Psychotropic Alchemy or The Unauthorized Autobiography of a Madman

My FB Average

2010-03-11T01:58:00.003-07:00

Has dropped below 10%. Had one unfriend me and I picked up a couple new friends, that didn't qualify. So I'm at 6 for 70.

Don't fuck with me

2010-03-11T01:35:00.002-07:00

I know a lot more Haitians than I used to. That's only mildly sarcastic. Anyway, I'm pretty sure I can do anything that is humanly possible, and a bunch of stuff that's not. So, like the title says...

This my kitchen, speak fuckin' english!

2010-03-09T17:47:00.002-07:00

Meow! Miles complains
Meow! The fucking cat
Wants something. To go
Out? No. Petted? No.

Meow! He glares at
His food dish. Meow!
Miles is loud. Always
Mindshatteringly loud cat.

Somebody feed the fuckin cat
For god's sakes shut him up!
This'd be easier if Miles spoke
English, because we don't speak cat.

Oh wow...It's been almost a month

2010-03-07T20:20:00.002-07:00

Yeah so I been busy. Smoking a lot and drinking port and wandering around. I'm allegedly working on a book but it is just awful awful awful. But work on it I do. So, whatever. I can always smell the 11th coming up because I have court of some kind on the 11th of every month of my fucking life for some ungodly reason. And for at least another ten months. Some twisted joke the Universe is playing on me. I'm here, like a pigeon trying to make sense of random happenstances. Want to know what my first number was? 113811. Yeah. Har de fuckin har. Which reminds me that my whore of an ex-wife is suing me, again. Fuckin fuck me. What am I Job? It's not enough that I'm crippled, not enough that I'm crazy, not enough that I have an artistic vision that I can't seem to get out there, she's fucking suing me. She make three times the money I make. I mean...what the fuck, over. Anyway. Meeting with my new law-talkin gal this week. So... Without further ado I give you Monty Python's Flying Circus...I also like this becuase Eric Idle's hair is how mine looked, before I went bald.

A cop once told me.

2010-02-11T02:57:00.003-07:00

"Sir, your suitcase has a strong odor that I suspect to be marijuana. We'll need to search you and your bag"

"Really? Well, see if you can find any in there. If you do, let's you and me go out back and burn something. I can make a pipe out of damn near anything, unless you have your own. I been dry for three fuckin days on this trip. Can't hardly wait to get somewhere friendly so I can smoke out."

Ya fascist fuck.

Who Thought This Was A Good Idea? A Verse of Post-Modernity

2010-02-10T13:50:00.005-07:00

No news is good news
Most news is bad news
There is point when I refuse
Lucidity to what humanity spews

Truth is, I don't need any of this.
I could probably use a hug and kiss
But me? Need? Feelings I'll miss?
All as ethereal as a flick of my wrist.

On the feelings thing, God has clearly spoken.
Sorry, Slick. That part of my brain is broken
If my destiny was ever more than a mere token...

Then, I must deduce that God would have probably
miracled my ass there by now because I sure as
fuck don't possess the any of the tools required
to fix any of this. Any of it at all. My life is soaring like
a pissed off raven, above and beyond my level of
competence as well as my paygrade. And since God
has not miracled me out of this, that means God
either doesn't exist, or doesn't care. Or is so far
evolved past my rat-like scurryings that I may
as well be a dust mite in God's eyebrow. Which is
Fine. Seriously. Irrelevant It really doesn't change
the grand scheme of...well anything. Any way
you slice your dice, God ain't pay the fuckin rent.
I stand here surrounded by this rich tapestry
of people and ideas. On my own, and with
no defense but my failed wits. And I don't
have a fucking clue what to do. I don't like
surprises. I've been beaten til my fucking eyes
bled way way way too many times to just trust
The Cosmos that things will eventually get better.

Anybody else out there tracking on any of this? Any of it at all?

I am actually, literally, certifiably insane so, this might not make any sense to anyone but me. And if it does make sense to you...you might want to consider having that checked out by a professional. I'm just saying here...

There...Ended on a joke. See what a hap-hap-happy motherfucker am I?

For Kathleen

2010-02-07T07:09:00.005-07:00

I hate to say I told you so.
But I will. Because I did.
Of course, you know I'm lying
I love to say I told you so.

Go work your wiles on them
Said I. Snap your fingers and
Strike them blind if you don't
Like them. Fuck them if you do.

While you're whirling around
You'll bump into one that closes
Your eyes and opens your soul.
That's your man. I told you so.

Dreamland

2010-02-07T06:35:00.002-07:00

I'm living in a dreamland
Back on the in-betweens
Between joy and terror
between sanity and psychosis
between the quick.
and the dead.

So I got a complaint...

2010-02-06T15:03:00.002-07:00

A complaint that I never fully explained what happened to me and my dalliances with the NCIS. Well, it's all over. I pled out to a misdemeanor possession charge. I got 90 days (all suspended), $750 fine and one year unsupervised probation. If I promise (scouts honor) not to fuck shit up too much for whole year, they'll let me replead and drop the charges. So. There you have it. The judge acted like he simply didn't notice that he wasn't giving me the mandatory minimum jail time. And they all lived happily ever after.

Ain't No "I" In Team

2010-02-05T13:12:00.004-07:00

But you fucking well best
Believe. deep in your soul
That there is a "me".
If I don't strike you as the
Sort of fellow who would
Just up and fucking bail?
Ask my boss his opinion
on that subject on Tuesday.
I'll get you the numbers of
About three dozen former
employers landlords and
women to whom I'd professed
Eternal and undying love.
You can ask them if I'm that
Guy who might just...evaporate.

And I'm about a whisker
Away from being the #1
Draft pick on the Legue's
Newest expansion team.
Team Me. The mascot
Will be the "Mikes"
The team motto will be...
Fuck everyone who ain't me.

I bout had my fill of all ya'll's shit.

Red Cross Planning Sessions

2010-02-04T16:32:00.001-07:00

I looked skyward, at the cosmos
And sounded my barbaric yawp
Why in the holy fuck did you send
Earthquakes during our merger?

Surprisingly, the Universe answered
My yawp, wildly barbaric though it be,
Seldom stirs the sublime starry sleeper
"Why are you merging during my earthquakes?"

Poor

2010-01-30T17:47:00.002-07:00

You know how fashion designers every few years come out with something like "Green, it's the new Black" And some other designer will reply, "Black is the new new black" But like, in a really snotty way? The point is, that what they meant when they said "brown is the new black" is that it's what everyone would be wearing. And that's what I mean when I say: Poor. It's the new Black.

Poor, it's the new Black.
Don't call me a racist.
I checked with numerous
Friends and associates.
All people of color. They
Said, almost every one,
"That sounds about right."
Those who didn't agree
Outright, all said "Poor?
That's the new black?
Funny, that was the
old black too.
Ya dumb ass white
motherfucker."
Or similar words.

JD Salinger

2010-01-28T15:13:00.000-07:00

One of my heroes died today.

Charity and Compassion

2010-01-28T10:36:00.002-07:00

Listening to christians bitch about helping the poor and dispossessed is like listening to Jews trade pork recipes.

You people have two jobs. Two. Two jobs on this earth. Practice compassion towards the less fortunate and spread the Good Word. Near as I can tell you traded those two jobs for radical conservative politics and avarice. Sorry, that's redundant. What's one word to adequately describe both? Oh I got it.

Scumbags.

You selfish fuckers better hope I'm right when I say there's no such thing as Hell.

Fuck You.

Got another

2010-01-25T16:56:00.001-07:00

Got another facebook friend that ummm...qualifies. That's seven. My average is staying above 10%. Which I find vaguely disturbing.

Assman

2010-01-24T20:57:00.002-07:00

I've always been an ass man.
Then for a long time, a leg man.
A breast man? Don't play the fool.
Lickable, suckable, squeezable,
Carressable. Boobs make me smile.
I kept exploring and discovered the
Best part of a woman that can exist...
The part between her ears.

And between her legs...
I'm not made out of fucking wood over here.

Bottom Line

2010-01-19T23:16:00.002-07:00

The whole fucking world has been pretty lucky when it comes to me. Because I've definately given a fuckload more than I ever took. Fucking world better count their blessings. I'm actually significantly more skilled at taking. It requires a supreme effort of will to keep giving. Taking is like falling off a log.

Just getting tired...

2010-01-19T18:23:00.001-07:00

Tired of phone calls, tired of bad news, tired of crush injuries and and amputations in the street. Gettin real tired.

Non-Violence

2010-01-18T14:17:00.002-07:00

The key element to a movement that practices non-violence is the idea that we can shame those who would do us harm into stopping. That the reason they stop is because they can't bear to look at themselves while brushing their teeth. That human decency will force them to stop.

As near as I can tell, most of my enemies have no shame, even fewer have a shred of decency. If they ever had any sense or shame. other than the destructive type that clergymen hand out like candy, it was driven from them as children.

So...Am I supposed to just lay down and watch my deeply held values trampled under the feet of imbeciles? Is it reasonable for me, a man of letters, a man dedicated to making the world better, a man with a a temper, a man with training..to take up the banner that demands "Don't Tread On Me." ? Or shall I just putter along and watch these fascists destroy everything my grandparents and their grandparents worked so hard to build?

No. That's the least likely way this ends. If the ultra-right thinks they are the only scary motherfuckers out there contemplating direct action...well good. Let em believe that. That way we maybe catch em leanin the wrong way when the time comes.

So let me get this straight...

2010-01-18T04:09:00.002-07:00

I'm a better parent than my parents were.
I'm a better citizen than most citizens.
I'm a better friend than all but one or two of my friends, maybe.
I've spent my life trying to make things better for people.
I teach people how to save lives.
I try to make people smile whenever I can.
I give away most of my time to charity.
I've fought for every single victory I have or have ever had.

And I owe whom? For what?

Humanity has earned something besides my contempt? What would that be? Mercy? Forgiveness? Sure okay, about as much as I've been shown, that's how much they've earned. I hope thay aren't expecting much.

And besides...

2010-01-17T00:27:00.000-07:00

What fucking difference is it going to make even if we get there?

I mean seriously...

2010-01-17T00:23:00.000-07:00

How fucking much is enough?

Haiti

2010-01-16T11:16:00.002-07:00

What am I doing for Haiti? Talking on the phone mostly. A bit of ad copy when we need it. It sucks ass but that's the job that needs to be done.

So...Other than that I'm just trying real hard to keep from going under.

I cried.

2010-01-10T14:13:00.002-07:00

I cried because I had no shoes
Until I saw a man who had no feet
Then I ran into another guy with
Six hundred dollar python skin boots.
So I sobbed my quinty little eyes out.

That's the greatest lie ever told.
That my happiness is in another's hands
Because even when I saw the guy with
No feet, I thought "I bet his feet feel
Better than mine do right now. "

It's not a contest. It's not a race.
It is simply moving from one simple
moment to the next as best you can.
If it was a contest or race, it wouldn't matter
You'd be the only competitor.

There is nothing to master in life
But one's self. There is no devil
But the ones within. Maybe it's a
Game. Perhaps a journey or a lesson.
Or random molecules moving from collision to collision.

If it's a game, it's a game you can't lose.
A trek? wherever you stop, there you'll be.
If it's a lesson, I think we all get A's if we participate.
And if it's realy just wads of matter smashing together?
Be careful you don't get yourself killed.

Redheads

2010-01-08T19:25:00.002-07:00

I have this major thing for redheads. Always have. Dated blonds for a long time. Dated latinas for a while. I can remember when I thought dark haired women were exotic. Dated a couple Sisters. That's a whole other post. But I always came back to redheads. I just, dig redheads. And I've had my share. Invariably, the question is asked by some crude nonredhead chaser, "Do the curtains match the carpets?" The correct answer is, "Mind your business before I jam your fuckin head through that window." But in truth, in nearly all cases, in my personal experience is, and this is completely anectodal but very well reseached in the field. The truth is:

"Yeah well it's mostly hardwood. There is, however, a small but quite expensive, nicely arranged little rug there. And yeah. It fucking matches the drapes.

Ronald on My Mind

2010-01-07T19:05:00.002-07:00

I was living in Portland, up in the NE, driving cab and getting laid full time. I had a roomate. An Irishman from Pittsburgh named Jimmy. And a brother from LA, a musician. Forgot his name. Leon, I think, maybe...who cares now. Me and Jimmy worked together for a long time and he had a room and I was sleeping...wherever. So I moved in. Me and Jimmy were the only two white men in the neighborhood. A couple of lesbians lived across the street but that's as diverse as our neighborhood got. I knew a white bookie, lived about eight blocks away. Well...that's the NE.

So we go to this Fred Meyers one day. Jimmy needs some bullshit. I'm riding along. There's a McDonalds in the place so I go for a snack. Jimmy's trying on, who cares...gayest fucking straight man I ever met. Gaydar is off the charts. Totally het. But fuck him anyway. He once called me the stupidest genius he'd ever met so, paybacks muhfuckuh. Back to the story.

There's a bench there with a life size statue of Ronald McDonald that you can sit on. I sat down to eat...And the bench moved. Odd. I leaned back. It didn't seem to be attached to anything except gravity. Now, those of you without sin cast the first stone. But...I stood just a little and attempted to suruptuousley gauged the weight. It wasn't light, but it wasn't that heavy either. And we had an SUV in the parking lot. Oh and the best part. It was about...maybe 30 feet from the door. I look around. I don't see any cameras. None that would matter. Terry shows up. I lean back in the bench. He looks down.
"Is that thing not bolted to the floor?"
"Nope"
"Whadaya figure it weighs?"
"Not too much"
I smile
He smiles
"You know how fucking shit cool that would look in the front room?"
"Funny I was thinking the same."
We look around. This is gonna take seconds literally.
"Okay dude, back the Explorer right up to the door. Jump out."
He finished for me "Grab this fucker and go."
"Yep"

He went out, I waited pretended to still be eating, waiting for him to pull up, waiting where the fuck is he? I'm waiting for the Explorer to appear. In walks Jimmy. He tilts his head. Not tonight we ain't lifting this piece of coolness. Come on brah, you're talking to the man who once shoplifted a canoe. Nope says his face. I follow him out after a few minutes. Hop in.

"What the fuck chuck? "
"You know, not 15 minutes ago I used a a credit card to purchase goods in that store? "
"Was it under your name?"
"Yes it was."
"Well...we can't steal that thing then."

And I don't know who started talking first but it went something like this.

"Okay that place is open late"
"I disagree, that's when their watching closest"
"Good point okay so, middle of the day"
"Take the plates off the Explorer, or even better, borrow Corrine's van and take the plates off"
"Then we snatch it and run"
"Oh fuck man, we get coveralls and pick it up like it's our job. "
"Fucking perfect. How soon?"
"Next week too soon?"
"No, that should be good."

But we didn't that week. Shit was going on, or the next week. And then months blend together and it becomes something we're gonna get drunk and do some time. But sometime never came. I moved out. Back down to my old neighborhood, Felony Flats. Yeah and if you know Portland you know I ain't lying. I kept on driving cab, straightening up and flying right. Which, if you've ever hacked you know there is nothing straight or right about it. It's like being a cowboy. With girls. Few months later the DEA kicked in Jimmy's door over some misunderstanding. They questioned me for about 15 minutes. The whole fucking place was bugged the whole time we all lived there. They knew Jimmy did this all on his own. I knew nothing about it. The cops knew everything about everything. So if you were fucking me during that time. Ummmmm...The feds got it all on tape. Oops.

I moved on to my next personal paradigm. Jimmy got 25 years in federal prison for drug trafficking. Plus...No Ronald McDonald.

Fuckin Pigs

2010-01-05T20:30:00.003-07:00

So I'm in fucking court one day and I have my little sit-down with my counselor and I asked her if she thought the cops were actively surveiling me. And she said yes. Yes they were.

I shrugged "Okay but besides what they normally do?"

"They're opening your mail"

"Yeah, like besides opening my mail."

"I don't really know what their priorities are."

"Well, what's your professional opinion? You are my fucking lawyer."

"Probably yes. I sure as hell would be. "

Fuck man. There are good points and bad points to having an ex-cop as your defense attorney. But there isn't much that sucks worse than having cops following you around. It's like your worst college professor ever, teaching a class that never ends, with the right to open fire if you answer any of the questions wrong enough.

Kim's Poem

2010-01-04T17:32:00.002-07:00

For her birthday.

Your heart seems worried
Afraid the years pass too fast
Patience, my love. It took a
Mighty long way, finding you.

