I’m a submarine, way down deep, hull compromised. Pinhole leaks will soon begin to gush. You’ve seen the movies. Once that shit starts, it’s the beginning of the end.

Now he e-mails me on all three of my accounts.
Nothing too sinister, emoticons and random puncuation
that I’m sure are supposed to correspond or be in
context somehow with sightings of him.

I haven’t filled an ice tray in weeks, but they’re always full. Lately, the toilet paper is installed properly on the wall dispenser. Something I never do.

I keep hearing the wind blow outside. When I step out
for a smoke, the air is still.

The radio turns on in the middle of the night. Wierd stations that sound like Hamm radio. Sometimes orchestras from the forties.

Constantly lately, what must be ancient perfume. Simple pungent notes. Disturbing but instantly nostalgic.

Then there’s the pigs.

I ask her if she’s noticing them. Not so much says she.

They seem to be everywhere. Iconic to a degree in American culture, she points out, smirk gratis.

Maybe I just notice them more. Everywhere from news magazines to National Geographic.

The ones in the Geographic have dirty tusks and crazy eyes swimming in violence. I smell them when I wake in the middle of the night. I hear their bifurcated hooves in other rooms.

They squeal and clack on my balcony.

They’ll eat anything you know. Anything.

The very next time I see him, his eyes are filled with
blood. Our entire encounter, he blinks once.

There’s a big ass Ralph’s across the street. Tremendous selection of frozen meals as well as standing at the fridge food. Good soup kiosk and a really good salad bar. Single males understand this food dynamic as well as the need for as many plants as you can possibly get down into your goddamn gastrointestinal.

Anyway, sometimes I start on the right because I’m in a hurry. When I start left it’s because I’m cool and I have a little time.

It was an afternoon copasetic as I entered left off the elevator with my smooth and noisless cart. I turned right after perusing the produce section and picking out some avacados, tomatos and onions. I proceeded down the middle north to south aisle. It bisects the store and aisles on your right and left.

He appeared at the head of the first one.

His eyes were rimmed with blood. His hair was more yellow. I thought of a naked corn cob. Right there, thirty five feet to my right. Not showing his teeth today and that’s a relief. Kinda, because the lower front of his face seems to struggle at containing them.

Next block down he’s at the tail of that one and thirty five feet to my left.

The next aisle is a block party. Fireworks bust and spatter in the night overhead. It’s the nexus of this retail venue, and at the same time, red and gold popcorn carts, clowns, balloons and herds of women in pastel stretch pants and heels.

I jerk left down the next lane and it’s just carnival games and frozen food. He’s at that end as I roll up on him while he stares at me through eyes full of blood. He blinks slowly and his lids are squeegees. Fresh red blood runs from his eyes and into his teeth as he begins to grin.

He’s got dozens of pigs with him. Some are hogs. Some are boars. Some are swine.

I understand that if I’m not his demise, he will be mine. I smell this fact when I flip a bitch in front of him and head down the road on the opposite side.

He follows me and it’s loud. He marches and brings his feet down hard. He constantly sucks drool back through his teeth.

I’m panicking. My heart in my throat as my brain screams about how life is fucking tough enough, why me today?

I glance back and his nose and ears have joined in the gush over his giant teeth.

Red blood streams into his maw like rivulets before a wash.

Now he’s ahead of me eating slices of pineapple from a can. Blood and fruit juice run over his chin and down to his shirt to look like sweat. I wonder if I have just minutes to kill this crazy motherfucker.

Or will it be another day?

He beats me to the register and I watch him bag my groceries. His shirt is a dark blue now and his eyes are bloodshot but clear.

I tell him paper & plastic and to pack them heavy. He does all that.

I still understand that I have to be this guy’s fucking hurricane.

Drinks for my friends.

The other day I was standing on the sidewalk with a lady friend in Hollywood, we were sharing a cigarette. Out of the corner of my ear I hear a woman call her son Eric and I turn around. There’s Eric, flirting with his mucus.

A toddler dressed in green with his right index finger jammed so far up his nose I feared brain damage.

I told him it was bad form to pick his nose so overtly. He continued his olfactory expedition and fired blanks at me with his adorable kid eyes.

My friend let fly that as long as he wasn’t eating it, he was cool.

The mother hustled him off. We forgot to think about how much we were embarrassing her.

Oh well. Our pie was ready.

Damianos. I still got a piece on top of the nuker. I think she’s about cured.

Once the shouting ended, it was ultimately about a word I loathe somewhat. “Presidential”. If it can be defined as who one can most realistically picture as President of The United States, so be it. Still, it’s meaning is nebulous and very subjective and I think likely to be an intellectually dishonest concept.

He is certainly more selfless in his answers than she is. He simply has more charisma and composure.

Hillary closed very strong with a very poignant sentiment. She did however, stumble into a flaming pile of shit on her flogging of the plagiarism thing. She cancelled out the magnanimity she finished with.

Let me say this. There were certain instances where she did shine. When she said with gravity that we all knew she’d seen some shit. She didn’t suck. I was reminded how smart she is.

If there was an actual victor, it was brainspank endorsee Barack Obama. Despite that, it was remarkably civil and I was generally pleased at the conviviality of it all. Again, the truth is, despite my personal preference, we will be better off by far with either of these two. Things are looking up.

I see no reason for any additional debates at this point.

I want this man as my President. He is smarter than I am. I like that. I deserve that and so do you.

I also have to say, Obama stands a far better chance at handing McCain his ass come November. It’s obvious to me he’s far more formidable in that context than would be Hills, if for no other reason than his voting record on this dumb fucking war. I honestly believe that is something we forget at our peril.

We have no evidence whether Doubtfire is wearing a diaper or not.

Drinks for my friends.

So we learn today that the New York Times will publish a story tomorrow detailing alleged improprieties between Doubtfire and a lobbyist named Vicki Iseman.

I really don’t give a mad fuck whether McCain got his stinger wet or not. I didn’t care whether or not Big Bad Bill did either. It’s just not my business. It’s a serious matter, but a matter between the men in question and their families. It is just not our business. Peroid.

Get the fuck over it. If you care, you’re a loser. This message brought to you by my Council For Common sense and my Life Is Too Short……….See what I’m Saying? Coalition.

If, on the other hand favors were granted, special consideration extended, Minden/Gardenerville, we have a problem. As much as I make fun of the Little Bootlicker and doubt that his stinger has even approached tumescence in at least a decade, I have always believed him to possess a modicum of integrity. I would be happy to know these allegations are false.

Is he friends with Bob Dole?

I’m of the opinion that Doubtfire is essentially a good but profoundly misguided man. Somewhat of a dipshit. Yet still, a man with the courage of his convictions, as ridiculously stupid as they may be. I would be loathe to see this as a defining moment. To have it somehow be the pivot in the most important election in American history. It would inevitably soil the process and somewhat spoil it for me.

Although it says very little, he is the best they’ve got and I’d like to see a fair fight.

Meanwhile, back at the ranch, Hills has lost her mojo. She is looking more and more like a real estate agent, one I’d be happy to have, as she is an ass kicker. Less and less Presidential. Hard to watch.

They debate tomorrow night. I’ll be there. She’ll be stumbling out to a ninth round and it will be interesting to see what she brings.

She’s short, Obama likes to punch down.

By the way, we’ve proven we can blow a satellite out of orbit. It was doing seventeen thousand miles an hour while the Navy rocket was doing like five thousand. Ten second window.

I could do it. If I could practice on less important satellites for a few years.

Then I learn China has already pulled this off.

Drinks for my friends.

Nine straight and most likely ten. By double digits tonight. The demographic breakdown is compelling. Obama now dominates. Rocking the vote as it were.

Doubtfire has begun to train his guns, forgive me, water pistols, on our man. “An elequent but empty call for change” At the same Doubtfire says he’ll keep us strong, safe and proud.

Keep us? Fucking hello? We are weak, vulnerable and ashamed, you out of touch asshole.

Tax cuts for the rich permanent and a one hundred year war. Good luck with that.

This is nothing but good news.

Official brainspank endorsee, Barack Obama, is quite likely to be America’s first black President. The color of his skin is thankfully less important than the content of his character and what America percieves him to be. Change.

They say his message is empty. It is not empty. I’m here to tell you that I believe that Mr. Obama is not here to fuck around.

She, on the other hand, is tired and disgusted that her presumptiveness atrophied lickety split.

