remarkable amounts of honesty and integrity. She has high standards.

Sorry about that.

I’ve been thinking a lot about canned peas lately. Nothing better than butter, salt, a little pepper, peas and the taste of the can. They should set it up so you can nuke it just like that. The way soup is these days. Peas or beans in a nukable container. Hot Pineapple anyone?

What else did I want to say.

The cats are golden. They make me happy because they can. Otherwise they’re horrible beasts that crap and pee everywhere. I put up with them because they are soft, furry and hysterically funny.

Here’s the the thing. They wear hats. Sombreros, porkpies and stupid red cowboy hats. Everyday I leave the house, only to return to a fashion show. It confuses me so I can’t really talk about it. Put yourself in my shoes. Walk in the door. Spotlight on a disco ball. The dignity of your felines compromised by the cheap and tawdry costumes.

A nightmare of pageantry.

It really is a bit much.

Nobody knows the trouble………….

Drinks for my friends.