It took me longer to find you
Than the Israelites wandered
I expect to be loving you for a
Damn sight longer than that.

Testing

2010-01-03T16:11:00.002-07:00

Okay, I'm practicing this so if I fuck it up...well I'll delete it so that makes this whole line of thoug...

I've never had a brother. Two sisters. And most of the families around me, to this day, mostly just have sisters. My own family, all girls. My wife's family, mostly girls. I have had three male first cousins, ever. It's weird. My two best friends? No brothers. Both had sisters. My sisters had what seemed like dozens of friends that only had sisters. When I was a kid my grandparents lived next door to a family with four sisters.

I've spent my life in a sorority.

A Top 20 List for 2009

2010-01-03T12:57:00.003-07:00

The Top 20 Things My Wife Said To Me In 2009*

*In order of frequency

1. "Do you have my lighter?"

2. "Give me back my lighter."

3. "You stole my lighter again, didn't you?"

4. "I love you"

5. Upon walking into my office..."GIVE ME MY FUCKING LIGHTER!"

6. "Go write something."

7. "No no no. I did not say tell me what you're going to write I said go write it."

8. "I'll take care of it."

9. "You should take care of that."

10. "Goddamn, you're good in bed." Okay that's not really 10 in order of frequency but it moved up a bunch of spaces because of sheer ego and intensity.

11. "Lower your voice."

12. "What?"

13. "Ummmm. Lighter...I swear to god Michael, you're like a fucking klepto or something. Lighters just find their way into your pocket like the One Ring don't they? You need help."

14. "Let me help you with that."

15. "Help me with this."

16. "Our daughter needs our help"

17. "We need to talk to our daughter."

18. "GO FUCKING WRITE SOMETHING!"

19. "You are the biggest lighter thief I've ever met."

20. "I still love you anyway."

I'm just sayin...

2010-01-02T19:56:00.002-07:00

They should take all that bonus money that they gave to the bankers and the insurers and all the rest of those ticks and give it to whoever designed the Mars Rovers. And chicks. Or dudes. Must be some women on the team. Or gay men. Whatever. Hotties of whatever variety is preferred. Because, let's face it. These people who designed this thing probably don't get laid much. And the money. All the bonus money, tax free and all the mad sweaty love they want. Forever. That should be their reward for designing the Mars Rovers.

More Facebook

2010-01-02T13:24:00.004-07:00

Holy sheep shit! I got 50...that's five oh bebe, friends on Facebook. Which is wild because that's like, in round numbers, probably 46 or 47 more friends than I had in high school. Facebook is a little like a never ending high school reunion. I look around. I see these vaguely familiar faces and names. People talk to me, about things I remember doing, but I have no clue who they are. I break out my year book. Still no clue. Then I realize, I already know where the chowderheads I ran with in high school are. In Auburn, Georgetown, LA, Portland, Texas. No great fuckin mystery there. I want to chat up any of these jokers, I call em up. Fuck it. They'd all appear in court on Monday to testify, under oath, that I was playing cards at his house all weekend. Who's house? Pick one. Which weekend? Whatever one you're asking about.

This is different. These are a whole new set of people. We have something in common. We went to school together. Other than that, it's a whole new crowd, a whole new scene. Just with a weird hazy historical twist. And the lines don't run straight. Some of those I remember vividly became my friends once more. Like my sister's friend. I used to sit behind her, intentionally, in my sister's Mustang, because I could smell her hair. It was that long blond hair that only real California chicks have. Sorry if that came off as creepy. I was only 14 or 15 at the time. Or her sister. Who I remember from Journalism and about six semesters of English. I remember her being very polite, pretty but way way way too smart for me. A girl had to be pretty stupid to date me in high school. And she wasn't stupid. Still isn't. Still pretty too. Also I was secretly in love with her sister so...there was that. Then there were others I knew who I thought I knew. But who simply ignored or rejected my friend request. That was strange.

But some of the most interesting have been the friends I have made, of whom I have little or no recollection. I made friends with some people that hung out up at the art building. I was down at the wall. Well, hey, that's where a lot of stupid girls were. And it's where the dope was. I liked girls and I liked dope so I liked the Wall. Then there are others, who I should know. And I have no clue. One of them is a great FB friend to me. We have great conversations. She remembers me. But, I'm sorry Counselor. My mind lost your place in my history. That's when I understood. Why was I meeting all these really smart ladies on FB, with whom I had gone to school, but didn't know? It's the stupid thing. When I was in high school I had very few redeeming qualities, generally speaking. And the ones I had, weren't especially endearing. Like I said earlier. You had to be pretty dumb to want to go out with me when I was 17. And I didn't have girls who were friends. I had girls I thought I could fuck and ones I didn't. Again...Less of a young gentleman vibe and more of a don't-touch-me vibe. I been cultured since then. Been to charm school and shit like that. I grew up. Grew up some, anyway. I also now have many many friends of the female gender that I am not trying to fuck. Besides, I ain't trying to sleep with nobody. I'm succeeding at sleeping with exactly the one lady I want to be sleeping with. Another thing you get, that's weird, is ex-lovers. I have an even half dozen now. Poke Amanda. Poke Elizabeth. Believe me, if I was not married And I am married, happily, faithfully and forever...But if I wasn't, fuck yeah...I'd poke Amanda. You know what's funny? That website Funny things My Husband Says. If I was going to do Funny Things My Wife said it'd include "If that little whore puts her hands on you again I'm gonna fucking cut em off." And she meant it. She fucking meant it. God I love that woman!

So it's got this semi-reunion vibe but with much bigger and more detailed nametags. The best nametag I ever had was when I went to a radio convention in Vegas. Right before I left the Business. And when I say the Business, I mean the Industry. Anyway...My nametag was

HELLO MY NAME IS:

Legion

Pretty cool huh? Yeah you non religion expert types out there don't know what that means. Do you? It's from da Bible. Jesus asked a demon it's name and the demon replied "Our name is Legion for we are many." Way cool fucking line. And a vaguely hell-worthy joke about the satanic nature of mass media.

But what most nametags, at least the ones I wear, really should say is:

HELLO MY NAME IS:
who da fuck cares what my name is
you need a name? fine it's kevin
Listen if you see the girl would you
please for the love of sweet baby
jesus have her bring me another
double scotch, neat.

I Repent

2010-01-01T14:44:00.003-07:00

I said fuck Idaho and...Maybe not totally fuck Idaho so I give you

The Top Ten Cool Things About Idaho

1. It was the last of the 50 States to be entered by disease bearing Europeans.
2. The skiing and snowboarding there are beyond killer. And not just Sun Valley. Or Bogus Basin. The same snow that falls on Park City falls on Grand Targhee. And Pebble Creek. Pomerelle. Good snow in Idaho.
3. They really do grow good potatoes there.
4. William Clark wrote, regarding Idaho "Nothing but high rugged mountains as far as the eye can see in every direction." That's pretty cool.
5. Ahhhh Geeze I already did the state Motto thing. But yeah, cool motto.
6. Evel Knievel failed to jump the Snake River Canyon near Twin Falls Idaho.
7. They eventually ran all the Nazis out of Hayden Lake.
8. Part of Yellowstone is in Idaho.
9. Craters of the Moon National Monument is a total trip.
10. Man, ya know...that's all I got. Oh wait! I thought up one more. Boise State's football field is blue.

Writing drove me mad

2010-01-01T13:18:00.004-07:00

This is occurring to me as I write it down. The though occurred to me once before but I dismissed it. I think I was too hasty. I think writing drove me mad. It wasn't the act of writing, you see. Rather, the subject matter. The subject matter. It's the only thing written that is almost universally scorned. It's the only literature that the most PC person on the fucking planet would not hesitate to destroy. And there's a reason for that. Because the subject matter is evil. And we all know it, whether we want to admit it or not. We all know it. And that's why we hate it. It manipulates us and causes us to behave in ways that are counter-productive to our goals. It can make us jump and dance on strings like soap purchasing marionettes. You know the subject matter I mean.

If you want to understand, truly understand the human condition, you shouldn't ask a psychologist, nor a sociologist, nor an anthropologist, nor an artist, nor a pollster (but you're getting warmer), nor a priest, nor a Zen Master. No, those folks will give you some good information on demographics, learning theory, brain chemistry, instinctual behavior. They'll get you the words, music and the images you need to stimulate those little neuroreceptors that drive those behaviors. But none of those people really put it all together. I mean ALL together. No, there was a different bunch that put de Lime in de Coconut.

Advertisers. They can make you do anything they want. I know many if not most of you will object, standing to shout "Not ME! I'm different!" Yes you. And you aren't nearly as different as you think you are. I'm sorry to be the bearer of bad news if you did not already know this. This may very well be the ravings of a lunatic. But that doesn't make it untrue. The Advertising Industry can make you do anything they want. And I worked for them long enough to see it. If you don't believe me, read some history. Perhaps I'll write one if it doesn't already exist. Yes, you. They control you. And me. I got this whole other problem though.

I wrote advertising. A lot of advertising. Because I'm pretty good at it. And when I need money...People ask me what's the most famous thing I ever wrote. A lawnmower commercial. I got 1500 bucks green money for it. I remember thinking Hmmm green money for green lawnmowers. Neato. Second was a dog food spot. Get it? Spot...I was on salary so, who the fuck knows what I got paid for that. A thousand a week if I remember correctly. Third one was for a landfill. I heard that old piece of shit last week.

Well...I can be pretty distant emotionally when I want or need to be. And I got kids to feed. I can do the job when the job needs done. But I'm not some fucking sociopath. I couldn't go on indefinitely making money doing something I considered evil. And it is. Evil. Two reasons. First, it controls you. In many cases, without your knowledge or consent. That's essentially unethical. Secondly, they will use it on you in any way they find possible, for any reason desired. And that is also prima facie evil. There is no ethic other than effectiveness. And it is always for sale to the highest bidder, regardless of who that bidder may be or what their goals are.

I've been pretty unstable my whole life. So there is that. But after that gig. I was a true madman. A stark raving lunatic for a while. Several whiles, in fact. And sometimes still. Granted, I've been through some pretty harrowing shit during my years in this mortal coil. All harrowing shit on this blog is complete fiction. Utter flights of my over-active imagination. Just like to throw that in from time to time. Anyway....Oh Yeah, Harrowing Shit. I've been through way more than my share, and none of that drove me over the edge. But working for the advertising industry did.

Snow Removal

2010-01-01T12:07:00.002-07:00

The following piece has nothing at all to do with new years day, I wrote it a few days ago in Idaho. Fuck Idaho. The only cool thing about Idaho is it's motto "Esta Perpetua" She Goes on Forever.

It's bitter cold here, twenty below
I heard some truck driver say
Breathing itself is more difficult
In the thin air the simple act of
Survival presents a higher bar.

Heaps of snow are everywhere
Great mountains of it, all dirty
Once pure and white, the stuff
Of greeting cards, now piled up
Like ex-lovers on a friends list.

New Years Eve

2009-12-31T21:44:00.001-07:00

Fuck New Year's Eve

One Year Over, One About to Begin

2009-12-29T17:48:00.002-07:00

Did you ever lay there staring at the ceiling
December's last days, Christmas has passed
The new year upon us, the old one almost gone
And think, I would have been better off staying
In bed banging shit three times a day all last year.

Then I come to my senses and think, No way!
I love life. Life is fucking great. Fucking Great.
Fucking Great. Fucking Great. Fucking Enraged.
Fucking Great. Fucking Tragic. Fucking Great.
Fucking Agonizing. Fucking Great. Fucking Tears.

Hey everybody!

2009-12-22T13:04:00.002-07:00

I don't want to bum out anyone's Holiday Joy or piss on people's personal parade. But, just a quick heads up. The world is supposed to end three years from today. Just making sure you got the memo. Am I worried about it? My fellow dudes and dudettes...I'll be lucky to see another three years. That's a joke. I'm sure I'll survive to a ripe old age. You know, the Navy Experiment thing. So...No. I'm not. Worried, that is. The people who made that prediction, intensely remarkable though they were, were swallowed up by the Central American jungle 300 years before Christopher Columbus was born. And Isaac Newton, who I trust my life to everyday, said 2060. And...I seriously doubt I'll see 99. Not sure I want to see what my scragly ass looks like at 99. Happy Yule! Spring is coming! Someday....

Okay You know what? Fuck Canada. That's what

2009-12-21T18:49:00.006-07:00

I just found out I'm kicked out of Canada.
I've been deported six times in my life.
To be fair, three of those were from Canada.
Two were Mexico, but they let me back in.

The RCMP don't fuck around up here Bub.
Three strikes and you're OUT...more or less, yeah?
For a while. Eh? A reasonable length of time.
Canada has the most polite cops in the world.

Mexican cops don't give a fuck about much
Not really. Dead presidents in the proper hands
Can cover a multitude of sins. If they're happy
They'll just escort you to the border and split.

Tunisian cops, got a different system. What they do
Is beat the living shit out of you. Clean you up with a
Fire hose. You get clothes that don't fit, your passport
And a one way ticket to the first place that'll take you.

It ended up being London.

I am not happy about being barred from entry by a Member of the Commonwealth. What's next? I can't go to Singapore. No? Good, because fuck Singapore too. Fuck Singapore because they're a whole city full of nothing but godamn right wing uptight uber capitalist pretentious assholes all trying to make money as fast as they can. The're like Cambodians, with sticks jammed up their asses. Is that racist? Fine I take it back. Cambodians with sticks jammed up their asses would be way more mellow than most people in Singapore.

Well you know, it's Canada. They're pretty forgiving. Eh?

Holy Shit

2009-12-20T18:41:00.002-07:00

I got some reeeeeeeally good smoke today...I mean...goddamn brotherman... That's some good shit. Just stand there and stare in the refrigerator for 20 minutes.

"Before I have to go and push up on your esa. She's fine. sante fresca. Here homes have a hit of this yesca."

That's one thing that's changed in my lifetime. Pot is like 50 times stronger than it was when I started smoking. I got some in a legal dispensary one time was so fucking good it was like immobilizing. Now, I have on numerous occasions used my share of narcotics that were of a questionable purity. But fuckinay Billy Ray. Seriously, I've shot heroin that didn't get me as high as that superkush bud they had did. They were like little one gram brain grenades. But I got some awesome muhfuckin herbage today. Mmm Mmm Mmm. With a cherry on top for Merry Christmas.

Yesca

2009-12-19T21:34:00.001-07:00

I think when California legalizes weed, a good state motto might be "Yes CA!"

Legal advice

2009-12-18T22:19:00.005-07:00

Once upon a time when I was no more than a lad
I asked my attorney if these people had
Nothing better to do than waste to their time
By harassing me for this meaningless crime?

She said:

"No. They get paid specifically to fuck with you."

Slices of Thigh

2009-12-18T20:28:00.002-07:00

My doctor wanted a piece of skin
Sliced from the inside of my thigh
She said, "I don't want to hurt you"
I laughed. You could never hurt me.

This made me walk a little funny
My boss asked me why the limp
I said I donated a DNA sample to
Science. To study why I'm so fuckin good.

Paper

2009-12-16T19:56:00.004-07:00

Buried under paper that never ends.
Ten thousand little yellow sticky notes. Each
Bears a name a number a cryptic message.
Call Illegible at the Port Authority illegible.

What this means I have no fucking idea.
I don't know anyone named Illegible.
The Port Authority? Did they act like cops?
How do I even know this message is for me?

Stacks of reports and instructor evaluations.
Each must be dealt in the same fashion of
Meticulous detail with which I conduct my life.
"Fuck it. If it's that important, they'll call back."

Yeah hey, I'm an artist. A red rats crazy artist.
Some will find "crazy artist" to be redundant.
If I can't be an artist I'll teach. But for today,
I'm responsible for thousands of three ring binders.

So...Yeah!

2009-12-15T10:51:00.002-07:00

Didn't get locked up. That was good. My lawyer has some major questions about whether the law enforcement agency (hint, there's a TV show about them. I can't tell you the name of the agency but their initials are NCIS), whether they had jursdiction to initiate an investigation against me, and more importantly, interrogate me. The judge just sat there staring at the complaint for like ten minutes. Flipping back and and forth with a WTF? look on his face. I keep hoping a judge, any judge, is going to look at this and look ast me and just say "Beat it! Stop acting like an idiot." But they didn't. They continued two weeks to see if we can unfuck this cluster.

What about tools instead?