And she lacks. No suspension of disbelief. I just don’t believe her.

By the way, I’m always right.

The fierce urgency of now. Unity. Indeed. Forgive me, but, yes we can. Bring it.

I don’t believe for a second that the decision will be made by super delegate party insiders. If for no other reason than they are the party of vaginas, the Democrats do not own enough testosterone to pull off that kinda fuckery.

Official brainspank prediction is America will have her first black President.

Drinks for my friends.

“calls into question the premise of his candidacy”
That motherfucking pisses me off.

I’m a writer, so is Mr. Obama. I lift from my consciousness and my unconciousness. The filter is off. I’m happy to quote someone and give them credit. I cite sources. But the filter is off.

He shared an appreciation with his friend, Massachusetts Governor Deval Patrick, of inspirational quotes by other historic Americans. There were but two commonalities between the speeches. The aforementioned sharing of enthusiasm for phrases that should be of public domain (if they are not already), and the concept that they are not “just words”.

Well, no shit they’re not just words: I have a dream. We hold these truths to be self-evident. That all men are created equal.

They don’t even need quotes.

Plagiarism? Please. He was giving his buddy a wink and a nod at most.

It smacks of desperation and it’s beginning to spoil the taste of Clinton accomplishments past. It’s shrill. Sorry Hills, but yer playin like a bitch.

The latest Bill Clinton “meltdown” was not that at all. It was passion. As simple as a goddamn eye booger is, even after a shower. Sheezus.

He was being heckled by pro lifers at an event and he said, I’m just going to paraphrase here………..I gave you your answer and we disagree, you want to criminalize women and their doctors and we disagree. Then he goes on to defend his record and Hillary’s position with clarity and specifics while simultaneously ripping the dipshit who would heckle Bill Clinton into little of slices bologna on an issue as retard proof as abortion.

Passion.

By the way, the first place I found a link to the Vid was on a very conservative website. Seriously, the site is called Hillbilly white trash. It would be against my religious beliefs to post a link.

The rest of this crap, I gleaned from CNN. I don’t think of them as the end all, but for fucks sake. Slow news day?

I’m sorry children, but if there’s nothing else to do. I mean, if you’re bored, play outside, because your whining and moaning annoy me. It is the last thing we need. It’s bad enough that the Clintons are pissing on Obama’s shoes and and you give oxygen to that at all. Then, you try to sensationalize a passionate and truthful counterpunch at a fucktard heckler by spinning it as a meltdown.

Shame the fuck on you. You dirty bastards are half the goddamn problem. No sack, but a sneaky underhanded temerity for villifying and exaggerating. Days like today, I loathe your shit.

Goddamn media: -1
Goddamn Billary: -1
Obama: 0

Drinks for my friends.

It was interesting. Fascinating. Kinda compelling.

I had fun with it.

For awhile.

Sometimes, it was like picking at a scab or the tongue constantly probing a sore in the mouth.

Still, enigmatic in the most consumate of ways.

Until he was standing over my bed on a silent night, when some sense caused me to open my eyes.

I think I first noticed him on a movie poster. Outside a shopping mall. One of those faux shelters for public transportation. Maybe on the side of a bus.

I remember thinking, after clocking his countenance out of the corner of my consciousness, that’s one creepy motherfucker. In the background of one of those visually exploding advertisements for some inspid action movie. He registered only after the fact, in my mind’s eye.

Weird.

Time passed.

I swear I saw him wearing sunglasses in a potato chip ad on the back of a comic book. I don’t really read them anymore, but I’ll thumb through them when I come across a display.

Not long after, he was an extra in a cell phone commercial on TV. I wondered at how many times I’d watched that one before I noticed him.

Tall, pale. Gaunt. Always seeming to stare right at me.

Then, he was pictured on packaging for disposable razors.

Then again, in the very back of an advertisement for a new amusement park ride on a plastic fast food cup. I’ve always kept those cups. They hold a lot and it doesn’t matter what happens to them. They make excellent mini trash receptacles for a coffee or bedside table in the apartment of a single male.

Didn’t hang on to that one.

I would catch a glimpse of him walking opposite me while driving. Of course, I looked back and checked my mirrors. Of course, nothing.

He had large front teeth, maybe buck toothed. Red hair in a sort of crew cut flat top. Pale blue eyes that were unbelievably bloodshot.

I could only imagine all these companies hiring him for these ads must have thought he was kinda goofy and cool somehow, they were infusing their shit with character or quirkiness, or something.

I thought he was scary as fuck.

He started to appear in my dreams. Still pretty innocuous, but more overt. Winking, saying hello to me. That sort of thing.

He kept showing up in different places.

In the audience on a talk show.

Blackjack dealer in Vegas once.

One day, he was pumping gas a couple islands over at a Shell station.

Early seventies GTO. It was green. He pulled out very slow.

I walked through a mall and saw him going down an escalator on a lower level grinning up at me before he looked down, sprinted the last few moving steps and disappeared.

He always bolts or turns away when I see him. He knows me.

Obviously.

He said nothing. When he placed his index finger on my sternum ever so gently, I swear I could smell dirt and grease under a long nail. He said nothing but looked right at me. Not through me, but at me. The sliding door to my balcony was open, wind clattered the vertical blinds. I could smell gasoline.

He grinned; a rictus affording massive and misshapen incisors. He began to drool, then sucked it back violently. He blew air past his lips and walked away, away from my bed and out my front door. I heard him close it quietly behind him.

Now I get phone calls at work and on my cell. HEY MIKEY IT’S ME JERRY!! Or, ANTWON!! Or, WILLIAM!!

It freezes me. I know it’s him before it rings, if I don’t answer the goddamn thing, he’ll leave a voice mail and I’ll be absolutely compelled to listen to it. So I try to take it on the chin and then hang up. Get it over with. I know when it’s him.

Get this, he always wears brown corduroy pants, blue suede Puma Clydes, a maroon t-shirt under a leather biker jacket and he’s pigeon chested. Yeah, it’s all lopsided and the fit of his leather coat emphasizes it. His shoulders are narrow and he’s very tall. Sinewy and long limbed. A glance at his hands tells that one of them would kill you if it got you by the throat.

About a week ago, I was at Starbucks waiting for my unsweetened iced crack and he was backing out the door and firing a gun at me with his thumb and index finger. I pissed my pants. I’m pretty sure no one noticed.

I had to go home. I was late to work. The boss gave me the look and pointed out my shitty performance lately. I nodded and apologized.

I don’t sleep much anymore. I’ve begun to obsess about pigs. They scare the shit out of me. Are you aware of how smart they are? They will eat any motherfucking thing. And we eat them.

This is bad.

The GOP members of the house had a dilemma today; whether to hold their breath until blue or take their ball and go home. They opted for the latter. The former struck them as bad form. Unseemly. Immature.

See, the Democrats of the same body were pushing to hold the most dubiously qualified Supreme Court nominee in history and replacement for the alarmingly obsequious and chronically full of shit Alberto Gonzales, Harriet Miers, as well as notorious White House crony Josh Bolten, in contempt.

Minority Leader John Boehner said, “We will not stand here and watch this floor be abused for pure political grandstanding at the expense of our national security,”. What a dick. I don’t care how he claims his sir name should be pronounced, looks like BONER to me. BONER became House Minority Leader, replacing DeLay, after that fucktard was indicted.

It didn’t have dick to do with national security.

Miers and Bolten refused to testify before the House Judiciary Committee about the nefarious firing of nine federal prosecutors for not pursuing bullshit voter fuckery against various Democrats. The White House claims executive privilege on their behalf. It is the furthest this brand of smoke & mirror subterfuge has ever been stretched.

White House spokeswoman Dana Perino called the move “a partisan, futile act” that would not be enforced by the Justice Department. -CNN

Full of shit.

The Republicans were whining for the Dems to renew the surveillance bill that allows for immunity from prosecution for the the big telecom plutocrats that illegally cooperated with Dick-in-Bush in the wiretapping of innocent Americans. Yep, Dick-in-Bush don’t want to see them testify because it will conclude with both their corrupt asses being held accountable.

On the spit, maybe.

And therein lies the irony of the rub. The DOJ would be counted on to execute the contempt charges, yet it is the very same bureaucracy at the center of the scandal for the prosecutor firings

This whole thing is unfuckingbelievable.

Man I hate these guys.