2009-12-12T17:56:00.009-07:00

Me and some guys I knew were hanging out in the pool hall where we...hung out. And a guy we all knew walked in. He was greeted with a whole lot of enthusiasm, handshakes, hugs and a frosty cold brew. He was an important man. One to whom you paid respect, because he'd earned it. He ain't The Boss. But he was sure as fuck my boss. After a little a dis and a little a dat, he strolls over to our corner. He takes a look at two of my guys and gives me the look. Tha Cat is on it. "Hey, Mark, go grab us another round of beers. Andy, you go with him."

He had a little job for us. Cold as ice. But he needed it to be anonymous. That's the beauty of working with junkies. People expect them to steal shit. There was a little section of a warehouse. There was something in that warehouse that someone did not want to be delivered. That something was cosmetics. Very high grade cosmetics. We were assured there would be no security or alarms. We could go in anyway we wanted. He gave us a price and a date. Tossed us 3k as an advance and split.

We checked the place out. It was a dump. In a part of town nobody gave a fuck what you did after dark. Great big main roll up door, with a padlock. Talk about easy. Yeah, hey we're going to need the big van and like ummmm...bolt cutters, pinking shears? People like this should put up signs that say "STEAL ALL MY SHIT" Christ, we'd need more sandwiches than tools to open this can of corn. So we got it all set up. Got some warehouse space to hold the shit til it was time for it to go to...wherever it was going. Got the bolt cutters. Made the sandwiches. It was time.

We pop the lock on the door and open it up. Our van (an old UPS truck) pulls in. We shut the door and hit the lights. I glanced around. And made one of the most gross understatements in my career.

"Hey guys? I think we broke into the wrong place."

"Yeah, this looks like a construction company or something."

Felix was about to have an aneurysm so I went over to settle him down some. Crazy ass shit jumping off in the middle of a job was my department.

"Look, we find out who's this is. If we don't know them, we get what we can outa here and go with that for tonight. We've already missed our chance on the other thing. It's a dead deal. It had to be tonight and it's too late to go now. We should get something for our work."

Me and Felix checked the logo on the trucks and the business cards on the desk. Went through a file cabinet or two. Nobody we know. I ask the guys. Nobody knows the outfit.

"Cos your friends don't dance and and if they don't dance well they..."

Pleased to make your acquaintance Mr Construction Company Owner Dude. We're gonna go ahead and take all this stuff off your hands. Oh look! A cute little safe. Nice. Great idea, the portable safe. I'd like to thank whoever invented that.

Felix continued to vibrate. "Eddie's going to kill us all, kill us and have our fucking heads mounted."

"Yeah, he might" And he might. "But you let me worry about Eddie. You get those worthless humps to work. I want everything we can carry. "

Which ended up being a surprisingly juicy amount. It was a big place. They had several large trucks and a whole bunch of smaller ones. The keys were hanging in the office, very nice of them. We loaded every thing that could be driven with as many tools and construction materials and little safes and office furniture. We took the fucking Coke machine. Shit, we took the fridge in the break room. Basically, we cleaned the place out like a horde of hungry huns. And drove it all back to our (What's that Felix? You think the warehouse I got was too big? Not anymore it ain't motherfuckers) now nicely full warehouse.

I needed a hit, a big one, and some sleep. Eddie is going to kill us all when he finds out we didn't get the shit we were sent to get. Or not. What about tools instead? Tools move well. So does office stuff. So will the eighty-five hundred doll hairs we found when we popped that safe. But that's all later tonight.

Eddie didn't wait til later tonight. He almost waited for me to wake up. As I became aware of his presence, his guy, Iggy, dragged me out of bed and threw me against the wall, hard. I hit the floor and he kicked me three or four times til Eddie was satisfied.

"What the fuck gives you the right to take my fuckin money to go do a job I set up. But you don't go to the job I send you on. You go pull a whole different job. And do I see the boxes I told you to steal? No. I see you in sleeping in bed with fucking needle marks up your arm. Like you ain't got a care in the fucking world."

He reaches for his piece. He's bluffing. I know he won't kill me. I'm in deep shit for fucking up, that much is crystal clear. But if Eddie wanted me dead, I'd simply wouldn't have woke up. He didn't go in for all the dramatics. All that, rolling guys up in rugs or burying guys under a hundred pounds of lime in a construction site, digging holes in the desert, concrete galloshes bullshit. And he also didn't beat, harrangue or lecture people he was about to kill. Most guys don't. I don't. And I learned that from Eddie. Get in fast and quiet, do the job, get out fast and quiet. Leave Mr. Target-Head wherever the fuck he lands. Drop the piece and fucking evaporate. You absolutely gotta move him? Try the nearest dumpster. You need to tell someone why you whacked this fucker? Try the nearest priest. But don't make the mark sit through your yammering bullshit about why this and that. That's just mean. Besides, it ain't gonna matter in 30 seconds anyway. So who da fuck cares?

"You fucking little piece of shit. You've sat in my home, at my table and eaten with food my wife cooked, eaten supper with my children! And you treat me this way? Like I never meant nothing to you? My wife tells me how fuckin smart you are. What the fuck does she know? "

"Eddie, you got it all wrong."

"Wrong? I'm wrong? I don't feel wrong. Iggy? Do you think I got it all wrong?"
Iggy kicked me in the ribs. Harder than he had last time. "Yeah see there, Iggy thinks I got it right. I think I got it right. What say you put some clothes on your worthless ass and tell me why it ain't fuckin unanimous? Is there anything to drink in this shithole? Michael how can you live in this fucking dump. Christ it's like your raise goats in here or something. It smells. You need a woman. And in this fuckin neighborhood? Christ. I gotta bring extra guys just to watch my car."

I think, I have a woman. She doesn't like to clean. I live here because it's close to the dope. That's what I think. What I say from the fetal position on the floor of my shitty little apartment, so I assumed Iggy was going to pour, was . "Yeah...Jesus Christ Eddie...There's ahhh, fuck...Wild Turkey in there, some pretty decent scotch, Stoli in the freezer and ahhh....fuckin brews in the fridge. "

"Is that scotch from what you guys took off that Fremont thing?"

"Yeah Eddie, same stuff. I ahhhh I got a a few bottles still here, help yourself to few. "

"That was a good score and you already paid me all I had coming, and two extra cases. So, I'll drink your scotch but I'm not here to take it from you. Not your scotch anyway."

By the time I was up, and not in my underwear. Eddie was drinking my scotch at my kitchen table, and a glass had been poured for me. It was now time for me to atone for my sin. I didn't know what it'd be. I knew he wasn't going to kill me, but a broken arm wasn't out of the question. This guy didn't get to push buttons because he was nice. Even though he was. And I had been working for him for a long time. And we were good earners for him and his guys. And we always paid. Any job we did, we kicked up. If we stole a pack of fucking smokes, Eddie and his guys got three of them. But this was bad...How bad? A couple other guys walked in. Guys I didn't know

"Eddie I fucked up. You know I would never do anything to intentionally hurt you. It was a mistake. A stupid fucking mistake on my part that will never happen again. I'm really sorry. How bad is it Eddie?" I tried to sound sonly.

"Pretty fuckin bad Michael."

"Give me the chance to fix this Eddie. And I'll go back to work, better than ever."

"I was really hoping you'd say that." He reached across the table and placed his hand on my arm.
"We can give the stuff back." I offered.

"What you're hung up on that crazy bullshit thing from last night?" He laughs. Iggy laughs. The muscle doesn't laugh. "It's taken care of. The guy you hit, he's known to us. He fucking owes us. He still owes us. Not as much now." He laughs again." His insurance pays. All that swag your boys took out of there clocked in for more than double what we figured to do on the cosmetics. Fuck, the trucks alone were worth more than the other thing" He raises his glass. "Here's to making chicken salad out of chicken shit. We gave Felix and all the guys their end. Your end I keep so you remember not to fuck up no more. Yeah? And that other thing? Hey, Mikey we get em next time, no? Drink your drink...To a job well done. You think on your feet Michael, you always make me money. That's why I came here today."

Yeah let's talk about that Eddie. So...how's come you got all the muscle with you. I know why I got the beating from Iggy. For fucking up. I was lucky it was a light as it was. I got a half-assed beating and my forfeited end. But those two guys had come in while we were having our beverages. Then a third one. These were people unknown to me. And there is no good reason for them to be there.

"I didn't come here to talk to you about the jump last night. I came here to talk about those bruises on your arms. My son did the same fucking thing. He's dead, almost...15 years now. Overdosed. "

"Eddie, I got it under..."

"Shut your fucking hole. I talk, you listen. You tell me nothing. I tell you everything. You understand? You think you're a big man now because you know how to grab a little swag? Got your little crew. Fuck you, Michael when I was your age I'd been in prison since I was 12. You so smart? Want to hear something you dodn't know, genius? I was going to kill you. I should kill you. You endanger my interests. You put me at risk. But my wife said no. She said, help him. Look, Mikey, you're fucking up my business with that shit. Fucking up other guys' shit too. Guys that maybe don't know you so well as I do. Now, those people who work for you, I don't give two fucks about, they wanna die let em fucking die. Felix I don't worry about. Except when he's around you. "

"Felix has nothing to do with this Eddie."

Without even being told Iggy clocked me in the eye. Not hard enough to knock me out of the chair. Enough to say what Eddie was about to re-affirm.

"Is there someone else here talking? I thought I told everybody to shut up but I hear these voices. I should get that checked out maybe, yeah? Iggy, you hearing voices?"

And he tags me with a right cross to the other eye. What is it with me and two black eyes? I always end up with two.

"See? Iggy hears them too. Listen, I know what the fuck the Cat does and doesn't do and let me tell you this shit-for-brains. Felix is is carrying you. He set up the deal to make everyone happy. Yeah, that's right. Mr Bigshot Capo. If you're crew wasn't so busy acting like nine year olds in the candy store, the Cat would have clipped you and taken your crew a year ago. But he didn't. Because he has loyalty. So do you. So do I. But only to a point Mikey. You're good. But you ain't even close to that fuckin good."

"So...It's settled then. Don't fuck up like this no more or that's your fuckin ass and I ain't kiddin. Now. You're gonna go with these guys. They're gonna get you off that shit. Then you're gonna come back to and we make a shitpot full of money."

I just sat there looking at him. Finaly, he sighs and holds his hands up to his face and stares at them. I know that it means. I've seen him use it on me, his wife, his boss, his kids, the cops. It means "What have I done that I have to put up with all this bullshit? I just wanna make a livin for Chrissakes. I coulda been a fuckin priest"

"Fine Michael. What? You have to say something. Even though I said shut up. Even though I said it's settled. You have something more you need to contribute to this sitdown. What? What the fuck do you need to say?"

"Well, geeze Eddie, no disrespect intended. But, how's this going to work exactly?"

"Always with the fuckin details... How's it gonna work exactly? That's part of your problem. You think you gotta to know fucking everything but you don't. It makes you nosey. It makes people think you don't believe they can do their job. It's insulting Michael. I know you don't mean it as an insult. But it is a little insulting. "

"Fair enough Don Miguelito...How's it gonna exactly work? Exactly, you go with these guys. Bada Beep Bada Boop Bada Bop. They gonna clean you up and straighten you out. Do I look like a fucking doctor? How da fuck do I know how it works exactly! They ain't gonna put you in the trunk of a fuckin car in the weeds. That much I know. Not fuckin yet anyway. You thinkin maybe that instead Michael? "

I shook my head. No, not in a trunk in the weeds. I like dope but not enough to fuckin die for it.

The leg-breakers stepped to either side of me. We were, in fact, going to do this easy or hard. I stood up, raised my glass, drank it down, poured another generous serving, filled Eddie's glass. We raised a toast. I drained mine again.

"You're the boss, Eddie. You know me. Whatever you say, I'm all in."

And then I went to rehab. It was okay. Weird. Lots of pretty girls lots of pretty nurses. I got clean. Eddie paid for it. Then he made me pay it back over the next two years. Fucker. I did some of the most inspired work I've ever done. For close to three years, me and the Cat and our guys were like fucking pirates. Cruising for fat Spanish galleons We'd spot our prey, move in close.

"Run up the Colors if you please Mister Weiss!"

We were the Lords of All Ports. Blackguards Highwaymen Smugglers.

Then...then life happened...Felix got killed. I quit working so much. Then hardly at all. Once in a while but my heart just wasn't in it anymore. Eddie went away to Lompoc for...whatever they finally pinned on him. I didn't really have any hobbies so I just went back to banging dope full time, for a couple years. Did whatever jobs I needed to do to stay high and housed in the manner to which I was accustomed. Which meant living near where they sold dope. Nothing more than a common thief.

Is this a nightmare? Or the American dream?
So think twice if you're coming down my block.
You wanna journey through Hell? Well shit gets hot.
Pregnant teens children scream
Life is weighed on the scales of a triple beam.
You don't come here much and you better not
Wrong move BANG! ambulance cot.
I gotta get more money than you got.
So what if some motherfucker gets shot.

Ice-T

And that's how it went for me until I saw a chinese guy in a white shirt stare down a tank. But that's another story.

May December

2009-12-11T16:49:00.004-07:00

So I'm talking to this guy I know and he tells me all about how he's banging this little 20 year old skin toy. And I think. Hmmm. 20. That's a year older than one of my daughters. You're 47. And I think about what I might do if my daughter was seeing a man more than twice her age.

I guess I'd have to invite him for a drink. Get to know the guy. Feel him out His intentions. Make sure he's a serious man. Make sure his drink is always fresh. Then maybe a little small talk about the weather or the game or what the fuck ever. Then, make sure I have his undivided attention:

"My daughter... I love her so much. She's my special princess. So much so, that if you ever go near her again, I will shoot you in the back of the head then hack you up into little pieces and feed you to my dogs. I'm not even fucking kidding, friend. You do not want to test me on this. Just walk away. Never see her or speak to her again. She'll get over you soon enough. "

You see, this is my tried and true, bad boyfriend speech. It's worked on...geeze, well, I have three teenage daughters so you do the fucking math. More than a few. See, I'm kinda crazy so...life working out the way life works out, my daughters some times bring home, let's say, more than their share of crazy boys. And a little crazy is fine. A little crazy is interesting. But say for example, "you committed an act of violence against my daughter" crazy? No. I can't allow that. I won't allow it. Before I'd allow that, I'd kill you and a dozen more motherfuckers that look just like you.

And if there is the slightest glimmer of misunderstanding, rebellion, argument or badassery on his part, if he so much as says "Yeah but...". I follow it with round two. Round two always works.

"Hey Hey...Take it easy buddy. That's fine. Look I can see you don't take me seriously. You think I'm just full of shit and you can kick my ass. And I understand that feeling. I want to help you, not hurt you. So, to prove to you that I'm a serious man I'm not just talking shit when I say I'll kill you...I'm going to break both your thumbs with this little crowbar I brought with me. Or, I guess if you'd rather we can go straight to hacked up into dogfood. It's no skin off my ass, man. You tell me. I don't give a fuck one way or the other. " Then I show him the gun I'll use to kill him. This is important stuff for you non-militant types to know. If someone threatens you with a gun or a knife and doesn't actually make sure you see it...He's bluffing. Anyway...That's usually when he takes off running. And I let him. Provided he does...run, that is.

This is a very sexist view on my part. I think that an older man (let's say, 45) , seeing a younger woman (make her 21) and I think...must be some kind of predatory element to this relationship. All sorts of dark thoughts of objectification and mistreatment.

But if a woman of 45 is out with a young man of 21, I think "Yeah!. Good for the both of you! Get some, baby! Get it while it's hot!"

That's kinda sexist on my part. I have daughters. That probably makes me less than objective.

I Saw Him One Day

2009-12-09T22:40:00.006-07:00

I saw him. It was him for sure.
Standing in line at Ralphs or
Safeway or wherever the fuck
I was shopping when I saw him.

Standing there, in line with his cart
Nadine hon, can I get a price check
On maggots, monsters and murderers.
I walked closer, it was him. No question.

The kitchen utensils section had my tools
Selecting the most expensive and sharp
Serrated carving knife the store carried.
I slipped it from the cardboard package.

Into my basket with my bottle of merlot
My cans of tunafish, cat food and my bread
The knife waited, nestled amongst the food.
My next meal will be that worthless life.

Working in closer, he was second in line.
Plenty of room to move. Room I'd need
To crack his fucking skull with the merlot.
Get him down, gut him like the animal he is.

Three feet and he sees me, I look in his eyes.
It's not him. I mean. Fuck, I don't know. No.
It's not. A muttered "excuse me" and move on.
Setting my basket down I head for the exit.

It's not him. After I got to my car, I knew
It couldn't have been him. No question.
He hadn't just had his eyes gouged out.
And I hadn't just taken a bite out of his liver.

That's how I knew it wasn't him.

Bad Dreams

2009-12-09T19:22:00.002-07:00

Saw a guy jump off a bridge today. A big bridge. One you don't survive. One where they usually don't even recover a body. The tide takes them away to, who knows? I guess that big floating mass of plastic between here and Hawaii or wherever. Elsewhere. I didn't personally witness his death, but we got there right after. There was nothing we could do there except be in the way. We drove off. I beat on the steering wheel and yelled "Motherfucker motherfucker motherfucker motherfucker" til I just started crying.

So...I guess I'm officially still human.

29 Years

2009-12-08T18:41:00.002-07:00

John Lennon was gunned down in the street in front of his home 29 years ago today. One of his values I have always tried to embrace is his view on gender equality. Therefore I will play, in his honor, the best feminist protest song I know. If you are offended by it, ask yourself why before you tear into me.

The Rest of The Sexy Girl Rocker List

2009-12-07T18:23:00.007-07:00

There were some protests over my lack of inclusion of certain ladies on the first list. So, I've expanded it somewhat. I give you numbers 11 through 15.

11. Belinda Carlisle. Someone had to be the first full frontal nude on my page. I'm just glad it was Belinda.

12. Jane Weidlin. As long as we're discussing the Go-Go's. Let's not overlook Ms. Weidlin. She totally rocks, is an animal rights activist, likes to bowl and is allegedly a dominatrix. That certainly sounds like the makings of a fun date to me. Jane, you had me at "Is that real leather?"

13. The Jonas Brothers. No I'm just fucking with you. You know, because it's 13 and...yeah, so... The real number thirteen goes to:

13. Exene Cervenka. "Grab her throw her in the tub, she says 'Coffee and a piece of pie." I can't help it. I love X. I love the Knitters. I love her spoken word stuff. I saw every band there was to see in the LA punk scene. X kicked all their asses. Watch her in "Decline of Western Civilization." Not to mention that she was once married to Vigo Mortensen. That's pretty fucking cool.

14. Tina Turner. Always had It. Always will. Technically an R&B artist, I know. But...Come on. Can I get an amen for Miss Anna Mae?

15. Tina Weymouth. Like I said. My list. My choices. I choose Tina because when she played her fingers bled. Stigmata is sexy.

That's all for tonight

My Birthday Post

2009-12-06T15:24:00.021-07:00

I have a list fetish. No lie. I love them. And don't be looking that way. It's not like it's my only fetish. I'm a grown man with passionate feelings who's been around the block my share of times. My share and a couple other guys' shares too. Besides, what's your weirdest fetish? Weirder than lists, I bet. Yeah, well so is mine. Weirder than lists, that is. But I do really really dig lists. So a list is what shall be written for today, the day of my birth. Sorry for the fucked up graphics. I'm on my shittiest computer so this piece just barely has a pulse. But without further yammering I give you...

The Ten Sexiest Women in Rock and Roll

1. Chrissie Hynde. Okay this list is in no particular order of sexiness. But holy shit... she's fine. She always gets the top spot on my countdown.

2. Etta James. If you are hip to her music, I'm not telling you anything you don't already know. If you aren't, you need to be.

3. Meg White. Seriously, how do you not love curvy girl drummers? Number six is her mother-in-law. Heh.

4. Terri Nunn. I was a huge Berlin fan for one reason and one reason only. That reason would be Terri Nunn.

5. Joan Jett. I know she's gay. I don't care. And her with Carmen Electra? Gives me a headrush just thinking about it..."Going faster miles an hour now. I got the radio on" I bet their amps go to 11.

6. Patti Smith. My list. My choices. I love this picture of her.

7. PJ Harvey. I'm not sure I even know the words to describe her. How about, I need a fucking bib when I listen to her music because it makes me salivate like a Pavlovian dog hearing bells. And not just because of the leg licking thing. Not entirely.

8. Candye Kayne. But dont take my word for it. Ask anyone who's ever seen her sing. Or go see her show. Or watch it on youtube. Mmm mmm mmm. Yes please and thank you.

9. Shirley Manson. See..I got this thing for redheads. And Garbage.

10. Sinead O'Conner. See...I got this thing for radical activists who used to belong to religious orders and have honest-to-god moral courage. Courage is way fuckin sexy.

So that's my 10. If you like them, I'd love to hear from you. If you have other suggestions for future lists, I'm all ears. If you want to say mean shit about me or my stuff, and you aren't among those allowed to say mean shit to me...fuck off.

Angels in the Highlands

2009-12-04T14:17:00.019-07:00

We're bouncing down a track in No Se, Peru. Or Ecuador. Hard to say. We were on our way to No Se, Ecuador. Or Peru. Hard to say. Martinez knew. The driver allegedly knew. I had a decent idea of the direction back to Lima. We had something that almost passed for a map. That was good enough for me. It's not like we had that many roads from which to choose. We had the one we were on, which was deteriorating rapidly. I swear to fucking God that if we end up walking more than 50 feet on this mission I will quit when we get back. I do not want to hump this bush. Not for a few minutes. Not for an hour. Not one kilomter up this hill. I had a picture of the guy me and Collins were supposed to grab. Or clip. Hard to say. We'd make that call after we arrived at...wherever. All this was entirely based on the premise that the shitty little car we were crammed into was going to survive the trip. And that the road held. Otherwise we'd be at least in the ballpark of totally fucked. Hard to say.

Nobody gave a good god damn about this guy we were picking up. Not us. Not them. But they wanted him less than we did so that made him ours. Therefore, deeper we bounced into the People's Republic of Vines, Bugs and Crazy Little Fuckers With Guns. I hate this shit job. I mean, don't get me wrong. It's awe-inspiring, it's intense, it's indescribably dark at night, it's a billion shades of green everywhere you turn during the day. The mountains are spectacular. The people here, tough as old shoe leather but still kind. With weird clothes and interesting music and art and food. But then there are the vines and bugs and crazy little fuckers with guns. Someone told me they invented potatoes near here. So, there is that. And Rio's kinda close. Close enough to bail to in times of extreme crisis. I mean seriously, can I get an amen for Rio. No extradition and...It's fucking Rio.

This was gonna be routine. A walk in the proverbial park. Cruise up there, drop this fucker and cruise home. We had the toys. We had legit papers. This had official sanction. Well, as official as anything was that happened down here. Shit, we even had three cases of bibles in the trunk. We were missionaries, sent by God Himself to bring the Love of Jesus to these poor raggedy-assed indians. Bring it to one of God's children in particular. One who was either going to ride back to Lima sitting between me and Collins or his head was going to make the trip stashed in the trunk under those bibles. Nobody seemed to care much one way or another. And look, I don't want to come off like some fucking sociopath or anything, but the car was already mighty goddamn crowded. This guy better have bathed recently or that might be all the reason I need. I hate this shit job. This was all speculation on my part. None of it actually happened.

We rounded a corner and like magic the jungle peeled back for a few hundred meters. The track ran down the hill to one side of the clearing. Up the hill from us was a little knot of buildings, a little farm, didn't look like coca, A barn looking building, a couple hootches, pig pen, the usual. By the time we got stopped and had more than a half-assed glance at the place, we saw the gunman. What was worse, they saw us. What was even worse was that they appeared to all be armed with Chinese-made weapons. Which was a bad thing.

Bad for us. Good for them. We, conversely, were not so well-equipped. I had a .38 revolver in my pocket and five extra shells. It wasn't even a real Smith and Wesson. It was a knockoff I picked up in Quito. I didn't plan on needing it more than once. The only reason I brought the fucking thing was to shoot this guy. I was going to drop it there and ride back unarmed. So I got nothing. I doubted there was much more defensive ordinance amongst the four of us. I'm sure Collins has something because he's my spare tire. Martinez had a nine strapped on during the briefing. For all I knew the driver had brass knuckles. Martinez is the honcho. He makes the call.

"Keep driving. Slow, but not too slow. This is not our mission. I don't give a fuck what this place is. Keep moving."

Good idea. Fuck it. I'm the only anglo in the car, and they can't see me too good anyway. Just delivering some bibles to poor oppressed peasants. And then we're gonna shoot one of them and cut his head off and hide it under some bibles. Even I chaffed some at that part of the plan. I mean...Shit over. Bibles? Collins, who was more religious than me thought it was funny as hell. One fact that has been noted by many people, myself included, was best expressed by Clint Eastwood in a film entitled Heartbreak Ridge. I know of no better way to say it. And it is at this part of our tale that it becomes relevant.

"This is the AK-47, the preferred weapon of your enemy. It makes a very distinctive sound when fired at you."

It really does. Make a very distinctive sound when fired at you. Theirs were no exception. We hadn't moved 10 meters when everyone of those little fuckers (who wasn't reading a map, taking a crap or cooking breakfast) lit us up with small arms fire. Most of them couldn't shoot for shit but at least one or two could. Somebody raked the driver's side of the car with what I'm sure was all 30 rounds. The driver was dead. Most of the his head looked like it was in Martinez's lap. Collins was hit bad, slugs had penetrated the side of that car and hit him, Christ...everywhere. Upper thigh wounds with severe bleeding, multiple abdominals that were bleeding just as bad. Chest wounds, at least two. Bright red, arterial. I'd seen this movie before. It end with a folded flag. I had a couple small fragments and some glass in my face. How I wasn't chopped up into ground pork I have no idea. I sure as shit wasn't waiting for the next round of target practice to begin. So I kicked open the door and dragged Collins out. Martinez looked hit. He'd taken at least two of those rounds. But he was moving. He was out of the car.

The car, after being ventilated, along with three of our guys, had actually rolled off the road and down into a little ditch that gave us some degree of cover from the enemy position. At least that was what I was telling myself. That and, Hail Mary,Full of Grace, The Lord is with thee. Blessed art thou among women, and blessed is the fruit of thy womb...You get the idea.

"What Collins' status?"
"He's bleeding to death."
"We gotta get the fuck out of here"
Geeze boss, ya think?

We're crouched by the side of the car, Collins is...bleeding. And a fucking RPG flies over our heads, missing by a comfortable margin, but still. It came from close. Real close

"We gotta move now, what're Collins' chances?"
"Fucking expectant."
He's going to bleed out and die, right here in this ditch and there ain't a fucking thing anyone can do about it.
"How long?"
"Three to five minutes, maybe less."
"Let's move"

Then something jumps from my peripheral vision, a flash, a flare, no a smoke trail, no it's another RPG. Bright flash of light. My head feels like it's caught fire. I hear it, it sounds funny, not right, but it punched me in the eardrums, and they screamed. And it then it was as if someone hit me with a giant pillow. Darkness, that seems to last forever. I can't move. Can't move. My eyes won't open. My ears are ringing bad. I force myself. Think goddammit. Move motherfucker! You want to die in this shithole? Open your fucking eyes and move! Okay okay okay, I see. I remember. We were hit. I see Collins' body. Next to the car. About ten maybe twelve feet from me. That's not right is it? The car's on fire. So is the driver. But he doesn't seem to mind. And Martinez. Jesus Christ, Martinez. What appears to be roughly the bottom three fifths or so of my boss is laying a few feet from the car. The rest of Martinez is...elsewhere.

I gotta move, right the fuck now. I try to stand. Indescribable pain explodes in my both my leg and arm at nearly the same instant. Things get dark again. Wake up now, now now. Think motherfucker! What's your status? Okay, head to toe, just like they taught me. Minor burns on my face and neck. I'm covered in blood, some of it mine, most of it Collins'. My left ear is bleeding and feels perforated, I'm at least 75% deaf. I'm certainly concussed and probably getting shocky. I have what appears to be a severe wound, probable fracture to my lower right arm and wrist. My right foot was there, but attached kinda sideways. I was also pretty sure all the hair was burned off my head. Not that there was all that much there to burn. Yeah haha, laugh it up Chuckles. I'm seriously wounded in hostile territory. I'm just barely armed. My entire fucking team is dead. And I am standing by to be overrun. One of the tires on the car exploded. I saw it, but I didn't hear much of it. My left eye was swelling shut by now so I was evidently about to be half blind and 90% deaf. For chrissakes, I can't even crawl into the bushes and try to hide.

Hail Mary, Full of Grace, The Lord is with thee. Blessed art thou among women, and blessed is the fruit of thy womb, Jesus. Holy Mary, Mother of God, pray for us sinners now, and at the hour of death. Amen.

Repeat as needed.

Why aren't they shooting? Because they think we're all fucking dead. Here in a couple minutes they're going to send some poor shitbird down to make sure we're all fucking dead. I had a decision to make. What was going to happen when one of the fucking maggotshit bastards who just killed my friends walked down here to make sure I'm all the way dead? And here he comes, then his buddy, and another...what the fuck is the whole platoon coming down for a look? I saw 16. They don't see me. Not yet anyway. Sixteen to one, huh? Custer was a pussy. And I thought about how things didn't end so good for Custer. Okay well, sorry about that, Good People of the Free World, but I'm going to keep rolling the dice. Missionaries don't carry guns, not even little ones to shoot people behind the ear with. So my piece and shells all went in the bushes. Even if they do find it, one of them will just pocket it. I wrapped my head around Pastor David Pullman. American missionary with the right to travel this road. I figured about 70-80% chance they'd just shoot me outright. Why bother finding out if they hit the wrong car when they can just bury the four of us and move higher upcountry? Plus I was hurt, hurt worse than they'd be interested in troubling over. But it was the only chance I had. So I filled my lungs and in my best bad junior high spanish, shouted:

Ayuda Ayuda, tu ayuda! Help me please! I'm hurt, por favor! Estoi uhhhh Estoi danado. Please. Ayuda. Help me.

Well, that got every one's attention. Which is a bit like saying that the Loma Prieta Quake really fucked up the World Series. And they all came charging down. I wondered if anyone was back at the hootch area making sure breakfast wasn't burning. The kid with the map was certainly there. One of his boys skidded to a stop in front of me. I can see his mouth moving but I can't hear anything. He's saying "Levanto, levanto!" Get up! I mutter "mi pierno, no puedo" Another soldier steps in next to him and...pretty much says the same thing. The rest of the unit, I count...fuck 20 at least total, just sorta standing there like self propelled land mine detectors, waiting for the kid in the clean fatigues to make a decision. At least now I knew who it was I was up against. Let break it down. Chinese weapons, poor marksmanship, itchy trigger fingers, a vague sense of military order. I mean, someone was clearly in charge, but mostly just a bunch of kids trying to look tough, some in fatigues that didn't look like they'd been washed, ever. Some in civies. All of them malnourished. No doubt about it.
It was El Sendero Luminoso.

The Shining Path. Peruvian Maoist guerrillas that were so fucking poor they used to receive support from the Pathet Lao. There was a time when they were a cohesive fighting force. And not one you would take lightly. That time is long past. Their leaders are all in jail or dead. Their base of support among the peasants has disappeared. They've broken into a dozen (at least) splinter groups, all vying for control. God knows which one these clowns belonged to. One with RPG's anyway. They got the shit beat out of them regularly. You almost felt sorry for the little bastards. Almost. Almost felt sorry. But they killed my brothers.

My brothers? Well yeah, it wasn't like I was on the softball team or anything back in Lima. But we were all on the same side. Honestly, I never even learned the driver's name. We'd met that morning at the briefing. They gave us our passports, wallets with ID's and shit. Mine said David Pullman. Missionary. Nice. My second favorite position. I guess that beats the shit out of Mike the corpse. Anyway, me and the driver were both to busy eating and reading our briefings to exchange pleasentries. I'd been working for Martinez for about six months. He said shit, I said what color. I knew next to nothing about him. He once said he was divorced and had a kid. We never really talked much to each other. And why would he? He had an actual place in all this shit. I was less than nobody down there. And I liked it that way.

The only things I knew about Collins was that his real name wasn't Collins and he liked the Dodgers. Martinez was the only one who was an actual real live person. God knows why they even sent him on this chickenshit job. I guess to make sure it went smoothly. So far so good, Skipper! Collins and I were both contracted. Freelance was the term I liked. That's what it really means, freelance. A free lance, a knight not currently in the service of any specific noble. Well hey... I say freelance, you say contract murderer. Let's call the whole thing off. But that really was the really real deal on this place. Work when there's work, drink when there ain't. Here today, burning in hell tomorrow. Eight months of this had me ready to bail. I was just trying to scrape up enough cash to get to Rio or maybe even home. Expendable is a harsh word. One that the Good People of the Free World don't much like. But that doesn't make it untrue. If any one of those guys had been given orders to kill me, they wouldn't have hesitated. That was a two way street, and they knew it same as I did. But we were all on the same side. I looked around. Guess I'm on my own side now, bros. I fucking hate this shitty job

These cocksuckers will either execute me on the spot or beat me to death trying to extract information. Make no mistake about this. The Shining Path fighters had reputations as stone fucking murderers. They hadn't yet entered their "Just sell the guy to the highest bidder." version of communism. They would soon. Assisted by their Colombian allies. The Capitan over there is going to decide. I can't see shit. Jesus Christ my ankle hurts. This is taking a while. He doesn't know what to do with me. I give him a little hint.
"Usted ayuda por favor Capitan, Help me please. I'm hurt..."