Meanwhile, despite the fact that they’ve hated on each other publicly, Guy Smiley endorses Doubtfire while one of the Little Bootlicker’s top advisors, Mark McKinnon, vows to resign if Obama wins the Democratic nomination.

Obama beat Hillary the other day by a vote total of more than McCain actually recieved all night.

She did however, prevail in New Mexico today by a margin so slim her nails still look ok.

Larry Craig stopped dangling today. Yeah, check this. He got a letter today from whatever collection of dipshits appointed to investigate him. Um, The Senate Ethics Committee.

Oh man.

It seems he paid over two hundred thousand dollars in legal fees for soliciting an undercover cop for sex in an airport bathroom with campaign donations. With money that people donated for his re-election. The letter from the committee went on to say they believed he “committed the offense to which you pled guilty” and that “you entered your plea knowingly, voluntarily and intelligently.” -AP

No censure, no call for resignation. Giant spineless vaginas. Check my categories for more on this prick Larry Craig.

What exactly is going on in the Senate? They can’t even publicly decry this piece of shit? Issue a statement saying he’s a jackass and should walk? Under Mr. Harry Reid, the Democrats are goddamn ridiculous.

The republicans are swimming in shit and the wind is blowing it into their pie holes. Right into their faces.

Senate Democrats walk around with mouths wide open in stupidity at the same time.

Drinks for my friends.

Hills has been bracing for heavy weather all day. Well, much longer than that.

Barack Obama.

The Clinton machine fully expected to be holding it’s ass in front of itself by sunset here in the West today.

I know, huh?

What?

The boat of Billary is taking on water.

It’s a big ass boat, she’s begun to toss a few over the rail. Patti Solis Doyle, campaign manager, will be replaced by Mary Tyler Moore. I mean Maggie Williams.

No apologies; no shit, she’s black.

Is it a good idea to have a middle name in the Hillary Rodham Clinton campaign? Oh, and today we hear of the resignation of Deputy Campaign Manager Mike Henry. What of William Jefferson Clinton?

Make no mistake. This is a contemporary dynasty on the ropes. This really is history. Goddamn this is interesting. And compelling and portentous. I hope you people are watching. I hope you’re singing along.

It is nuts. I’m really worried reality TV fucktards will smell how cool this is and start tuning in and voting. Sheezus. With an abruptness so complete it will have it’s own violent sound, The Great Unwashed will stumble to the polls and chaos will be a way of life shortly thereafter and forever.

Sometimes I can’t believe the shit I talk.

Tonight, he’s simultaneously ice blue cool and incendiary. He’s commanding the votes of women, seniors, the youth, rural, suburban, metro and every income demographic. It is amazing. The audacity of hope indeed.

Momentum. Inertia.

Momentum: “force or speed of movement; impetus, as of a physical object or course of events”.

Inertia: “Physics The tendency of a body to resist acceleration; the tendency of a body at rest to remain at rest or of a body in straight line motion to stay in motion in a straight line unless acted on by an outside force.”

Outside force, apparently not factoring in.

He is a human hurricane. Category three and gaining strength.

His speech tonight is in Madison Wisconsin. I made the biggest record of my career in that charming town some twelve or thirteen years ago. I remember thinking how nice everyone was after spending a decade in LA. They were normal and helpful and friendly. I winced when my soon to be rockstar client was rude to almost everyone we came in contact with.

He speaks with grace, humility and power. He owns just exactly where he is.

“Cynicism is a sorry kind of wisdom”, he says. Excellent.

CNN cuts to Doubtfire and I am struck dumb by the contrast.

He says literally nothing, save for threatening that a Democrat will compromise your values, your wallet and your safety. Yawn. Never heard that one before.

The current Republican administration has with brutal and unflinching efficacy, with malice even, harpooned America’s pockets, her pride and the respect and strength she once enjoyed under the global proscenium.

War. War. War. I don’t dislike McCain. He’s had the shit kicked out of him in a way that we simply cannot begin to comprehend. It makes it all the more shameful on his part that he has actually suggested publicly our occupation in Iraq should last a century. For what fuckhead? Oil? If it’s not obsolete by then, the entire world, not to mention the human race, will be facing the end of days.

For a man who’s literally had the shit beaten from him, he is full to bursting with it.

He is right on one thing. It just happens to be a very important thing. Torture. Important, too bad that’s all he’s learned.

His positions and policies on every other vital issue are underthought, intellectually dishonest and bereft of the merest modicum of common sense. Permanent tax cuts for the rich, a war without end……………….

Yes, this man is a dipshit.

Doubtfire, the bootlicker stands not a chance.

The calculus is thus: A man who is in touch versus a man who is out of touch.

Do the math.

Peace.

Drinks for my friends.

Andy Williams looks like shit.

Am I loser because I’m sitting at home on a Sunday night for the second year in a row watching the Grammys? I never used to watch award shows. I was too busy. I was too punk rock! Well, maybe not, but I always found them boring. Have I changed? Am I even less punk rock than when I kinda pretended to be?

Maybe it’s nostalgia. That little ripple when you see someone on TV you’ve been face to face with.

It’s not as good as it was last year but I’m entertained.

That last sentence brought to you by Justin Bateman who I have on MUTE.

Fucking Foo Fighters. Best rock band on the planet today. Orchestra didn’t really work until the band kicked in, then it fucking slayed me. Engineering nightmare.

Nirvana? I was absolutely a fan. But I’m more grateful to that band for Dave Grohl than anything else. Fucking Foo Fighters.

Who the fuck is Brad Paisly? His tone sucks. Pretty good picker though. His tone gets better. It’s a dumb country song well played.

Did you see the thighs on Beyonce? Sheezus. Very unclean thoughts.

Take your fucking glasses off Kanye. Then he rambles self indulgently and more than a little pompously while invoking his mother. How old is this guy? He needs to back up and count to ten. Humility goes a long way on TV.

What’s this Aretha-God shit? Took the engineer a good eight bars to figure out the horns. After that it was pretty cool. Great drummer. Excellent band. Then Aretha comes back out in a tent and I’m wondering was this God shit her idea? Great choir.

Commercial. ‘Scuse me while I piss the sky.

Feist? Horns sounded a little loose.

Kid Rock. Nice try. Had to step out for a smoke.

Fucking Foo Fighters. Best rock record. Ha bitches!

I don’t understand the appeal of lizards dancing with a hot black chick to “Thriller”.

Stevie Wonder has won twenty five fucking grammys?

I want to possess Alicia Keys. John Mayer shows up to play and sing and they tear it the fuck up.

Country award. Time for a smoke.

Herbie Hancock with some asian cat playing Rhapsody in Blue. Two pianos, no matter how identical cannot be tuned perfectly simpatico. I live for the dissonance. The orchestra rocks. One of my favorite pieces of music.

Jay-Z is cool.

Amy Winehouse is excellent and the band doesn’t fuck around. No leaks. Air tight.

Natalie Cole is gorgeous but they’re here for Doris Day? Natalie Cole is a handsome woman with whom I’ve spent a little face time. Amy gets the trophy. It’s a very cool song. Natalie has a positively regal presence. You know, in person.

Had to slide out for some cat food. Did I miss anything?

Bocelli and Groban are awesome. Amazing. Who is this Groban guy again?

Jerry Lee Lewis is still alive? I know about this guy. He’s a whack job. I’ve read books. One creepy motherfucker. What the hell is Fogerty doing up there? I hate Creedence.

Little Richard can still sing and play like ringing a bell. Fogerty takes a solo and it doesn’t suck. They thought it would though because they didn’t turn him up. I believe Little Richard to be the gayest black man to ever appear on television. Whatever. He still belts.

will.i.am
Very nice job.

I don’t know. Herbie Hancock getting the big one resonates. And then he says “Yes we can”. They turn the fucking music on. You turned it off for Kanye but you can’t give this guy thirty more seconds? After he just acquitted himself like a rockstar on Rhapsody in Blue?

I recently saw Herbie on Bill Maher. He didn’t really belong there. He’s a class act and he belonged on that stage tonight, reading over the cheesy music because he wanted to thank everybody.

Hey Kanye, I’m just pointing it out.

Interesting. Official brainspank endorsee Barack Obama, beat out Jimmy Carter and Hillary Clinton today in some spoken word category. Um, he prevailed in Maine today as well.

Drinks for my friends.

So, Guy Smiley (Romney) tipped the fuck out the door the other day because he’s just smart enough to grasp the math.