"Shut the fuck up."

He said it like he was telling someone to turn down the TV. In perfect English. His accent sounded LA. He's smart, he's a kid, but an evidently an educated one. And that was good for me. Becuase as long as he thinks I'm worth something, I'm still rolling the dice. And he's thinking. Then I see it come to him. They aren't going to kill me. He doesn't think I'm a missionary. He thinks I'm an operative. No fucking way in the world is he dumb enough to just eliminate someone that valuable on a whim. He nodded at the gomer closest to me who stepped in. I thought I heard a crack but it's so far away now. Hard to say. I remember there was no flash. I always assumed there'd be a flash. But there wasn't. My life didn't pass before my eyes. Just exploding darkness and black fire.

Motherfuckers. I really didn't think they'd kill me.

They're dragging my body up the hill. It feels like wet clothes. Cold. Sticky. So this is dead huh? My physical existence began to just slough off. Then my body is gone. And I'm floating in a darkness that seems to go on forever. I'm not seeing or hearing any angels, maybe they come later. I feel warm, safe. I know the angels are coming soon. I can hear them singing now. In...Spanish.

I hope they get here soon, my ankle is starting to hurt again...my ankle? I look down. No ankles down there. No feet either. No legs, torso, arms or, I assumed, head. Just my mind floating in the dark. I hear something, maybe it's angels singing, but it sounds like bees or something. Maybe angels sound like bees. I see a light now. It's there, then gone, then there again. I try to move towards it, but it flashes once more then is gone. Bet that light is where the angels are. I don't think this is hell. I don't see any fire or demons and shit. It's not bad, it's just dark. It hurts some, it feels like i'm bouncing around like a roller-coaster in the dark. What's that one at Disneyland? Disneyland? What the fuck is Disneyland again? Oh yeah, with the ears and princesses and jungle cruise. The roller coaster jumps it's track and everything explodes into blinding unbearable pain. Pain so intense that it became my entire existance. I can not so much hear as I can feel someone screaming and I realize it's me. Waves of it seem to wash over me. Then nothing again. Nothing at all. Again I see the light. And again I try to move. And again I can't. And again the light disappears. And again I slip back into...Hell?

No, not hell. Pain. Ungodly pain in my head, my leg and my arm. I was waking up. And God Almighty I hurt. I tried to remember where the fuck I was. I was...What the fuck was I? I was...shot in the face? What the fuck? I reached up to touch my face and found a sticky mass that hid a whole new level of pain. So, after I almost passed out from touching my nose, I tried to see. My eyes were fucked up. Swollen shut. Yeah. I got shot in the face. My left arm was burned a little but still pretty good. I felt around. My right ankle felt broken badly. There's no way I can walk even with crutches. It had a folded blanket wrapped and tied. That was good. It was about the best you were going to get this side of a hospital. And maybe it was the vibe. But even laying there, half dead, half crippled, half deaf, half blind, and half blown up. I got the sense I was not in any sort of hospital or aid station.

My right arm was, broken? Below the elbow, ulna radius both. But at least it was closed. Hurt like a motherfucker but it'd heal. And my wrist was broken...again. You know how some boxers have a glass jaw? I have a glass wrist. Anybody says limp wrist gets to see that I can still throw a punch with it. It's been broken like a half dozen times and is so fucked up the if you kick it real hard more bones fall off. My right wrist. I'm left handed. So don't get any bright ideas. I felt around a little more. Carefully. My passport and wallet were gone. So was my cheap ass watch and my cheaper ass wedding ring. I was on some kind of litter. My fucking shoes were gone. I decide to continue playing possum for a while. Problem is, I can't hear shit of what they're saying.

I knew what must have happened now. That kid with the RPG reloaded and his second shot was better than the first. But he didn't get a direct hit. He couldn't have. That little car would have gone off with a lot of force. We (especially me!) would have all been killed instantly. No, the shot had to have been deflected. It must have clipped the top of the car, then detonated, sending me flying assholes over elbows into that ditch. I guess that's why the all buzzing and bleeding in my ears. A fucking grenade exploded right fucking next to my fucking head. Not decapitating me. Is it still decapitating when you lose like the head, and arms? No, I guess then it's just considered dismemberment. Not decapitating me, because I was crouching behind the car. And more importantly, behind the grenade primary blast field. Martinez wasn't. Crouching. The shaped charge that's designed to take out a fucking tank? Most of that hit him right in the chest. I reckon Collins just bled to death quietly. Looks like I was the only one out of all four of us that wasn't going to get a painless death. I half-assed wished that bastard would have actually shot me.

He didn't, obviously. He hit me with the butt of his rifle. One of them heavy ass old wooden ones. Pretty goddamn hard too, if the brokeness of my nose was any indicator. I was in a room. No windows. One door. An indian kid sitting in a chair in front of it. He was asleep. I decided to let him keep sleeping. On the floor was a cleaned plate once full of what I guess was cooking when we pulled up. I hadn't been out more than an hour, tops. As soon as they see I'm awake their going to come in here and kick the living fuck out of me, for starters. I hate this shit job.

The best laid plans...

2009-11-28T20:58:00.006-07:00

Bearing in mind the nothing you read on this blog has ever actually happened. The only true facts are that I made it all up in my fertile imagination. I have a story to tell. Also the statute of limitations has run out on this not that long ago, so...Here goes.

Me and Felix always worked together. And before you ask, yeah, everyone called him Felix The Cat. But he was also my good friend. We understood one another. We traveled well together. I liked to cook, he liked to eat. I pulled more jobs, more jumps, more jacks with him than anyone else since I was a kid. Half the time we were room mates for fuck's sakes. We first met in a CYA camp up north. He was smart and big. I was smart and vicious. In case you're wondering, most of the people who do well in prison (even baby prisons like this one) are the smart ones. It helps to be big and vicious and smart. But unless you're a total basket case, being smart is usually enough. But don't take my word for it. Victor Frankl said the same thing. In places worse than...Well, worse than I've been. If they strip away every last vestige of your humanity, with what are you left? Your mind. If all you have is your mind, It'd better be well-developed. But this place wasn't a Nazi sub-camp. This place was a training program for apprentice criminals. I knew a fair amount when I got there. I knew a hell of a lot more when I left. And when I left, we had six guys working for us and a dozen more who wanted to.

What are you fucking kiddin me? We had the makings of an honest-to-god crew. And we had big plans baby, big plans. Regrettably, the Great Golden State had somewhat of a problem with recidivism in those days. An issue I understand still plagues the good taxpayers of California. Furthermore, the political climate was rather...down on criminal behavior. More so than normal. So, before too many months passed, it was just me and The Cat. We went to work. We did well for ourselves. Earned a reputation. And some decent money. Some guys we knew helped us get into jacking trucks out of Oakland, Long Beach, Portland, Wherever. For a kid from a small town like me, that was pretty intense stuff. Intense, but pretty fucking cool too.

One day, some guys we knew threw us this job. A jewelry store. Supposed to be very money. Lot's of green, lots of merchandise. There was even a hint that we had someone inside. Or at the very least, not to expect much of a fuss. A jewelry store. This was a gift.

"Uhh yeah, okay. Sure"

We got the details, checked it out and set it up. Easy squeezy. The day came, we hit the place. The guard actually said "Don't Shoot!" Every detail went down just like we planned. It was fucking beautiful. The shit was all there. The package is delivered right on schedule. We get paid, even a little extra (everyone was very happy) . Me and the Cat divied up and went our separate ways. Lay low. Enjoy. And then...

Bam...Bam! BAM! BAM! CRASH!

Hey uhhh, wake up baby. I think we're either about to be murdered by my ex-girlfriend's brothers or the cops are here. No no, that's definitely the cops. And here they are in my bedroom. With weapons drawn. I'm naked in bed and they have shotguns. This must be serious. Yeah yeah yeah I'm getting dressed. I had nothing, absolutely nothing in my pad. A little dope. But they weren't looking for a little dope. They were looking for evidence. Like the cops on TV they wished they were, they began to sift for clues. I was hauled in and they went to work on me. I knew they had jack squat, so I watched them step on their dicks for a while. I want my lawyer. They booked me in. I settled in. And waited to be arraigned. The real problem was for Felix.

Everyone knew we always worked together. It was common knowledge. If one of us got pinched. It was a foregone conclusion that they were looking for the other one. I said earlier he was smart. And he was. Smart, but not brilliant. He was (evidently) absolutely certain that we were going all the way down for this, that the cops had some damning evidence and we'd be found guilty and Tra la la. Away we'd go for 10 years in Chino, or worse. That was going through Felix's mind. Poor bastard. What was going through my mind was, "fuck man, spaghetti again?" I was at peace. My shit was stashed so deep nobody would ever find it. Nobody was going to rat. Even if they did, no one even knew the whole story. Except me. And I wasn't talking. I also wasn't losing any sleep.

Not so for The Cat. Usually I was the twitchy one and he was the calm one. The way it worked was I paced the floors and spazzed out over every little ridiculous detail right up until it's time for the job. Then I'm as cool as the other side of a pillow made out of cucumbers. Felix, on the other hand, was Mr. Jello-Puddin Pops through the planning stage but was lucky to make it through the actual job without having a full blown seizure. This time was different. Of course. He was on the run with no idea what the cops had. I had the benefit of having been interrogated. Generally, when dealing with the cops, it's not too hard to figure out patterns to which questions they are asking and which ones they aren't asking. After about 20 minutes, I knew they didn't have shit. They just figured we must have had something to do with this deal, or some other deal and they had lot's of activity and blah blah blah. They were fishing. I wasn't biting. I was staring down the business end of a misdemeanor and a violation of my parole which was ending in 74 days. So. I was looking at the real possibility of three whole months, hard time. I did the math in my head. Yeah, okay.

"Listen uhhh, hey there Officer Crew Cut? Like I was telling the other cop earlier? Can I go back to my cell now? Lunch is in like an hour and if I don't get my baloney sandwich and kool-aid, it fucks up my whole day."

But my partner didn't know this. While I was busy being a drain on society, he was busy freaking the fuck out. His thinking ran more towards, "The goons have found Tom! Open up Harry! We dig. Round the clock." In other words, the Cat was gettin' the fuck outta Dodge. Right this minute. There was another thing about Felix. It's only worth mentioning because it plays a pivotal role at this point in our story. Felix was Jewish. Orthodox. His grandfather was a Rabbi in Haifa. Guess how fast he was on a plane to Israel?

Yeah, about that fast.

So how do you like that kick in the balls? Felix is soaking up rays in Tel Aviv and dancing the nights away, with pretty Israeli chicks (I assumed). I'm sweating my ass off in the Kern County Jail, awaiting transfer to god-knows-where on a parole violation for the chickenshit they found in my apartment. And if the story ended there, I'd have one more friend. But god-knows-where was all fulled. So I didn't get transferred anywhere. Just short of five weeks in the can, all the charges were dropped due to lack of evidence. I was sentenced to time served for the dope, and I got a ticket home. To my sad little life, my fucked up apartment, a stern talking to from my asshole parole officer, my bitchy girlfriend doing what she did best, and my 45,000 green american dollars.

That's the lie about best laid plans. That they oft go astray...It ain't true. They oft do not go astray. And the money end of this one most certainly did not. Nothing like getting paid to brighten your spirits. I told you they had nothing. I told you I hid it so deep no one would ever find it. Both me and my boy beat those charges like a rented fucking mule. We walked out clean as a Safeway chittlin. And aside for a few hiccups, it looked like it was going to be a good year. The Cat heard it was all happy good times. He said that he would be home soon. He was busy having a good time spending his end in Israel. He'd be back.

But he didn't come back. Not soon. Not late. Not ever. Apparently, a couple months after I got out of jail, Felix received some official correspondence from the Israeli Government. The Army part of the Israeli Government. The silly fucker went and got himself drafted. Drafted right in the middle of a particularly nasty stretch of a particularly nasty war. He called me after he got out of basic. He was upbeat, but he sounded scared. That was the last time we spoke.

I never saw or heard from him again. A couple years later I talked to his sister and learned he was killed in a rocket attack. Felix the Cat was a criminal. A good one. Smart. A damn good thief and top-notch muscle. But none of that was enough to keep him from ending up with his guts splattered all over some worthless fucking rocks in southern Lebanon. He was 26.

I still miss him.

On Holiday Confessions or Why I Can't Be Blackmailed.

2009-11-26T13:56:00.007-07:00

I love that part of Thanksgiving where someone announces that they need to make an announcement. There are two parts here. The Announcement of the Announcement, and the actual Announcement. Both are key. Because if you catch the full Announcement of the Announcement, the Announcement itself may be anti-climactic at best.
Cousin Michelle says in a clear voice, "Excuse me, everyone...I need to make an announcement." I'm pretty sure I can go back to pouring my drink. She's a lesbian and that's her ladyfriend Cindy, no Sharon... "Well, there's no easy way to say it so...I'm a lesbian. This is my fiance Cheryl. We're getting married in February. I hope we can all be understanding and adult about this"
Right, it was Cheryl. Didn't Michelle come out last year? Yes, I thought she did too. So was Cheryl that blond girl that was at the Fourth of July barbecue? Or was that someone else?

The only thing worse than a NSSA (No Shit, Sherlock Announcement) is an IDA (Impending Doom Announcement). "So, as you may have guessed, our Java Juice franchise took a pretty serious hit this year. Seems people just weren't ready for real espresso mixed with fresh fruit juice." Be careful here. There may be a request for money later.

So, here's my butt-slobbering confession that everyone already knows. The question is not whether or not I fit the clinical definition of "drug abuser". I do. The question is whether or not I really am one. I am. Like most Holiday confessions, everyone who knows me, already knows all the details. And Thanksgiving it is, so...why not. Yes, I'm a drug abuser. One might even say a Drug Addict. Although that's a bit harsh. I can quit whenever I want to. I simply choose not to. Because when I do you all lock me up in whatever facility is deemed suitable to my detention. Which leads us to shocking revelation number two. It's no longer a question of whether or not I'm mentally ill in the colloquial, clinical or classical sense of the term. The answer is simple. Yes, I am. Psychotic, that is. Crazy. Maniacal even. My personal favorite is "Crazy as a shithouse rat". But then I also dug "blue-eyed devils". The relevant question is, how crazy am I today?

Not generally on the high side of terribly dangerous. Although that's always possible, I'm not, as a general rule, armed or dangerous. I'm pretty much on the less destructive side of dangerous. This is a fact well known by all my friends and family, the staff at several local hospitals, a few not so local hospitals and all five law enforcement agencies with jurisdiction where I live, including the fucking US Navy. To quote Pete Townsend "My name is Bill and I'm a headcase." Only my name isn't Bill. What's wrong with me? Lots of things. How about we go with,
Atypical Neurological Disorders of Unknown Origins.
That's geek-talk for all my ancestors were mostly psychotic, alcoholic, inbred, malnourished savages who painted themselves blue and chased wild pigs. Things went down hill from there. The black death, small pox, semi-annual famine for decades, forced migration. That sort of thing, repeated for centuries. can lead to some rather strange genetic anomalies. Like me. Unless you buy the Navy Lab Experiment Hypothesis. But don't get me started.

The fact that this is common knowledge about me is probably one of the most liberating things in my life. Everyone who really knows me knows who I really am. Most of it is a matter of public record. That means I can't be blackmailed. "You got naked pictures of me? No? You wanna buy some, motherfucker?" And fat people are hard to kidnap. So I'd keep a close eye on your wife. I'm not afraid of public embarrassment, not really. You want to see something really embarrassing, read the transcripts of my last divorce. I mean, talk about gory details. Everyone already knows I'm a freak and a deviant and probably shouldn't be trusted with anything more powerful than a small car, a microwave and maybe a cat. Everyone already knows I just might be found wandering the beach at 3am with a bottle in one hand and a severed fish head in the other. The beach is closed after dark, in case you're wondering. I mean...Fuck off with your "What will the neighbors think?" Bullshit. If they're my neighbors, they seen worse than this before. I live at the end of a dead end street for a reason.