Official brainspank.org endorsee Barack Obama, sails towards the setting sun on this unseasonably warm Southern California Saturday. With aplomb, he breezed through all four contests today. He then spoke in Virginia. This occasion, more time was afforded for policy and some specifics, yet still a performance budding and blooming with optimism.

What exactly does it say about where America’s head is at when this man is able to prevail by margins that range from decisive to ass kicking in states like Kansas, Washington, Louisiana and Nebraska while he falls short in California?

Perhaps we are witnessing the emergence of the neoliberal. Quite a few of them might be pissed off rednecks. A lot of them disenfranchised centrist Democrats. How many alienated moderate Republicans? This is intriguing stuff.

Meanwhile, back at the ranch, Huckabee is yanking McCain’s chain. Huckabee has a sense of humor. McCain does not. He has trouble scratching his own face.

I need a nickname for our man John. I’m open to suggestion if I don’t come up with one by the end of this blog.

Wait! How about Mrs. Doubtfire?

So, the thing about Huckabee is he showed up on Colbert and played air hockey with a puck shaped like Texas ’cause see, Mike think’s he’s gonna take Texas.

Whatever. Really.

Either way, Huckabee will continue to siphon the bible thumpers away from Doubtfire, our little Bootlicker. We see this as a good thing.

And sorry, McCain will be known as Doubtfire and/or the little Bootlicker. You can still comment with your suggestions.

Texas would be a blow to both Doubtfire and Dumbya. Or rather, the hierarchy. The machine that is the hand up the ass of our esteemed chief executive.

The batteries left in that machine are low on juice.

A once shiny machine.

Doubtfire the Bootlicker, sinks his fingers into a lot of pies but can’t get past his first knuckle in any of them. The pressure on him to bend will force him to fold. He will do just that, like a lawn chair, in the general election. Regardless of who he faces. Trust me.

Doubtfire is a Republican and an assload of Republicans hate the little Bootlicker.

Then, nobody’s talking about Dumbya. At all. He is effectively absent penis.

Absent ballsack.

Gonadless.

Where do you think they went? Not the gonads, the batteries.

In many ways, it’s pretty fucking sick. We are now more than ever, a plutocracy. We still subsidize oil companies with our tax dollars despite them being the richest companies in the history of mankind.

Those batteries are becoming Democrats. Those batteries, that money, are blowing kisses at Mrs. Doubtfire while sticking hands up skirts across the aisle with Democrats.

The damage is done. America has been bent over against it’s ignorant will and cornholed. Ass raped. Violated.

The damage is done.

The economy is a house of cards on a pudding foundation. No hiding from it and no excuses; the Republicans have delivered us here. We are hemorrhaging cash in a pointless and stupid war while our economy and infrastructure atrophy from sheer neglect and not near enough protein.

The distance between rich and poor owns more velocity than the melting of our icecaps.

This is the booby prize they offer McCain. The machine is finished. It has taken it’s prize. We are fucked and the machine has consolidated more power and money than God. The Machine that kicked Doubtfire in the teeth in the year two thousand finally offers up the rotting skin of a once ripe fruit and the Little Bootlicker can’t wait to possess it.

He’s a goddamn circus poodle and he’s the best they’ve got.

They don’t care. They possess what they coveted. The little Bootlicker eyes the brass ring but doesn’t understand that the position is for Chief Executive Janitor

You must be fucking kidding me.

Drinks for my friends.

Welcome back my friends to the show that never ends
We’re so glad you could attend, come inside, come inside
There behind a glass stands a real blade of grass
Be careful as you pass, move along, move along

-Emerson, Lake and Palmer “Karn Evil 9”

They focus on McCain, Romney and Huckabee. There’s an imperative to rescue it from being a foregone conclusion. The Great Unwashed can’t be allowed to lose interest.

I see it as an insipid gameshow mentality.

It will be McCain, because Guy Smiley, in his sacred underwear, is full of shit and although Huckabee seems like a nice guy, any sane motherfucker with a low triple digit IQ, residing on this side of common sense, is scared out of his or her mind that a Southern Baptist Minister could be President.

I mean, I know I am. The leader of the the free world believing that the earth is like, six thousand years old? You have got to be fucking kidding me. This guy is getting a shitload of votes in the The South. Somehow, that’s just not funny in this century.

McCain cannot beat either one of the two Democrats. Half his base loathes him and he has no charisma. That of course means, Romney and Huckabee would fare somewhat worse than hot, low note flatulence in a tornado.

Ann Coulter and Rush Limbaugh have both said they’ll vote for Hillary if McCain gets the nod. To them, he’s just not conservative enough.

Oh boy.

The pendulum, it doth swing with velocity. Not only are Ann and Rush obsolete, they will soon run out of air. Fucktards.

McCain stared and glared at Romney over who was more committed to Iraq when over seventy percent of Americans think that it’s just plain stupid.

Conservatives are dumb and now they’re confused.

People who are both mindless and bewildered tend to be dangerous. They scare me.

Outside it’s America.

Goddamn, the Republicans are in trouble.

Anyway.

A far more interesting contest between Barack and Hillary.

I’m so pleased by the very idea that America is choosing between a black man and a woman for the Democratic nomination.

It does speak volumes about the taste in our mouths. For nearly eight years, the only thing on the spoon has been shit. Stupid, mindless, neoconservative shit. Imagine shit with tar and rotting raisins. Oh, and pepper. Not the good kind, but the kind with no flavor and just heat. And to drink? Your choice of bleach or Woolite.

Democrats are not always better, yet this choice makes me smile.

America stands on the verge of electing a much needed Democratic President. The slow and stupid will just have to piss up a rope for at least four years.

Life is beautiful.

I’m pulling for the black guy who’s last name rhymes with Osama. The guy who’s middle name is Hussein.

He is smart. He is willfull. He is change.

I think.

I hope.

Among other glistening trophies, he took Kansas and North Dakota last night. Kansas. Can you say Brown v. The Board of Education? Um, wow. I ask myself, as one must, does this mean these people are more afraid of a white woman than a black man? Or is it evidence of an intellectual honesty in America that we have not seen before?

We’ll see, to behold the latter would be resplendent indeed.

For now, it’s a dead heat between two left minded champions of what is right. This is healthy. The dialog and discourse will be richer and we will all benefit.

The Democratic turnout will carry the general, particularly with a Republican party so divided. Right wing Christians have abandoned the filthy corporate lucre. Hypocrite despising hypocrite. Excellent.

Next time you see a neoconservative dipshit Republican, do him a favor and pluck one of the forks from his mottled ass and give him your change.

Then, hit him in the mouth as hard as you can to celebrate his fall from grace.

Drinks for my friends.

I’m impressed by perfection. Perfection is awesome. Perfection is never enduring, however. Never consistent. Michael Jordan was perfect for a time. So was Stevie Ray Vaughn. Then, there was NASA in the late sixties. They made it to the moon on slide rules.

Yet it never lasts. It’s impossible.

I adore an underdog. I’m enamored of the unlikely.

I’m not emotionally invested in any sporting contest or team. I really can’t muster the enthusiasm. But, I’d been thinking about this Superbowl and the underdog. I found myself with little to do this afternoon, so I tuned in about half way through the first quarter.

Needless to say, it was about as interesting as these things get. I was rewarded with a win by the underdog. Cool. Glad I watched.

The analogy may be a little weak, but I’ll make it anyway. A far more more important contest is playing out in America. With any luck, Barack Obama will face the Republican nominee (most likely McCain) in a contest for titular leader of the free world.

If this comes to pass, it’s possible that the underdog will have already prevailed in the most important battle he faces. He will have bested Hillary Clinton for the Democratic nomination.

I’ve been saying for nearly a year that what America needs is as much change as she can get. I own this. To me, it is a fact. Barack Obama represents the very most change for which we can realistically hope.

There were other contestants that I liked better. But honestly, not by much. I didn’t think this man had a chance, but I’m happy he’s here. I’m happy I was wrong. Very happy.

For what it’s worth, I’m not so full of myself as to estimate what I’m about to say will have anything but the most negligible concussion on The Great Unwashed.

I remain however, undaunted.

The first ever brainspank.org endorsement goes to Barack Obama for President of The United States of America.

I do this because I believe him to be a good man. He is smart and inspired. He talks sense.

I don’t know exactly how tough he is, yet he will need to be the world’s toughest man. I’m not sure how smart he is and he will have to be one of the smartest.

I hope at how principled he is. I can only guess at his strength.

Casting a vote is always hanging your ass in the wind. Because of that, you should always do the best you can. Pay attention. Be informed. Try not to be a jackass and if you are, abstain. If you don’t know shit about a proposition or a bond, for fuck’s sake leave it blank.

Obama is a different matter. You should let your mind go blank and trust me on this one. He is the best shot we’ve got. He is brave and razor sharp. If we can just get him there, he will rattle some cages. At the same time, the world will exhale in relief.

If we end up with McCain, the world will have a simultaneous sphincter pucker on a scale that could result in giant sand storms and possibly some heightened tidal activity.

On top of that, we’ll all be kinda bummed about having an old man in office that is incapable of combing his own hair. I hear he’s pretty grumpy. Imagine what four years will do to this poor bastard. He’ll be in the corner sniffing glue before it’s over.

Nope, we need fresh flesh and our man Obama is young. One thing even the most neoconservative diamond crapping old rich white man can’t deny is his PASSION.

It was a good field this time and for that I’m grateful. Any of them would have been better than any of The
Blackhats.

I want this man to be my President.

I’m serious. I believe what he has shown me so far is who and what he is and like what I see.

Drinks for my friends.

I know there were two major debates this week. One was particularly contentious and the other quite conviviial. What. Ever. Sorry. What follows is what I felt like writing about.

BITCHES:

The Gotohells, minus Gene Gene the Dancing Machine and Timmy the worlds happiest bass player, picked us up at the airport in Tampa.

The humid South engulfed my head the second we stepped outside.

Edo and Hunter.

Edo: Guitar and lead vocals.
Hunter: Drums, backup vocals and one lead vocal. Last song. Good song. Shitty vocal.

I think I’d met Edo, but Hunter and I were old friends at that point. Hunter played drums, sang and was a human holiday on the very first record Al & I ever produced, recorded and mixed. “Punkrockacademyfightsong” – Down By Law -Epitaph.

Hunter, maybe a buck twenty five soaking wet, played so hard, he took chunks out of cymbals. It wasn’t unusual for us to change snare heads after just two or three takes. Jacked up grill and losing his hair at twenty one. He could drink and he could hold his liquor. He did an hysterical impersonation of Johnny Thunders. Brutally funny, painfully bright and consistently, unapologetically, honest. Character and integrity for weeks.

I fucking loved him. Whenever he was in town he’d leave a message with the receptionist at the studio. Always the same. “Plate of Shrimp” and a number where he could be reached.

Then we’d go drinking.

There was a twelve pack of cold Bud Talls on the floorboard of the backseat. I had a couple.

They took us straight to the original Hooters. Then to a nice little motel off the highway for the first few days of our stay and rehearsals. It was a very magnanimous gesture on the part of four broke ass cracker redneck musician punks.

Rehearsals were rainy, dark and smelly.

Al and I would couch surf after that ’til the record was done.

At first, we were accomodated by Edo and a guy named Sticky, who Hunter confessed he’d take a bullet for. I had some really stupid shoes on and Sticky asked me through a nicotine stained smile if I’d made them in wood shop. I kinda liked Sticky but I don’t think he liked me.

Given his fragile constitution, Al was pretty much sick the whole time.

Picture Al, Alex, as a young and thin Dustin Hoffman.

In retrospect it’s kinda comical, but I was concerned. Al had some form of bronchitis and Sticky and Edo were content to chainsmoke Marlboros in the same room he was desperately trying to sleep in.

We also stayed with Timmy and his unbelievably happy family. We came and went at very odd hours, often drunk. We preferred Timmy’s house to that of Edo and Sticky because there were no chainsmokers and there were teenage girls, sometimes food and coffee, if you got up in time.

Hunter shared with me that it was a bad day indeed if Timmy wasn’t smiling.

There were other reasons we liked staying with Timmy’s family better.

Timmy had an excellent selection of movies along with a shit hot media setup for the time. There was the beautiful saltwater aquarium that lent tranquility to our slumber after long days in the studio and long nights drinking. Someone always had pot, Edo I think.

Timmy was a big boy, wore thick glasses and chewed tobacco. He was a terrible bass player.

We made the record in a studio called Panda. George, the owner was spindly, tall and angular. Very gracious and accommodating. He had that eighties ponytail through the back of the baseball cap thing going on and long fingers in perpetual motion. Very funny, very helpful and completely unselfconscious with his intrigue at our recording techniques and methodology.

George spent most of his time on a beat to shit couch in the back of the control room reading a book by George Carlin. He’d spew laughter and read out loud.

One of the first things that is consciously forced down your throat in life is the concept of not throwing things, especially at other people. I have to tell you, I threw a lot of things, mostly those fat Sharpies, at a lot of people back then. Sorry about that Sam.

Anyway, was his sidekick named Charlie? I think so. Charlie kept the band awash in beer and they consumed it in copious amounts. The record brought to you as much by Budweiser as by me & Al and the band.

Funny when I think about it. The band would drink all day. Al and I rarely touched more than caffeine while in a control room. The brisk clip of an eight hour day was foreign to all of us. Making records is ponderous, repetetive, intensley creative and often maddening.

Recording, documenting and then rendering music actually, is typically a twelve to fifteen hour day. It just is what it is.

At one point, consensus was reached to start the sessions earlier; reason being to get enough done to allow an hour or two before closing time to get our drink on.

I recall it being a bit of a challenge.

On the way to the studio every morning I gawked at the clusterfuck that accompanied the latest Virgin Mary phenomena. About a year before, the redneck faithful of Clearwater Florida had discovered what they believed to be the divine image of her in the reflective glass of an office building just off the interstate. The bleachers and folding chairs were filled by the hundreds every morning to stare in awe at what looked to me to be a warped window with an oilslick on it.

It was an unspoken rule that wherever and whenever Lynyrd Skynyrd could be heard, all four members of the band would remove their hats in a maneuver that struck me as not unlike synchronized swimming.

Tampa/Orlando is the lightning capital of the entire planet and we were there for the season. Late spring. Crazy. Power outages and just plain fear of electrocution forced us out of the studio a handful of times. We hung out in the parking lot, smoking and drinking beer in the warm rain.

One morning in Madison Wisconsin, me and a band called Everclear watched the clouds rotate in the sky over the studio like in some Bradbury novel. Smart Studios. Butch Vig.

Marie Osmond caught an eyeful of our roadie’s penis that day and then bounced off a glass door, but that’s another story.

We knocked off early that night.

I had a suite overlooking the state capitol building. I turned off the lights, cracked open a beer from the mini bar and watched the most spectacular light show I might ever see. Huge bolts. Not just white, but pink and blue, as they hammered the golden dome of the state capitol building.

Next morning we discovered a pair of Neve 1073’s with all the knobs melted into a puddle. Kinda sucked because one was for the vocal and the other for rhythm guitar.

Recording studios are magnets for any atmospheric discharge.

There’s no Waffle Houses in LA. I coveted cheese eggs, raisin toast and grits when I studied engineering in Atlanta. Waffle House is where I ate when I had money. Not often.

I told Hunter and he made sure we ate there a handful of times, including the morning after the last mix before they took us to the airport and after working all night. He pointed out various oddities of Waffle House protocol. The specific spot the middle aged rubenesque waitress stood to shout orders to the kitchen, for example.

Still a vegetarian back then, I loved it when the matronly woman taking my order would inevitably ask, “Honey, you don’t want any meat with that?”.

Hunter stole laminated menus for me that morning. Stuffed them under his shirt. I still have them.

Nothing mattered that day. We’d finished a record and the sun was shining. I could have punched the sky.

There was even time for a nap.

I called The Fish from a pay phone in the airport to tell her when I was landing in LA. Angry and in tears, she’d been all over LAX the night before looking for me. I had given her the wrong date. There was a schedule adjustment half way through the record because we knew we’d need an extra day. I’d forgotten to tell her.

I’m not sure I’ve ever felt that kind of bad. At the time I was furiously in love with this woman and I had just made the worst mistake a man can make. I had, however briefly, forgotten about her. I’d crawled into my head in the company of men while making a record, and forgotten about home completely.

I was still in that head when dialing the phone.

After that conversation, despite the damage I had wrought, I couldn’t wait to come home.

We made a very good record. I’m proud of it. No samples or technological fuckery. What you hear is what they played. I’ve been listening to it lately and it makes me smile. It rocks.

The band is The Gotohells. The record is Burning Bridges. The label is Vagrant.