Gonna lock me up? Well, I suppose if the good tax-paying people of this County are willing to foot my medical bills for, whatever length of time...Okay. I'm not afraid of being locked up. I once spent 26 days in the shittiest part of Santa Rita. That's the Alameda County Jail. That's Oakland for those of you keeping score at home. I was the only white man in the tank. Nobody fucked with me. I've rotted in tanks, cages and cells all over this fine nation, and a couple others as well. I can do my fucking time. You'll expose me as a psycho? Hah! That's my favorite. Look, I have been in hospitals and institutions all over the Western US. You know what I know about mental hospitals? Some of them are a lot like doing time. Except friendlier and there's girls. And usually better food. What else you got? Sue me? You'll take me to court and get my stuff. You'll mess up my credit. I can only assume from that attitude that you've never seen my credit score. Or a list of my assets. Okay, if you want to wet your beak you'll have to get in line behind Sallie Mae (that bitch always drinks first) the fucking IRS, the Great State of Oregon, my last two lawyers, my ex-wife, my ex-wife's lawyer, my last three landlords and a dentist in Whogivesafuck, Idaho. So, good luck with that. Give me a call from time to time. Let me know how things are going over there. I worry about you guys. That's tough work getting money from a guy like me. See, this is why I don't worry about identity theft. If someone steals my ID, I don't think they're going to get very far with it. I mean, I was using it earlier today and I had quite a bit of trouble just getting here.

So what else you got? You want to threaten me with violence? Please...Don't insult both our intelligence by even copping that bullshit attitude. Look, I will fuck you up. I'm not fucking around and I know how. If you laid awake at night and thought about it for a year, you wouldn't dream up as many ways as I already know to seriously fuck you up. So let's not dot that eye. M'kay? It's costly and pointless and I don't need anymore sin on my head. Even if you did get to me...The people I know are fucking insane. They'd simply hunt you down. You think to come after my family? Their guys are like my guys times ten. Those crazy motherfuckers will bury you in the desert and then go get TacoBell. When girls hit on me (hey, it happens, from time to time) I tell them that "I love my wife very much I'm very happy in my marriage and I could never in a million years cheat on her". Some girls find that a turnon and they try harder. So if that doesn't dissuade her I tell her the really bad news. I have a hideous skin condition that might make you scream if you see me naked. That usually works. If she still persists, I go for the jugular. "Yeah but see when my wife finds out (and she will), she'll just make a couple quick calls and have us both killed. Which would way suck. I am not even fucking kidding. So, thanks but no thanks." Let's all just count down and everybody be friends and have another beverage. Otherwise things probably won't end so well.

Look, bottom line...I'm not afraid to die. That may sound strange. Because I love life, I wallow in it's simple mysteries and it's mysterious simplicity. I love my family. I love what get to do and I love the people with whom I do it. And let's be really real folks, everyday north of dirt is a good fucking day. If I didn't believe that I wouldn't be teaching people how to save lives. Yeah, that's what I mostly do. I administer and teach in a program that teaches people how to save lives. So I'm not some pessimist with a death wish. Far from it. I'd like to live to be 100. That being said... If I gotta go, it might just as well be this trip as the next. Or as Michael Crichton wrote. "The Old Grandfather wove the skein of your life long ago. Go and hide in a hole if you like. You won't live one minute longer." Of course, he was paraphrasing something a holy man said a couple thousand years ago. "Who of you by worrying can add a single hour to his life?" So, yeah. Death is the greatest trip of all. That's why they save it for last. I've seen a lot of people die. Some horribly, some peacefully. Everyone does it eventually. How hard can it possibly be?

Gonna sentence me to drug treatment? Okay. I can walk into any NA or AA meeting in North America, pour myself a cup of bad coffee and feel right at home. I've been to a lots of meetings. Lots and lots. For many years I lived the clean and sober dream, a follower of Bill W. I learned a lot there. I learned that it's a religion. But don't tell them that. They get kinda spikey about that. Here is something no one else will ever tell you. Totally true. There's way more recovery in AA, but NA has way hotter girls. In case you're wondering. And if you want to get laid for sure (and I mean For Sure Lead Pipe Cinch laid) go to an ACA meeting and cry. Indeed, the three best scenarios for getting laid in the world are as follows :
1. Go to a wedding - Any wedding will do. This one never fails. If you can't get fucked at a wedding you need to lower your standards.
2. Go to an ACA meeting and cry - Again, we're talking sure things here, so don't expect supermodels or even non-broken people. But you will get laid.
3. Hottie Date Where You're Clearly Out of Your League- Two choices here. A hockey game or a fight. Either one works. Both of you get insanely drunk. Take a cab home. This will lead to no-holds-barred butt-slobbering monkey sex all night long. But I digress.

It's not like there's a hole in daddy's arm where the money all goes. There was. Years ago. But I had kids and it's all healed up now. Still, the fact remains, I do take a lot of drugs. As the end my forties draw nearer, I don't know that's a such bad thing. Better living through chemistry. They certainly make me feel better. Both God as well as The Medical Industrial Complex knows there's enough shit wrong with me to merit just about any prescription I want. Including any of several dozen painkillers, tranquilizers, sedatives, herbal remedies (including marijuana). It's not like I go looking for drugs. They come looking for me.

If one considers that when I didn't take any drugs at all (an experiment I tried for over 15 years) I'm no less crazy than when I take all the drugs I want. I am, evidently, a whole lot less friendly when I'm not using drugs. And when I say "I'm a whole lot less friendly" I mean, "I'm a raging fucking maniac." Anyone who really knows me, knows that if I was happy and laid back(or even appeared to be happy or laid back) chances are I was geezed to the sleeves on something, baby. If I was being difficult, an asshole, unfriendly, snotty or short-tempered...I was clean. There are six exceptions. But they are only exceptions in the technical sense. They all get me high. Just not from external chemicals. These chemicals are the ones my brain makes. With help. Love sex art magic reason and teaching. In that order. Once I have those things in my life, and at least two rungs of Maslov's Ladder, my next question is: "Let's celebrate! Break with the kush and open that wine! We have red and white? Open the red and pack that bong!"

So yeah...I see red rats (a term from olden days for a crazy person) and I get high a lot. And I'm also bald, about 20 lbs overweight and have bad skin. The whole red dots thing from a few months ago? They're still there, quite a bit worse.

Uhhhhh let's see, what else can I confess...On Facebook someone answered a question about me asking if they thought I had a deep dark secret. One of my secrets is that I have a list fetish. Here's one.

Top Five Deep Dark Secrets About Me:

1. I always cry at weddings and funerals. So don't ask me to do yours, because I can't. I won't. And I don't.

2. I have never, in my life, had the hiccups. I have hiccuped once or twice, while eating too fast, but a real case of the hiccups? Never.

3. At last count, I've slept with five of my Facebook friends. Not since they've been on Facebook, obviously. One is current, of course, my wife. But others are from the past. It's awkward when FaceBook says "poke so-and-so" and I think, "Yep, I did. "

4. Do not fuck with me. I fuck back. Hard.

5. I do, in fact, know the meaning of life.

Happy Thanksgiving All.

Scarey Monsters

2009-11-22T18:07:00.002-07:00

I made a remark a bit ago about Sarah Palin. I had to look up what toy company made Barbies. So I googled Barbie Dolls. Holy fuckin snappin assholes they got a lot of shit about Barbie Dolls. Turns out, it's Matell. But goddamn, people. Settle down with the Barbies. Okay? They're just dolls. You want to know what I know about Barbies? Their hair clogs bathtub drains. Same thing with My Little Pony. I've known that for years. I am a man of many daughters.

I got nothing...

2009-11-22T13:24:00.002-07:00

I got nothing...That's not true. I got something. I just can't get it out of the ends of my fingers in a way that makes any sense. Even the ad copy and press releases I wrote last week came off as weak and stilted. I've always written whatever I felt. I feel uninspired. So...fuck it. It's me and my girl's anniversary. I'm going to go get laid.

Ahhh...Much better. Nothing clears my mind like a good fuck. Maybe smoking too much herb is my problem. I smoke a lot. More than most people. Scored a few ounces of AK-47 which I've been busily destroying in a series of small fires. Watching the president talk makes me think I smoke too much weed. He'll be giving a speech about some issue of vital importance. I'll be listening with great interest. Then the thought hits me. Jesus, Mary and Joseph hangin off the fuckin cross that guy's got big ears. I mean, they're like the size of little legue catcher's mitts. If I ever met the First Lady (not likely but it could happen) instead of being gracious and dignified, I'd just blurt out "Let me ask you a practical question Mrs Obama. Where do you buy earmuffs for guy with ears that size? They got a special section at the Big and Tall Store I don't know about?" And then I drift back in.

Five Movies About Native Americans That Featured a White Man As the Main Character.

2009-11-14T18:23:00.002-07:00

1. Little Big Man

2. Jeremiah Johnson

3. A Man Called Horse

4. Dances With Wolves

5. Last of the Mohicans

Kind of Bitchy

2009-11-06T14:28:00.002-07:00

"So many of the women you dated were bitches."
She declared. "You must like bitchy women."
Our eyes met. I wasn't saying a fucking word.
"I guess that's lucky for me. I'm kind of bitchy."
A good husband knows when to shut the fuck up.

The things you read on facebook...

2009-11-04T15:26:00.002-07:00

She said she felt violated by the Swine Flu swab.
Guess where they stick that Q-Tip for the clap?
I remember experiencing that once because
One of us, no both of us, were fucking around.

Ultimately the blame lies with me, I was older
Should have known better. She was just a kid.
She smelled like honey blond hair and candy.
No harm. Negative results. I met a cute nurse.

Her

2009-11-02T09:42:00.006-07:00

I knew it was her right from the start
We met in a place I've never been
In a place that no longer even exists.
She went by fast, too fast for a good look.
I saw what I needed to see.

She was married to an Austin bluesman
Guitar player, Johnny Iforgethisname.
Me? I was busy being busy. Busy being me.
A thunderbolt is not easy to ignore.
I'd seen what I needed to see.

But I wouldn't see her again for years.
Because ignore the thunderbolt we did.
Time and turmoil eroded the memory.
Eroded, but not erased. Dormant. Sleeping.
I knew what I needed to know.

Then chaos, marriages and buildings collapse.
Lives uprooted, shoved around the map
Like the little green army men of the gods
I land in a desert. It's cold, desolate, beige.
I found out something I needed to know.

She's right around here. Just up the way.
A couple of e-mails. She offers to set me up.
With a friend of hers. Guess she's still married
She's going to chaperone. I immediatly say yes.
I was about to learn something I didn't know.

It's dark in the club. House music is too loud.
Everclear is singing "Heartspark Dollar Sign"
I claw my way into the loud smoky darkness
And I see her. She's waves. Smiling. beckoning.
Now to find out what I want to know.

Hugs and introductions. My date is blonde.
But she has red hair, in pigtails, with striped
stockings and a red on black sweater with skulls.
Rectangular geek girl glasses and her scent.
And I remembered what I once knew.

How's hubby? What's happening with his band?
"We've been divorced almost two years." What?
You know the smoke in this club is so loud
It sounded like she said she was single.
By now, even the cocktail waitresses knew.

I was a man of action, and a total slut
I slid in, close to her. She slapped my hand!
"Keep that thing away from me! I don't
Know where it's been." I zigged and zagged.
She already knew all the tricks I knew.

She called me a player, a joker and said
She didn't come all this way to play or
Tell jokes. What did you come to do?
She brushes me off. She's smarter than me.
That was something I didn't know.

more coming....

Something Old

2009-11-01T17:06:00.002-07:00

I wrote this two years ago. Those two years are gone. Three left. They're making movies out of it now.

What would you do if you found out you had about five years left to live? And what if you knew, for a fact, that it was true. And when I say "about five years" I don't mean it as in maybe on this day or that day or within a 2 month time frame, plus or minus. I mean the date. The time. Exactly.
And, as long as we are speculating, let's assume there wasn't a single thing you could do about it. Nothing. On this date and at that time, that's it. And let's assume that if you tried to tell someone they almost certainly would blow you off, maybe with a polite chuckle or a witty comment at best. But overall, they'd refused to really believe it was going to happen. And even if they did believe in the general idea they would, almost without exception, believe that not only don't you know, but that it isn't even physically possible for you to know the exact date and time. Assume that some people would believe you, once in a while. But they were most likely already looking at the same stuff you were.
Five years is not a large chunk of time. But, five years is enough time to achieve just about any reasonable goal. Maybe something you've always wanted to achieve but the years just passed and you never found the time. Three years is long enough to get a college degree in damn near any major you choose, provided you're willing to work your ass off and go to summer school. Long enough to become a passable expert in some subject. Long enough to learn a trade. Long enough to to do something at least moderately important. Long enough to become the person you know you were meant to be. Five years is long enough to change your life in a very deliberate manner. More or less.
So...
Would you just shoot for as much joy as possible(whatever that means to you)? Become a hedonist. Or as much wisdom? As much knowledge? Would you try to help the less fortunate. Would you simply go to the temple and pray. Perhaps you'd choose to devote the time you had left to God, or Good? Would you seriously re-consider your beliefs about the afterlife, about heaven and hell as it relates to your life thus far. Perhaps you'd dismiss this most common version of the afterlife as nothing more than an antiquated myth, meant to scare people into compliance. Maybe you'd do just the opposite. Move into a "there are no athiests in a foxhole" mentality? Mybe you'd try to wring as much hedonistic pleasure as you could from this existance. Or maybe...You'd just keep on doing that thing you do. Because, what the hell. It got you this far. It'll likely carry you the rest of the way through.
Not an easy question to answer, if we answer within the parameters of this hypothetical situation.
There are two reasons I'm asking this question. First: I've been reading a lot about this idea (it's sort of a hobby type thing for me) and I think the answers given can tell a lot about a person. Second because I'm bored and it's cold and it's snowing and I'm supposed to be packing stuff (we're in the middle of moving) but instead I'm sitting here writing. Bad Husband! No Pizza! That last part was a joke. Honey...if you're reading this I worked my ass off all day and just wrote this in little bits and pieces between incredibly heavy loads of crap I haven't seen since the last time we moved. I'm kidding. Not about moving stuff I haven't seen since the last time we moved (that part is true), but about the second reason I'm asking the question.
The real second reason is more, shall we say, written in stone.
What is possibly the most accurate calender ever devised by humanity is the Mayan Long Count. See, the Mayans (using the the Long Count Calendar) predicted a whole bunch of astronomical occurrences, eclipses, solstices, equinoxes, star movements, the return of comets and that kind of stuff. And they were always right. Exactly right. Every single time. Not within some acceptable margin of error. Absolutely correct. 100% of the time. So, obviously, it's a pretty reliable calender. The Mayans also predicted, using this calendar, significant events within human history. As with any prophetic proclamations, they are subject to varied interpretation. But, it is not a huge stretch to say they are clearer and more reasonably believable than say...Nostradamus, St Malachi (who, coincidentally, predicted that the next Pope will be the last Pope) or any of a few dozen others.
The really weird thing about Mayan Long Count, with all its accuracy, is that it features something that is not generally seen in calenders. It ends. On an exact date. At an exact time. What is supposed to happen after the precise moment that the Mayan Long Count Calender ends? Well... that's hard to say. One, somewhat commonly held, theory is that the Mayans, using the Long Count, were talking about the end of time, the end of the world and everything on it. Including us. That they were predicting what might be called the ultimate pucker-time.
That exact moment, as predicted by the Mayan Long Count is, in the Northern hemisphere where the Mayans took their readings:
6:08 am, December 22nd, 2012. UTC (Zulu time)
No kidding. This is factual. That is the precise moment that the Mayan Long Count Calender ends.
That's Five Years, Three Weeks and less than One Day from when I am writing this.
So...What would you do? Assuming it was true.
Does this missive mean I believe the world is going to end on that day? Don't be absurd. I mean, let's look at this from a historical perspective. If the Mayans were so dang smart why did their culture collapse around the 10th and 11th centuries CE after developing for a paltry 3000 years? Most Mediterranean and Asian cultures, most of them about the same age (really starting to gel about 1800-2000 BCE, or so) were just just getting up a good head of steam in the 11th century. The Mayans were already, more or less, in a state of societal collapse by then. And where are they now? Nowhere really. Their language is spoken here and there. Fragments. Their way of life has been, generally speaking, overtaken by run-of-the-mill Central American culture. Their offspring are scattered between Mexico, Guatemala, Honduras, Belize and Costa Rica.
A strange thing happened during the 10th and 11th Centuries. Huge numbers of Mayans just stood up and walked away from their cities, their homes, their lives. Mayan culture was devastated. It never recovered. Bits and pieces of the Mayan way of life echoed through the lush green mountains and valleys of the Central American jungle for a few hundred years. Other societies, some using similar architecture, concepts and languages, sprang up in their place. But the huge Mayan cities, the ornate temples carved with religious symbols were already overgrown by the jungle when Cortez and his ilk arrived 400 years later. Almost all Mayan books that had survived were burned by the Spanish. A couple are still to be found. And of course, the stuff they carved in stone is still there. Archeologists have diligently dug out the cities and temples, chopped back the vines and creepers to reveal once more to the prying eyes of science. We're still finding new stuff every few years.
The History Channel will tell you anything you want to know about this stuff. But, the real point is; what kind of a freaky, hocus pocus culture would do something like that. Walk off into the jungle, taking almost nothing but the barest essentials, and start over from scratch? That's crazy. What's even nuttier is the idea that some quirk in their religion, some crisis of faith, some real or imagined potential catastrophe, probably linked to the Long Count Calendar, was the reason they abandoned their cities. You remember the Long Count don't you? That precisely accurate calender that says time ends in around five years.
So...Just for shits and grins...What would you do if you had roughly five years left to live? Fa reals. No polite bullshit. A brutally honest answer.
Me? Hell, I dunno...Probably shoot for all I could do to be there person I was meant to be. Which maybe I already am or maybe that's too vague of a pretense. Maybe there's no such thing as "the person I'm meant to be". Maybe that's just human self-importance in action. Hard to say, really.
I guess I'd try to make up for some of the pain I've caused some people who's only sin was caring about me. On the other hand, going for the joy would probably be high on my list of options as well . I seriously doubt I'm already the person I'm "meant to be". If I am (and that's assuming it's even a valid supposition), I'd need God to tell me I am. Personally, directly, with no ambiguity. I'm just not that zen. That's what I'd shoot for and probably see some moderate success. But, most likely, I'd pretty much whittle away the time doing that thing I do and hope for the best. I'm not that ambitious of a guy.
Besides...It's all just a load superstitious mamba jahamba from a few, relatively advanced, tribes living in the jungles of Central America a thousand years ago. Just another version of cosmic mythology. Right? And every day I trust my life to Sir Isaac Newton. He said the end is coming in 2060. When I'll be 99.
There's probably nothing to it.