Drinks for my friends.

Those of you that have been reading me for awhile, may recall that my take on the last State of The Union was titled “No babies in garbage disposals”. A not so subtle nod towards the populist pablum. Tonight was more of the same.

He still insisted on mispronouncing ‘nuclear’ six or seven times and stubbornly whipped the deceased equine carcass of social security, or “entitlements” in the euphemistic vernacular of the neocons. Fuck that. Social Security is not an entitlement. We pay in when we are young, it pays out when we are old.

More pointless and baseless saber rattling at Iran. Way Too many Democrats hauling asses out of seats for this particular round of applause. Sheezus.

I feel like an eight year old. I was bored and really, I just don’t give a mad fuck what Dumbya has to say anymore. He may still be dangerous, but his irrelavance metastasizes by the hour.

I found more intrinsic entertainment in the shifts of smirk Cheney wore behind Dumbya’s right shoulder. I was amused by the Republican lockstep of standing ovations.

C’mon you pinheads, you’ve got be fucking kidding me.

Perhaps it’s irresponsible and lazy, but to counter the address point by point would be futile and didactic. If you don’t realize how full of shit he is by now, you never will. Like I said, I just don’t care.

On a far more interesting note, Obama collected the endorsement of Senator Ted Kennedy as well as a glowing op-ed in the New York Times yesterday titled “A President Like My Father” written by Caroline Kennedy, daughter of JFK, in case you didn’t know. Now this, is heavy.

The momentum that Obama is gathering is formidable. Although still very early, it is of a brand that could thwart the Clinton Machine. Wow. A certain degree of credit goes to Barack himself. He’s demonstrated a not so simple grace in allowing the Clintons to make themselves look bad. Zen judo. Awesome.

Time to take a walk John. Don’t go too far.

Goddamn Super Tuesday will roar at us I hope.

Drinks for my friends.

60 Minutes has been the best show on network television for a lot longer than I can remember.

My least favorite crew member has always been Scott Pelley. Ever since he clumsily hammered Ahmadinejad when he visited last year, my disdain for him has swollen. He lacks suspension of disbelief. Seems like a dipshit sometimes.

I like that Anderson Cooper has joined. I’m thinking he should be Crew Chief of The Month. Brass rectangle added to the plaque and all.

I miss Ed Bradley. He was the coolest.

I realize that Pelley was probably put up to it by some CBS swine executive for mere schadenfreude. I still loathe him for it. It was dishonest on a global level.

Anyway, Prick JR. parked one tonight with his interview of George Piro. Mr. Piro was our government’s lead interrogator of Saddam Hussein. Absolutely compelling and fascinating. Enough for me to realize I was mouth breathing. What a coup for The Columbia Broadcasting System.

It was excellent TV; that’s all I’m saying.

Now. As you now know, Mr Obama prevailed spectacularly in South Carolina last night. My skirt is lifted by this gust of change.

I said early on that a black man with a last name that rhymes with Osama and a middle name that is Hussein, has virtually no chance of being President of The United States of America. I said that because I believed America to be sicker than she was.

I’m happy to be wrong. Very happy to be wrong.

There is a very tangible possibility that America will soon have it’s first Black President. I’m excited about this because it may just mean that American heads and hearts aren’t where I thought they were. Could it be these dark days were catalyst enough for some general epiphany?

Could this just be the right man for the right time?

I am happy to be wrong.

Let me just say this. We know know that MLK wasn’t perfect and JFK was barely able to maintain orbit. Then there’s Big Bad Bill. Bill was not your run of the mill house afire. I don’t give a mad fuck about that kinda shit.

I am concerned about Barack’s potential for efficacy. I’m not concerned about Hillary’s. She’ll get shit done. I worry about just how and where and what, however.

I digress. I am pleased and excited. Good stuff going on in America and I’m confident it’s indicative of an improving state of mind and over all better mental health.

Every effort has been made to slam our minds shut for the better part of eight years and a great many succumbed. Despite all that, we seem to be waking. Minds seem to be opening.

This man Obama can certainly be the wind to blow piss back into the faces of the complacent, apathetic and ignorant. The greedy and the powerful.

Make no mistake, if America elects this man, the entire world will exhale and relax a little. They will. That’s what I’m talking about.

I can’t know how well he would govern us. But he is smart, wise and confident. I am impressed. He is as real as they get on a stage so elevated.

For what it’s worth, George W. Bush is real too, he’s just really stupid.

Drinks for my friends.

It’s all over but the shouting in South Carolina. Obama has beaten Hillary and Edwards like a pair of baby seals.

He did this by amassing over fifty percent of the vote. The demographic sweep he engineered is beyond impressive. South Carolina is over sixty seven percent white and the home state of John Edwards, who finished a distant third. It was a record turnout.

More than double Hillary’s pot and obviously, more than both Edwards and Hillary combined.

He speaks like a summer thunderstorm. A cloudburst on a sweltering afternoon. Substance and style. Grace and conviction. Thunder and lightning. His admonition of Hillary, subtlety and gravity.

It’s kind of ironic that while I was thinking that even if Obama succeeded at elevating only minorities and the poor, America would be a far better place. It’s ironic, because it was the same moment he segued into passionate discourse about unity and the fractures that exist between us, that either aren’t there or don’t need to be. All of us.

ALL OF US.

I am smiling. Were it not for the breathtaking ineptness, avarice and arrogance of the current administration and the Republican party, America would never grant audience to this first ever contest between a black man and a woman for President of The United States.

Forgive me, but hope doesn’t appear so audacious any more. It’s been a long time coming. We have endured too many years of cruelty and apathy at the hands of Republican rulers. Maybe now, instead of the lesser of two evils, America will choose the better of the best.

Oh boy.

Eighty percent of African Americans in SC voted for Obama. I still really like Edwards, but I fear it may be time for him to walk. Seventy three percent of Democrats who cast a vote tonight, did so against Hillary. This, in one of only three states with a greater than twenty percent population of black voters. Do the math, Obama desperately needs white Democrats on February Five.

Edwards says he’s still got lotsa fight left. We’ll see.

Obama and Edwards? I’d like that a lot.

Bill Bennett, asshat that he is, just compared Obama’s speech to Ronald Reagan. What a fucking retard. It occurs to me that Martin Luther King is a far more appropriate and accurate analog. Or, can you say JFK?

Amy Holmes, conservative whackjob that she is, is hotter than Georgia asphalt. I’d do her. She was on Bill Maher last night and I had an identical thought. Michelle O. has hips and a booty.

Meanwhile, on the darkside, Skeletor sports a giant mudhole in his ass that will be kicked dry by Guy Smiley and John McCain in Florida. Time to start looking for a rock with a vacancy underneath, Mr. Julie Rudyiani. Douchebag.

Up next, Super Tuesday. The road, still long indeed.

Drinks for my friends.

They focus on McCain and Romney and Huckabee. Somehow they need to save it from being a forgone conclusion. Probably just to hold interest.

Idiots.

It will be McCain, because Guy Smiley is full of shit and Huckabee seems like a nice guy but any sane motherfucker between here and common sense is scared out of his or her mind that a Southern Baptist Minister could be President.

I mean, I know I am. The leader of the the free world believing that the earth is like, six thousand years old? You have got to be fucking kidding me. This guy is getting a shitload of votes.

Outside it’s America.

Goddamn, the Republicans are in trouble.

Anyway.

A far more interesting contest between Barack and Hillary.

I’m so pleased by the very idea that America is choosing between a black man and a woman for the Democratic nomination.

It does speak volumes about the taste in our mouths. For nearly eight years, the only thing on the spoon has been shit. Stupid mindless Republican shit. Imagine shit with tar and rotting raisins.

The Democrats not always better but I’m happy to have this choice.

America is about to recieve a much needed Democratic President, so fuck off.

Drinks for my friends.

I just need to talk about a few things here.

First up, this retarded stimulus package Republicans and Democrats alike are toothlessly masticating each other’s genitals over. Six hundred dollars (!) for each of us grossing less than seventy five thousand a year.

You have got to be fucking kidding me.

What they’re hoping is, we’ll go out and blow that magnanimous sum and the economy will just explode and all will be sunshine and rainbows.

You have got to be fucking kidding me.

That’s the plan?

I’m insulted.

Six hundred bucks buys me about three hours in a Vegas titty bar with a couple of clients. Brilliant.