All Saints Day

2009-11-01T13:58:00.002-07:00

Do you ever pray to the Saints?
If you are or ever were Catholic,
you understand what I'm asking.
If not, it's okay. I'm not Catholic
The Saints don't seem to mind.

They're reputed to be conduits
Who can put in a good word
Get me out of jams. Fix tickets.
Do I believe in the Saint? Maybe
I believe I want them to be real.

I pray to St Jude, Patron of Lost Causes
And police officers. Jesus' brother.
Or St Joan of Arc. She helps martyrs,
militants, prisoners and visionaries
Those who are ridiculed for their beliefs.

There's St Brigid. A Pagan Goddess
With 12 virgins and an Eternal Flame.
Remade a midwife at the birth of Jesus
The virgins became nuns. She looks after
Poets, fugitives, scholars, sailors and babies.

How about St Teresa of Avila? Ecstatic.
Penetrated by the Spirit. The soul's acsent
Somewhere between Hopi Creation Myth
And making mad sweet passionate love.
She watches over those who've lost parents.

Or her boyfriend. St John of the Cross.
When he wasn't having the living shit
Kicked out of him, by the Church
He wrote poetry, amazing poetry.
He's on mystical theologians and poets.

Except Islam.

2009-10-31T17:54:00.003-06:00

I wrote a poem not long ago where I said I'd tried all the major religions, except Islam. Someone asked why. Did I have some problem with Islam? No, well yes, I do. But probably not the one you think. I admire Islamic piety. Anyone who prays five times a day has my attention. And it's not any of the stupid reasons. The whole war and all that craziness. My stance on the War is, and remains, the same as when Ken Kesey was asked what to do about the Viet Nam War. I'm repeating him. What should we do about the War? "Fuck it". So, no, not for any of those reasons did I glance at Islam and just keep walking. I did glance. I looked. I read a translation of Scriptures. But, no can do.
It was the same reason I bailed on the other two Jerusalem religions, in all their varied forms. And about a half a dozen others. In fact, to really rid myself of this obstacle, this deal-breaker, I have only three places I can turn.

First, I can run back to mama. The UU, ELCA, TEC, UMC and other intials as well. They're getting their heads and asses wired together on this issue, more or less. Maybe. And I respect You All for pushing the rock. I might come back if You All realy unite. You All have many very happy people. At the moment I have neither the temperment nor the wardrobe budget for that much happiness. Besides, You All already have way more than enough crazy people. And, way way way too many of You All are part of the problem. Not part of the solution. Indeed most of You All may be the problem. Is this where you want to be when Jesus comes back? Where? Hanging around the dispossessed and downcast of humanity? Don't know if it's where I want to be. Looks like it's where I'm going to be. Which is to say, not with You All. Unless more of You All move. A lot more.

Or I can go Pagan/Wiccan/Wizardry. They have fun. I do like me some witches. Fun witches. Serious witches are a little too...serious. I am also pretty good at shoving the universe's elemental forces around. It's certainly the most fun I ever had at church. Incantations and love spells, entrancing myself and others. Lots of pretty women. Smart and pretty. And she's smiling, smelling of amber and she takes me by the hands and... Tony's First Rule. "Don't get high on your own supply." Wizardry gets me high. So...

That leaves the Ancients. Ancient Egyptian, Greek and Roman.(Yawn). Druidism? Rubbed out. What the hell were the Cathars up to? Was it this? No se. Rubbed out. Near Eastern Fertility Cults. Aboriginal ideas from everywhere, from anywhere. Mostly rubbed out. Native. I was born in North America for a reason. Shamanism. Sacred wisdom from before people wore shoes who didn't need to protect their feet. A lot of them rubbed out. Some survived. Some are extant. Hard for a guy like me to get into those places. Got the wrong blood. I'm not welcome. And I understand that. Besides, you have your share of it too. But, it seems, maybe you have it because you've been hanging around us too much.

The issue? Same as Jimmy Carter. I did it 15 years before he did, but, I guess he had more to lose by making a stand. The issue I will not tolerate in a religion, Tolerate in a religion? I refuse to worship anywhere it is practiced. It makes me excommunicant or a heretic in about 90% of all religions, and I have a degree in Religion... is gender discrimination. That includes discrimination based on the gender of your partner too. In case you're wondering. That's the deal breaker.

Nephews, A prayer

2009-10-31T16:38:00.005-06:00

God knows it's not easy being my nephew.
Whether we've never met in person
Or if I've known you since birth.
Or any point in between. If you call me
Uncle Mike, chances are you got troubles.

It's impossible that it's anything I've done.
Some of these boys I met once or twice.
Some I saw once or twice a year.
Some I met when they were already grown men
But every last one of them, they had troubles.

I got a nephew on the table right now.
Almighty God please be merciful to this poor child.
Got one in Arizona, lost a leg and his mother.
One in Idaho, same name as me. Just a boy
When he choked to death on a marshmellow.

Got a couple in Detroit that are either breaking
heads or doing time for breaking heads. Or both.
They just lost their mother. And their father.
Got one down around Vegas, one in the City.
Lord knows what either of those two are up to.

Some kind of Karma? I don't believe in Karma
I just can't imagine what else it might be. A curse?
It's hard for me to think right now because my nephews
Are in pain. One especially. His mom is my little sister.
Almighty God please have mercy on this poor boy.

Sometimes it helps to pray to St Jude.

Amen

Bewitched

2009-10-30T18:41:00.004-06:00

As if from another room
You call my name, a whisper
And I know I want you. Again

Fingers and minds entangled.
You wrap me in your arms and legs
I got no more pain. I understand. Again.

You kiss my forehead, my lips.
You close my eyes. We dream sweetly
You feel good. That's why I'll see you. Again.

Lists

2009-10-28T20:55:00.003-06:00

I have a list fetish. Some of you may be aware of this. I will begin posting my lists, on another blog so I don't inflict them on any non-list folks. There will be a link to see the new one, each day unless I get too bored or busy. I'll post the first one here.

Today's List: 5 Historical Events Caused By Someone's Total Fuckup.

1. 1863 - Confederate General Stonewall Jackson is mistakenly shot and killed when a sentry from his own army fucks up. I like this one because I once won rodeo tickets on the radio for knowing this.

2. 1969 - Stonewall Inn. The NYPD makes the monumental fuckup of really pissing off a large number of already pissed off people, right next to a construction site. And the Gay Rights movement takes it's place at the Table.

3. 1989 - The Berlin Wall Falls. "Hey, you assholes want to leave so bad? So leave. Go." Did the chancelor just say we can all leave? Yes I heard him say that as well. He said we can all leave. I heard him you and heard him. He's the Boss. Don't be so damn Prussian. Just open the gate... Next thing you knew, they grabbed some sledgehammers.

4. 1940-41 - Operation Sea Lion is cancelled in favor of the London Blitz. Two German pilots fuck up and light the fuse for a massive bombing campaign on British cities. The Luftwaffe is so busy bombing London and Birmingham, they don't have time to bomb RAF Airfields and factories that made Spitfires. The RAF had time to regroup and hold. 43,00 civilians, half in London lost their lives. But Nazi plans for an invasion of England were scrapped forever.

What they fuck, we'll give the Germans three. They're supposed to be so...German.

5. 1942 - Second Battle of El Alamein. Axis hopes in Africa and the Middle East are dashed, because they can't shit straight. Allied soldiers had specific SOP's for defecating in the field that included specific instructions for construction and use of a field latrine. The Germans had more of a "just go over behind that rock" system. Get a few hundred or thousand guys together, that's a lot of shit. Lots of flies in the desert. Axis losses to disease were staggering. Whole units had dysentary. The tide of the war in Africa turned for good.

2009-10-28T19:21:00.001-06:00

I walked through thr room while my wife and kid were watching Milk. I totally geeked out "Oh Wow! I remember watching this live! Look Look! That's Dianne Feintstein!"

They then paused the movie until I agreed to leave the room. 8-)

Pimpin'

2009-10-28T11:50:00.005-06:00

Being a holy man
Is a lot like being a pimp
But am I pimping people to the gods?
Or pimping the gods to the people?

It really didn't matter in the end
I'm a Thief. And a Head. Not a Pimp.
Plus, I kept breaking Tony's First Rule
"Don't get high on your own supply."

Thief? Hah. Rogue at best, merchant at worst.
Jesus Christ died between two thieves.
At least one of them made it into heaven.
Fifty fifty. I like those odds.

Get it down to one.

2009-10-27T21:13:00.002-06:00

I used to have a bro who told me, you have to get it down to one life. Or, at the most, two. So I'm dropping the GC name. I'll be writing under the same name I've used in the past and my "Real" Fake Name. Mike Wilson. Not the guy the Mariners drafted. Not the graphic artist in Oregon. Who is really good, by the way. Pure coincidence I assure you. If anyone knows my Real Real name, you know that it's uncommon enough, but may be surprised to learn that it's taken. Like way taken. By some architecture guy. I thought, "Well ain't that a bitch? My first last and middle name on thousands of hits, not one of them mine."

Anyway, that's why my name changed. If anyone notices.

Mysticism

2009-10-27T02:53:00.005-06:00

The difference between
A theologian and a mystic
Is that the theologian can see,
The mystic is seeking to see more

Both are in Plato's Illuminated Cave
The theologian interpreting shadows
As they dance on the walls, reasoning
Systematically studying, knowing God

The mystic, in the same Platonic cave
Is looking for the exit signs, the shadows dance
As the mystic seeks the door. What is outside?
I am a mystic. There simply is no other way.

The Prophet is another creature entirely
A Prophet is conscripted from the cave by
God's own hand. Pulled out of line by the pigtail.
Like a 14th century Chinese peasant.

Theology is a paying gig. They get money.
But what the Church wants are babysitters.
Prophets can become legends, become myths
And of Mystics? Well, mystics become...

Now, the fire in my cave burns low, embers
Illuminating little, exit signs are burned out.
What I see as light or a face or gnosis. Truth
May only be my own reflection, on a shiny rock

I grope towards enlightenment. But this I know.
Stalagtites are the ones you crack your head on
Stalagmites are the ones you break your foot on.
Or is it the other way around?

Dying of Red Dots

2009-10-26T23:39:00.006-06:00

I'm rolling along through the summer. Doing some good work. Right means of living. Having a good time. Then...Bam! Got sick. Neurological disorder of an unknown origin. That's what I have. Unknown origin my ass. Fourteen generations of malnutrition, alcoholism and insanity takes its toll. Anyway...Got sick. Went to the hospital for a few days. Got some pills. Went home. Bam! Got sick again, back to the hospital for a few more days. Got some more pills. Went home. Felt pretty good. Started working again.

I work for a charity. A big one. The Big One. I can't really say who but its symbol is a red cross. That's correct. I work for the Knights Templar. So I go back to doing red cross type stuff and one day...I wake up covered in little red dots. Completely covered. Like a valid hit with an epee, from the top of my head to the soles of my feet. So, as you might imagine I pedaled my ass back to the doctor. Within minutes I had teams, teams I tell ya, teams of people examining me. And interogating me. Like cops.

"Have you had chicken pox?" Yep
"Been vaccinated for or had the measles" Yes
"Vaccinated or had them?" Both
"What do you do for a living?"
I work for the Red Cross
"Have you recently been overseas or in close contact with anyone who's been overseas?"
Yeah, dumbfuck. did you not just hear me say I work for the Red Cross. What do you got a team from NASA back there feeding you these questions? Yes, overseas type stuff.

After much prodding and bleeding, they determined it wasn't eczema, measles, shingles, Lyme disease, lupus, a host of tropical ailments, herpes, cancer, the clap, the fucking black death, leprosy or small pox. Dr Amy later advised me that no, I had none of those things. She was on vacation. She would have cast a magic spell, waved a wand, to banish the red dots forever. But that week I was fresh out of angels named Amy. So the rest of these kids, they start digging through my chart, spitballing.
Grasping at straws.

"Are you alergic to any medications?" You mean other than the one that's doing this?
"You had the mumps when you were 19?" Yes ma'am.
"Any adverse effects from that? With regards to...Reproduction?"
I have three beautiful, although somewhat confusing teenage daughters. They are my princesses. Moving on.

"You've had infectious hepatitis" Yes
"Amoebic dysentery? " Uh huh.
"You were exposed to cholera" Few years back, yes.
"Were you vaccinated? Did you contract the disease? Where were you?" Three questions, each more stupid than the last. Of course I was vaccinated . No, I didn't contract cholera as evidenced by the fact I'm sitting here talking to you instead of having shit myself to death. And mind your own business about where I was. I was working in water treatment. Yes I know they don't use that vaccine anymore. Okay, I'll rat. It was in the northwestern region of central southeastern Africa. Near places with Z's in the name. Ahahahaha! Try to guess.
"Have you been to New Orleans in the last few years?"
September and October of '05.
"You were caught in Hurrican Katrina?"
I fucking responded to Hurricane Katrina, Doctor Coke Bottles. With a fucking cast on my right arm. Shoulder to knuckles. A blue one.
And earlier same year, the southern part of India, near what used to be called Madras.
Does everyone here have the memo that I work for the Knights Templar? Yes? Just checking. See some new faces on the set. want to make sure everyone has a current copy of the script.
"Any severe head injuries?" We've been over this one several times so...Yeah. Several.
"You had sepsis two years ago?" Yes.
"What was your last surgery?" Not counting what you just sliced off?
Facial reconstruction.
"Why did you have facial reconstructive surgery?" I broke my face.
"And before that? You had reconstructive surgery on your wrist?"
Yeah, I broke that too.
"Your left eardrum?" Huh?
"Have you suffered any hearing loss?" Say again, please?
"Are you current on all your vaccinations?"
Yes, including encephalitis yellow fever and rabies.
Hey pal you want to shut that goddamn door? I'm kinda naked in here!
"Are you alergic to any foods? "
Pina coladas and wine coolers mixed makes me throw up.
"Did you know you've been exposed to West Nile Virus?"
Yes, I knew that.
"You know you can't donate blood or tissue."
Huh? Yeah, got it, west Nile. Three maybe four years back. Out around Saragosa. Yes, I can't give blood. I already couldn't, Which is probably too bad because, apparently it's damn near impossible to kill me. I once had an orthopedic surgeon say to me, "That is the most morphine I've ever given anyone." My response was, yeah that worked... I'm a genetic anomaly. Possibly created in a lab as an experiment, probably by the Navy. But that's another story. Can we please figure out why I have red dots all over my largest and third favorite organ? Which, without the skin, my second favorite organ isn't worth much either.
Skin, the other second favorite organ.

Or more importantly why all you people seem so holy shit worried that I have red dots all over me. I get worried when the doctors look worried. They looked worried. They proceeded to spill the beans.

"Michael this could be the start of something called Blah Blah Blah syndrome"
A syndrome. That sounds bad.
Is it bad?
"It's potentially fatal."
Who gets this disease?
"Mostly people taking some types of anti-convulsants"
I take some types of anti-convulsants.
"That's why we're so concerned."

Well, kiss my ass. Never figured to die of red dots. I mean, I assumed killed in an accident, or a disaster. Been to lots of disasters. Figured, decapitated, shot dead or blown up, stabbed in a bar fight or crushed under rubble, certainly some kind of trauma or maybe...maybe malaria or typhus. Fuck that. I ain't dying of red dots. I started to plan a better way out, maybe set a small fire at a pet store and as the last little critter is heroically rescued, By Me, I succumb to the smoke. Or something. Fuck. Anything. Volunteer to be used as a human shield in Nigeria, Gaza or Chiapas. Mexico... You gotta love Mexico. But I ain't dying of red dots.

They sliced some off. Sent it to be biopsied. My wife fretted. I tried not to watch the water boil. After what I'm sure was exhaustive testing, they determined it was most likely not, repeat not, one of the assorted red dot diseases from which one might die. That part was cool. Not dying, not today anyway and not of red dots. And now? They're doing their tests. Practicing their Alchemy. They come up with a new theory every so often. I'm thinking maybe someone made a voodoo doll and painted red dots on it.
Atypical Dermatitis of An Unknown Origin.
Red dots.
But I didn't get to go work in fucking Samoa because of red dots. Samoa. I bet two months in Pago Pago would've cured red dots.

While I was going through part of this, I snuck out back for a smoke. An old-timer on oxygen walked by. While I smoked. He looked to be maybe in his 80's. Lots of WWII vets still around here.

"You don't knock that smoking off you're gonna end up with one of these" He held out his oxygen machine.

"That's assuming I live as long as you have. Which is doubtful."

There's a lot of shit way more likely to kill me before tobacco. Red dots, for example. Red dots can kill. Evidently. Like warm mayonnaise. Don't turn your back on it.

He nodded. "That's what I thought too."

Since so many people asked

2009-10-26T16:52:00.004-06:00

It has been brought to my attentionn that I need to do a bit more explaining regarding my activities in Kirkland, WA , Saturday last.

I had an appointment to see a Doctor. An MD. Regarding medical marijuana. We cruised across on the ferry. Down to some obscure address. We get there. The placed is packed with people. Of every sort. Every demographic group was represented. I waited and waited and waited and finally got in to see ther Doc. He asked me a few questions. I showed him scars from where they'd removed body parts. Oh none of the really important parts! Just, extra wrist parts.

"Have you ever suffered a severe blow to the head?"

"Define severe."

" Losing consciousness"

"So then like...smacked with a rifle butt in the face would count?"

"Did you lose consciousness?"

"Oh yeah"

"That counts"

And then he signed a couple of documents. He commented that my heart rate was fast. Yes I know it always beats fast. Especially when I'm sitting in this house woundering when the fucking DEA SWAT team was going to be fast roping onto the roof. So yeah Doc I have a fast heart, I already knew that and its elevated,what's the story on the weed?

He perscribed Beta-blockers. Thanks Doctor Roberts. Oh yeah, in addition to the beta blockers, he also perscribed cannibis. Which I now had the right to possess. And use.

So we walked over to the house, got my paperwork processed, went downstairs, I got completely baked and purchased a few grams of unbeleivably good herb.

Then we rode the ferry home.

I felt a little like the night Obama was elected, or the night the Berlin Wall fell. Or what's happening (trying to happen, going to happen.) with gender all around us everyday. Or watching Nelson Mandela go free. I also felt it the first time I saw Rosie Perez shadowbox to Public Enemy. A feeling that said, "Hey! Looks like I outlived another archaic fucked up idea."

U-Haul Theology

2009-10-25T04:38:00.009-06:00

I change religions like a
U-Haul lesbian changes partners
It pretty much follows the same arc.
The arc of serial monogamy. That is.

Tried all the big ones, except Islam
A bunch of the smaller ones,
What I qualified for, anyway.
And a couple for which I didn't.

We meet up by chance, most times
Sometimes deliberately. A Set Up.
We meet through mutual friends.
I check her out. Things get cozy.

We date once, then on our second date
Spend the whole weekend in bed.
We are both enchanted
"I'm here with all my stuff! "

She's here with all her stuff!
Her candles and joss sticks and blessings
Magic charms, statues of Kwan Yin
Carved masks appear on the mantle.

There are mysteries to be pondered
Secrets to be whispered. Magic Words
Encantations, prayers, ritual canibalism
Dance, entrance, call out to angels, speak in tongues.

Serial monogamy demands faith.
U-haul theologians are fickle lovers.
At the library I flirt with Fertility Cults
I come home to a spell broken and her...Gone.

I pack my trash and move on
I steal her coolest stuff.
Some people call that eclectic.
Feels like I'm making it up as I go.

Political Science 410

2009-10-25T00:39:00.005-06:00

Why am I a militant?

Fuck you.

That's why.

35 Years

2009-10-24T23:22:00.005-06:00

Today I walked into a legal weed store and purchased legal weed, with a credit card. I'd never done that before. I'm still so amazed (and stoned, fully baked just this moment in case you're wondering) that I have to type it out one more time.

I walked into a store that sells legal marijuana. I presented a licence indicating that I had the legal right to purchase marijuana, and did in fact, purchase and proceed to use, marijuana. All 100% Legal. I assumed it'd happen eventually, but I thought it would happen in Amsterdam or someplace like Amsterdam. But it didn't. It happened in Kirkland. It was like the DMV for stoners. The first time I was pinched for smoking pot was damn near 35 years ago. I was just a kid. The last time I got picked up was last July. Fucking well better be the last time. 35 years is a long time to put up with this shit.

It was surreal. Everyone was totally accepting of everyone else. One old guy was a hundred bucks short. Another guy, just some guy who was there to get his own licence....reached into his pocket and hands the guy C-note. It had an "Oregon Country Fair" vibe. But it was weirder. Very bizarre. It was one of the weirdest things I've ever done in my life. Which is saying something. Right as we drove out, Kim turns to me and says, "That was one of the weirdest things I've ever done in my whole life." Which is also saying something. So it was, obviously, pretty fucking weird.

Missed out on the hash though. While I was waiting my turn to see the herbalist, someone sent around a blunt. I was legal. It was my first legal smoke ever. I took two big hits, by the third time it came by, I thought, "This is the is quite possibly the best dope I've ever smoked." In hindsight, I believe it was. I got so stoned that my thoughts soon turned to "Snap out of it fatboy! I gotta straighten up a little here or I'm not going to be able to do the math when it's my turn to see the dude." But, my finely honed math skills did not fail me, and I was able to purchase a decent amount of incredibly high grade smoke, for what was on the high side of a decent price. But I was so loaded I forgot to get some hash. It was there. Kim, who is registered as my "caregiver" (fuck me running if it was ever known how much she is my care giver she'd get a medal or the nobel prize for abnormal psychology) said after we left, "They had hash there. Right next to where you were sitting, I assumed you saw it." But..Didn't see the hash. So next time I'm getting some... You get the idea.

The weed we got was even called "Strawberry Cough", same as in Children of Men. And the other cool thing that happened was when we were on our way there, we passed a whole cesspool of Reject-71 assholes. Reject Referendum 71 are the local anti-gay christian protester fuckheads. Pretty big flock of them too, maybe 100ish. Like a church group. So we drove by real slow, about maybe, 10 miles an hour. The whole way everyone in the van (okay, it was really just me and Kim) flipping them off and screaming "Fuck you! You fucking fascist, servile, archaic, fucking nazi, ignorant, bigoted, superstitious, uneducated, scumbag fucking motherfuckers!" and other words to that effect. And since we went so slow, we got to say it several times. So, that was fun. That was funny. The cherry on the sundae.

Like I said, 35 years is a long time to put up with this shit.

The Rock

2009-10-20T12:50:00.005-06:00

I never scammed Persephone
I never snitched on Zeus
So why am I pushing this rock up the hill?

I try different techniques, new strategies
Hoping to get it to the top and keep it there
It rolls back down anyway, and I start over

When it rolls, it rolls over me and mine
Crashing through my front door, into my home
Smashing whatever happens to be in its way

I don't so much mind the pushing up and rolling down
It's the crashing and smashing of people and things.
Rock shaped holes in my home. That's the real curse.

Losing My Head

2009-10-18T18:25:00.002-06:00

I woke up the other day and realized
My head had come off and gone missing
I searched the bed, hoping it was just misplaced
Under some pillows or behind the headboard
I checked under the bed, found seven mismatched socks
two dozen dust bunnies, my copy of Black Elk Speaks
But no head.

I tried not to panic. It was probably close by
This wasn't the first time it had escaped
It usually doesn't get very far,
Although it once made it all the way to St Louis
I checked in all the usual places,
the lint trap of the dryer, in the couch cushions
under the kitchen sink, up my ass. No luck there.

I couldn't see clearly, my eyes still being in their sockets
I groped my way, on hands and knees, to the beach
I had a feeling it might be wedged in a pile of driftwood
Draped in kelp, hermit crabs setting up houskeeping
I tried to think where I had seen it last
But my brain had gone with it
And my memory was a little hazy.

I hoped it wasn't splattered on a wall somewhere
That is always my real fear. That I hadn't lost it at all
But had intentionally rid myself of it.
This is your brain on Jackson Pollack.
Any questions?
No no no...the rest of me wouldn't still be here
It had to be somewhere. Probably close.

If I was my head, where would I be?
Someplace dirty, someplace dank and dark
But with the illusion of respectability
Like a church or a really nice strip club.
But it was in none of those places. I went out back
And there it was, in the compost heap
Pretending to be a rotting honeydew melon
I gathered it up, brushed off the lawn clippings
And put it in a plastic Wal-Mart bag.

I took it to Dr. Amy, The Angel of Mercy
She sewed it back on, using extra strength sutures
Gave me some pills to keep it more firmly attached
And said, somewhere between advice and a scolding
"You must try harder to keep your head where it belongs"
"Next time I might not be able to stitch it back on."
I know Dr Amy can sew it on. My Guardian Seamstress
But what if someday my head goes missing
And I never see it again?

Stray Boldly

2009-10-10T17:21:00.004-06:00

A third rate priest and a half-trained shaman
A part time rabbi and a full time madman
A heretic with no dogma to reject.
A charismatic leader of a cult with no followers

Read tarot cards, study Joseph Campbell
Contemplate the crucifix, burn incense to Lakshmi
Dance down the moon, drum until entranced
Defending a faith that has no faithful.

The water refuses to become wine
The lame do not take up their beds and walk
The blind continue along in their blindness
The Miracle Man has no miracles to proclaim.

A dangerous idea, to leave the well marked path.
You may not find another, nor find your way back.
But if you are the person who is apt to stray,
My words have likely fallen on deaf ears.

Pigs

2009-10-10T12:09:00.002-06:00

Fuck the pigs
They keep handcuffing me
For barking at the moon
Without a valid permit.

On the good days
They take me to the hospital
On the bad days
They take me to jail.

The hospital has pretty nurses
Bearing meatloaf and apple juice
The jail has faceless guards
With baloney sandwiches and kool-aid.

The hospital smells of soap and lysol
And everyone is interested in my feelings
Jail reeks of shit and unwashed flesh
And nobody gives a fuck how I feel.

Neither doctors nor judges
Are impressed by my claims
That all the world's a stage
And my entire life is performance art.

So, fuck the pigs.
With their pepper spray and free speech zones
I bark at the moon when and how I please
I like baloney sandwiches and kool-aid

Me and Crows

2009-10-09T14:49:00.006-06:00

Someone asked and I feel like writing so, here's the deal with the name. That native gentleman? Standing off to the right? You see him. His name is Medicine Crow. I have those words tattooed on me. In real ink and everything. To be fair, when I got the tattoo, I pretty much assumed that out of all the traditional names a native american man might potentially have, Medicine Crow had to be one of them. It's like being named Jeff Wilson. I assumed it, but I didn't know it. Not for a fact. Later I found that picture with the name Medicine Crow. See, crows are my thing, That's why the Crowe part of the nom de plume. The extra E is for Erratic. Or Eclectic. Or because someone else already owned Gustav Crow. Or as an homage to Cameron Crowe. You can believe whichever lie you find most pleasing. The Gustav part is another story. About 15 years ago I called a radio station and duped them into putting me on the air, live, by claiming to be Ernest Borgnine's illegitimate son. When I got on the air they asked me what it was like, being the bastard child of the dude from McHale's Navy and From Here To Eternity. I told them I had no idea, and confessed I made the whole thing up just to get on the radio. The DJ's name was Gustav. He didn't think it was funny. So as revenge for him not laughing at my joke, I stole his name. Plus which it sounds cool and european and it's Carl Jung's middle name and I dig Jung. But I digress.

Crows are my thing. When I say crows are my thing, I don't mean I collect crow beanie babies or crow memorabilia. People don't give me crow themed gifts or pictures of crows or coffee table books about crows. I don't wear crow t-shirts or drink tea from a crow mug. I don't have a crow painted on my shield or my drum. Crows are my thing for the same reason Jackson Pollack dribbled paint. That's just how it is. It's as much a fact as gravity or the atomic weight of hydrogen. I didn't pick crows because I thought it was badass or dark or brooding or mythical (as far as something that common can be mythical) or any of that other bullshit. I didn't pick crows because I like the Crow movies, or to seem mysterious or for any of those reasons. In fact, I didn't pick crows at all. They picked me. I'd have rather gotten Eagle, or Bear, or even Turtle. Crows are so common that counting them is a euphemism for wasting time. Still, I suppose it could have been worse. I'd hate to be the guy that when they ask "So tell me Brother, who is your spirit guide?" And have to answer "Tapeworm". That would really suck. None of this matters though, because for me, it's always been Crow.

The real problem with crow isn't the commonness. Or their darkness. Or that they're loud and obnoxious. It's that they get a lot of bad press, spiritually speaking. Thieves, scavengers, camp followers. They're seen as tricksters at best, harbingers of death at worst. Bad mojo. They are famous for appearing at scenes of death and destruction. Like after battles or terrible disasters. Not even the Crow People are especially fond of them. Crow lives in the middle, between darkness and light, between dream and reality, between past and future, between spirit and flesh. Between life and death. It's a tricky balancing act. Working without a net. But balance I must. Like I said. For me, it's always been Crow.

Playing Truth or Dare With God

2009-10-09T11:31:00.004-06:00

I got drunk on 100 proof vodka
Which tasted like shoe polish
I lit a cigarette and took a couple drags
Then I burned holes in my hand.

Sixteen holes to be precise
I wasn't trying to make sixteen holes
Sixteen is just how many I got
Before I lost consciousness.

Sitting Bull cut 100 pieces of flesh
From his arm so the Great Spirit
Would tell him a sacred secret.
And the Great Spirit spilled His guts.

Now I have sixteen little round scars
But still no sacred secret.
When anyone asks what happened to my hand
I tell them it's a birth defect.

If you play Truth or Dare with God
Be careful with fire.
There is always the distinct possibility
That God will choose Dare.

The Line of My People

2009-10-08T16:51:00.003-06:00

So what if I didn't really exist at all
But as host for a self-replicating virus
Called Human DNA.

Love desire passion, All phantoms, meaningless
Cheap tricks the chemicals in my brain play
On my heart and my soul

So I'll fight with my life for love desire passion
The virus DNA has its own love desire passion
To make more of itself.

So what if I didn't really exist at all
But as host for a self-replicating virus
I'd want my money back.

2007-03-27T22:14:00.001-06:00

2007-03-03T00:06:00.001-07:00

2007-02-13T09:16:00.001-07:00