Or, I could score just enough booze and blow to rationalize hiring a hooker, likely succumb to whiskey dick and the subsequent ego deflation that accompanies losing one’s wood and/or never achieving it to begin with.

As a Southern California resident, were I to earmark said funds for more pragmatic utilization, it would mitigate approximately a third of my monthly rent. Less than that of a mortgage note or a month’s payment on a decent car.

Republicans and Democrats have reached out to each other for your benefit and are now offering a medium size self adhering gauze bandage for your middle class ass hemorrhage. The bastards of the beltway are powerful sorry about the diabetes they gave you and would like for you to have a cookie.

I understand the proposal also provides for “business incentives”.

I really hate these guys.

Apparently, while we spend over half a million a minute in Iraq, fiscal conservatives are wringing their sweaty hands over what this may do to the budget deficit.

Thank Jesus someone is watching the foxes play with the hens.

On a profoundly sad note, my favorite little paste eater announced he was leaving the circus today. How sad that the roaring mouse has thrown in the towel. The ONLY one with the courage, integrity and honesty to speak the truth consisitently about where we are and what we must do, is left with no choice but to save his congressional seat so that he may fight again to effect desperately needed change another day. May the powers that exist, forever favor you Mr. Dennis Kucinich. Many of us will miss your valuable contribution to what is obviously the most important political discourse thus far for all of us.

Next. From this blog on January nine:

“The Bill & Hillary machine is awesome, however. What we saw was that impressive apparatus in swift and purposeful motion at the bottom of the ninth in the second game of seven. Very impressive.

Here they come. I told ya.”

And from this blog on January four:

“I’ve alluded to to the Clintonian acumen for brawling. You’re about to see a full frontal and it will most likely get ugly. We’re about to witness how smart she really is. I can’t help but think that if she starts tossing turds, she’ll be courting the dirt nap.

Fascinating to watch Bill’s big brain churning behind his eyes as he stood to her left while she spoke. I found myself waiting for steam to to rocket from every orifice in his head.

She tossed not a single turd.”

It’s true, Bill Clinton, a man whom I celebrate and adore, needs to count to ten. I won’t address this specifically except to to say that policy is what is is germane here. That, and desperation is almost always ugly.

Last but not least, Hillary and McCain won the nod from The New York Times today. The NYT said this about Skeletor, who is fighting for third in Florida:

“The New York paper said it could not endorse Giuliani, describing the city’s former mayor as a “narrow, obsessively secretive, vindictive man” whose “arrogance and bad judgment are breathtaking.”

Ha!

Drinks for my friends.

Sunday, May 06, 2007

Vignette A Quatro.
Current mood: accomplished
Category: Writing and Poetry

We stand at the light. Waiting to cross. His cologne is fucking awful. But he’s dressed immaculate. Jacket and slacks, no tie. I see he’s thinking. I tell him to stop. He bows his head and looks up at me. I smile.

Nothing to think about I say. Make sure you stay out front on the sidewalk. Don’t approach her under any circumstances unless it turns into an action scene and there’s automatic weapons fire. He giggles a little.

Got to give him something.

Do not step foot inside without calling me first. You feel me? I tell him this. He bows his
head again and looks up at me, no worries he says, and he smiles.

I light one and with a click the signal changes, we step off the curb. Mickey moves slow.

He calls me Mikey and I call him Mickey and Mickey is
insanely fast and crazy vicious when the time comes.
He’s here today because things aren’t great for him so
I said I’d give him a buck fifty to take me over the
hill and get something signed.

I tell him we’ll go across the street after, there’s a
Fatburger. I’m all about a fried egg sandwich with
pickles, mustard and cheddar. You can have whatever, I say.

Fairly late afternoon. We move from sun to shadow. Winter in LA. He looks to his left and clocks the Fatburger. Wait here I say, I don’t want him inside.

I flick my smoke away and walk in. It’s warm and sophisticated. This woman knows her mind and her business. Nobody else in the store. She’s watching a flatscreen on the wall while propping herself up with
arms behind her on a circular couch. Beside her, two remotes, a cordless and her cell. And no shit, an open game of “Operation”.

Mickey’s wide, he’d be a disaster in here.

Who else is here, I say.

What’s up, she says. I only know she said something
because she pointed her face at me and her lips moved.
That’s what she always says even on the phone so I
figure that’s what she’s saying now.

Beautiful is an understatement. Her African skin glows like there’s sun shining on it. She gives me pause and I hope she doesn’t catch it.

Mickey with you? Mickey? She’s loud but not yelling. She gets up
moving towards the front of her store and she does the not yelling thing again.

My phone rings. Tell him he can come in I say.

He appears with a shy smile. She cups his face, kisses his cheek and leads him to a couch that allows him to see outside. She hands him a bottle of water that looks miniature in his fist.

She snatches the envelope out of my back pocket on her way back in. This what I think it is?

I nod.

All business now. She walks towards the register as she opens it and begins to read. You need time to read it over I’ll send Mickey to pick it up, I say.

She looks at me and reaches for a pen. She signs it slowly and deliberately, re-folds it, puts it back in the envelope and hands it to me with a blank face. Things are getting better, she says. I’ll have a payment soon.

Good to hear I say.

She smells her hands and looks towards Mickey. A sour look on her face as she heads off to wash up. Let’s go Mickey I say and move towards the door.

In between tearing off massive bites from his triple and wiping his chin he says, she’s something Mikey. Yeah, I know, but she lacks empathy I say. Classic narcissistic personality disorder. Least, that’s what my shrink says. Mmmm hmm, he says like he knows what I’m talking about. He draws through his straw and it makes that noise it makes in every movie. Why is it only white people need therapy he asks.

The guy who block’s out the sun is coming in the door. His grin is wide but his eyes are empty. Fuck, I say.

Mickey stands wiping his hands and without looking says that’s far enough bro.

He ‘s at least a foot taller than either of us but Mickey never even bothers to size him up. Instead he swings so fast all I see is hist fist connect with Mr. Eclipse’s adams apple and he goes down. The only sound is a big man smacking tile.

Mickey looks at me and all I can manage is a whispered whoo. Then he steps back over to wrap up what’s left of his burger in napkins. You gonna eat that? I shake my head and he begins to wrap mine up too. We need a bag he says. He steps in front of the people on line at the counter who are wide eyed and haven’t moved an inch. Hey bro, can I getta bag?

On the way out Mickey pauses, standing over Mr. Eclipse.

With a grunt he brings is heel down hard on the man’s nose. This time the sound makes my stomach plummet. I look away before I can see.

On the sidewalk he leans against a light pole to inspect the bottom of his shoe. I got paper towels in the car he says.

After cleaning off his shoe but before getting behind the wheel, he takes a gun out of his waistband and puts on the seat between us.

We drive off. Thanks I say.

Mikey, you had me along just in case he says. Well, just in case just happened to happen didn’t it?

I give him two brand new bills. He smiles but never takes his eyes off the road.

You mind if I smoke in your car Mickey? His corpulent fingers claw at the switches and my window comes down. Be my guest boss, he says. Don’t call me that I say.

I’m having deja vu.

Sunday, April 29, 2007

Vignette the trifecta.
Current mood: aggravated

There’s blood, and it’s coming from my right eye. Hurts a little, yet I can tell it’s about to have a lot more to say. I’m confused, I think. Then I snort and cough a two syllable laugh.

RacerX slams on the fucking brakes and a massive gravity surge sucks me face first to the rear wall of the trunk so hard I lose my wind. Then some sort of anti-lock bullshit takes over and we violently shudder to a stop. Excellent ride. The rubber smells skunky.

Door slams. Car rocks a little. I hear, get out get out!

Heels clack short and panicked to where I am.

Get the fuck out! Trunk starts to open and I got nothing but fight or flight. Wide enough and I kick through the opening with some adrenalin and desperation. I realize that my heel just connected square with a solar plexus below what seemed to be a rockin’ pair of tits.

I scramble out.

She’s laying on her back in the dirt.

This time there IS a shiny gun in her left hand.

Fucktard! She barks.

She is slow getting up. Slow and clumsy. I’m a little confused by her lack of grace, I’ve never seen her without it in abundance.

You need to get the fucking fuck gone! She points the hand with the pistol in it across the street. I’ll be back. You’re gonna have to trust me. We are so fucked.

She takes off slow and doesn’t spin the tires because she no longer thinks it’s a movie. She’s lighting a cigarette when she hits asphalt and then she puts her foot in it.

The right quarter sphere of my skull aching, throbbing and shrieking. Dizzy, right eye useless because it’s full of blood or gone. I make my way across the street and wonder what I look like.

I take stock under a tree that has long since obscured the street marker. Fuck me! Cell phone, wallet, keys. I’m golden. Wait. No smokes. And I’m really fucking thirsty. It’s hot. Fuck me.

Saturday, April 28, 2007

Vignette part deux
Current mood: depressed
Category: Writing and Poetry

She pulls away from the curb and spins the tires because she thinks it’s a movie. I finish my smoke and flick it. I don’t give a mad fuck what season it is.

She speeds and I like it.

We end up at the Daily Grill across from the airport.

The air in here is cool but more green than blue.

She orders a Pinot Grigio and me a Saphire on ice because I don’t know the bartender can make a martini.

So far she’s kinda pissy and elusive. I really don’t care, but I’m hoping to go back to the office with at least a toothless grin. Her dress is tight and the table is a shelf for her rack.

I ask about her kid. She doesn’t say much that I hear.

I think to myself that she really is kind of a bitch and she reaches for my hand.

The drinks arrive and we disengage to take a swallow.

Were in a booth, and we’ve both by habit scooted towards the wall.

A big guy shows up at the end of the table, he’s not wearing an apron, and he blocks out the sun.

He slides in next to me and he’s fucking huge. He says, I need ya ta gimme back what she gave ya.

I left it on my desk, I say.

I look across at her and see chrome coming at me out of the corner of my right eye.

She looks at me like, sorry.

I wake up in the trunk of a car that’s going goddamn fucking fast.

Friday, April 27, 2007

A different sort of vignette.
Current mood: amused
Category: Writing and Poetry

She calls on my direct line. Five people have that number and three of them are in the building. She says, Is your car out front? I say, What? She says, I’m in front of your office.

The wind is gusting and it’s hot. The ground is throwing heat at least as high as my head.

She leans on the opposite side of a black sedan facing away smoking a Camel Light.

I approach with my hands in my pockets while I stare at the ground.

She looks at me from a vacuum.

I do my best version of the same but realize there’s a smirk on my face.

What? I say.

Her eyes roll up as she exhales a cloud.

I light one.

She reaches into the backseat with her left hand. It’s a convertible. I realize she’s rehearsed this moment.

It’s a nickel plated Smith & Wesson and I’m on my back screaming but nothing is coming out and I smell cordite.

It’s an envelope and she begins to smirk as she hands it to me. Hungry? she says.

I say, I guess, you got time? Let me put this on my desk.

I drop my smoke in the 5 gallon bucket of sand outside the door.

I turn and it’s so cool inside it feels slush blue.

The heat is a wall on the way back out. Grab my smoke. She is leaning against the near door now, hands at her sides. She’s looking down and talking to herself. In her left hand the 357 dangles loosely as she bangs it against her thigh.

She looks up and says, Can’t remember if I fed the dog. You wanna drive?

She holds up the keys with her left hand.

I keep walking towards her.

I say, Nope, it’s all you. She doesn’t care and I know that.

As we’re pulling away, I think for the thousandth time about how unsatisfying it is to smoke in the wind.

Chelsea is hot.

I really think so.

“I think I’m turning Japanese, I think I’m turning Japanese, I really think so” – The Vapors.

Anyway.

They did swing hard. Some good stuff. We like a good dustup between mostly like and right minded people.

Obama does very well. He’s taller and tends to throw his punches down. He really is impressive.

Hills takes punches and throws uppercuts like Roberto Duran. She is tough and fascinating.

I do believe Obama’s remarks about Reagan are what they are. His point was that Reagan was a transformative president, no value placed, good or bad.

I think he was alluding to Ronnie being able to so effectively snow so many rednecks and the great unwashed. See, Reagan sucked and he was, in the contemporary tradition of Republican presidents, an absolute out of touch dipshit.

Ronald Reagan was a human hurricane for the have nots. Let me be clear here; Reagan fucking sucked.

Russia was broken on the backs of our middle class and poor. And the rich began to get richer.

Reaganomics. Trickle down. Shut the fuck up. He was an actor, and not a great one by any stretch.

Ok, sorry.

Edwards is a class act. My mother was a delegate in the Nevada caucuses and she was there for Edwards. I agree with her. He is the best of the three. She wasn’t able to make it happen. He got his “butt kicked”.

I would like to see Edwards prevail in South Carolina. A little leveling of the field would be healthy and his is a good voice in this contest. The man has integrity.

To one degree or another, I like them all. It’s not perfect, but we are lucky. This is an excellent group. Intelligent and passionate.

Then there is the big picture. The entertainment value. Not since the last time a diminutive jug eared paste eater waded in (Perot/Kucinich), has the contest for leader of the free world been so compelling.

Sometimes I wax pessimistic and realize that what we have here is the best of a worse case scenario. Our country is so broken. I understand that not one of these three may be capable or even desirous of the profound shift we absolutely need.

America is in a very bad way. Yet, despite which one prevails, it is a long step in the right direction. I really can’t afford to think about whether any one of them can do enough. Probably not.

But you know, small steps?

Drinks for my friends.

So the market executed another spectacular swan into a
bone dry pool with a thankfully thick level of bottom snot today.

A negative thousand point score on the dives
this infant year by the NYSE.

Somewhere around half of that this week.

The Fed chairman, Bernanke, warns of impending doom if
Dumbya doesn’t do something post haste.

Bernanke refuses to own the “R” word while bathing in full glare of The American Middle Class gagging on it.

What the goddamn hell is Dumbya gonna do?

Newsflash: The damage is far beyond extensive. It
will take decades. There is no band-aid big enough.
What is needed is a tourniquet, and we will loose a limb. At least.

No shit, we’re in trouble.

I’m a salesman. I talk to people in every corner of
every state everyday. They tell me it’s soft. It’s
slow. It’s really bad. More than a handful have
intimated that it’s the worst they’ve ever seen.

They’ve been telling me this for at least a year.

Anybody with a lick of sense saw this storm on the
horizon years ago.

Duh.

Once again, a conundrum provokes dismay, panic and
fear, when a solution is so obvious it makes me want
to do the chicken dance while shitting myself and
exhaling a two thousand degree flame.

Wait! Flaming shit!

Nevermind.

Let us pause for a commercial break: Are you people
aware that the Daily Show and The Colbert Report have
not missed a godamn beat since they re-appeared after
the writer’s strike?

They may be better even.

I will now pontificate with some abandon.

See, I came to understand as an audio engineer, that
the middle frequencies should be approached with great
care. Between one and five kHz is very precarious
territory.

Abuse of that land will ruin a song or an entire
record.

Young and callow practitioners of the audio arts ought
to be denied access to that real estate we all hear so well. Left to their own devices among the upper and lower registers

Learn to caress the top and the bottom. Make them
happy and accomodating of the middle. Allow
them to compliment and limelight the middle.

Get the middle on tape faithfully and you may be more than half way down the road.

Life is about the middle as well as the ends.

Salt and pepper.

Good salt.

Good pepper.

The analogy is seamless.

Stupid politicians shouldn’t be allowed any power or
influence over the middle class.

The middle allows and provides for a Republic. The
middle is the catalyst for a democratic ethic and a
free yet honest economic engine.

Forgive my flag, but America’s middle is consensus. Tolerance. And of course, passion and compassion.

The very fiber of The American Dream is the provenance
of it’s middle class.

Any candidate that even whispers “tax cuts” at this
point, better be talking about it as part of a
stimulus for the middle class and thus the economy at
large.

Even that, is likely foolish and irresponsible
pandering on part of any mouth it escapes.

Otherwise, and for any other reason, FUCKTARD should be
branded backwards on his or her forehead so he or she
can read it in the mirror for the rest of his or her
life.

More than half of them would distract you with the
notion that you should most fear an angry Arab
with a suitcase nuke.

This, while the most credible
and legitimate threat facing most of us is an
economic apocalypse.

How about we stop spending a half a million dollars a
minute on this ridiculous fucking war and spend a
fraction of it here at home to repair the damage
wrought by our aronists laureate, Dick-in-Bush?

Maybe roll back those now infamous tax cuts on the
wealthiest of Americans?

I’m a populist humanist because the American Middle is being
shat upon.

Housing, Energy and Retail suck. A virtual guarantee
that we are about to be caught in the toilet’s swirl.

This is going to suck.

Drinks for my friends.