The Old Grey Mare

There were those of us who thought the 70’s criminally boring; lackluster, banal, inhibited, and balefully trite, remembering as I do the overall blandness of the country then, especially following the bare knuckled, psychedelic glory of the 60’s. We were young, strong and fearless, and the oppressiveness we faced -what little of it I remembered- could be manhandled and bamboozled, kept to a minimum with very little effort, a modicum of cunning, and a fair amount of I don’t give a shit. Bob Dylan said it best, “The times they are a-changin’." Taking stock in the here and now, I’m convinced we didn’t have a fucking clue then just how good we had it, but alas, unless you're H.G. Wells, time was never meant to be turned back, so what do you do with what you glean?
Hindsight is usually a bitch, but a refocusing with an educated, experienced eye can bring about some balance. Looking back on what actually took place during the darkest days of the disco revolution, I must admit there was some cowboy madness afoot, but not knowing where the times were gonna take us we gamely plowed through -what seemed- excessive monotony until Johnny Rotten kicked the world squarely in the nuts and sent society into a spiral from which it’s never recovered. So many more like Johnny emerged, kicking and screaming to find this new “voice”, this new means of expressing themselves in direct corelation to what they were being served, that over time I saw the folks who stand firmly on the prim and proper right grow more than a tad nervous and they began to squeak, overtly dictating a strangling, claustrophobic atmosphere over the course of many years, one that lately resembles nothing short of a fascist state, one ruled by marshal law, corporate monopolies, and kingfished by fear.
To illuminate the change that’s been wrought, to bring it home to my doorstep, I had a chance to fly domestically last week. It was the first time in many years after living on planes for the better part of my young adult life. I was shocked by the effervescent hysteria that boiled in every aspect of the flying experience; from the baggage handlers, to the agents, to the security personnel, to the food vendors, to the gate agents, the stewardesses, to the passengers themselves, a most hair trigger, knee jerk reaction lay in wait for anything short of complete and utter compliance to their every demand and strong-armed rule, to the point many aspects of air travel resemble a mock prisoner/guard relationship. A mania in the power grid has everyone well over the edge and ready for the worst, fangs bared and claws extended, the brutal authority and exigent psychosis in full throttle, designed to make our existence less than desirable should we think, smell, look, or walk differently. A highly charged, caustic atmosphere at best for any and all who are intent upon being free, retaining their own identity which may or may not be universally acceptable by the not so silent majority.
After being fucked with to the point of ridiculousness while checking in for my flight, I had a quiet chuckle to myself remembering days of yore, those cowboy, halcyon days of the 70’s. Given the laws in place that govern air travel these days I cannot fathom what would transpire if my behavior hadn’t grown a tad more discretionary. I must say I still don’t give a flip what anyone thinks, but I do manage to camouflage myself so as not to be detected and scrutinized by the shits and weasels in power who would love nothing better than to pound me into submission.
I recalled a fabulous weekend in New Orleans circa 1979. One of many I’ve had there, but this one stood out from all the others for its sheer outrageousness. The band, Toto, were friends of mine and they were just beginning their voyage, tapped to play the CBS convention there in the Crescent City to unveil and showcase their wares for the corporate honchos who’d just shelled out several million to snag these guys for an album or three. The keyboardists in Toto had specially designed instruments that hung around their necks like guitars, aptly named, “Totars”, and given I had jack shit to do in Los Angeles that particular weekend they’d asked if I’d mule the instruments to New Orleans for them, stay for the weekend and trip the light fantastic under their aegis. Fuck me! a vacation in New Orleans where I could debauch and twist to the point of epiphinal meltdown, and on CBS’s nickel?! Count me in...
The weekend, like I said, was a roaring success. Every excess excavated in sterling fashion, getting rather used to -as I was- the perks afforded musicians who create their own waves. I was besotted with jubilation as I made my way to the airport, not quite ready to jump off the merry-go-round that I’d been riding; perfectly distorted and content was I.
As it turned out I was flying back to Los Angeles with Bif, a young studly accountant that Toto had entrusted with their nouveau riches. Bif, like me, wasn’t ready to turn the knob to “off” just yet, and he, like I, had noticed the two girls sitting in the front row of the back cabin; two leggy, long haired hippy types who were wearing next to nothing and appeared to not yet be filled to the brim -like us- and as Bif so succinctly put it, “Who are we to deny them?”
As the captain notified us we’d reached our cruising altitude the cabin’s lights dimmed. While drinks were being served Bif and I took the matter into our own hands, making our move on the hippie chicks. With fresh, stiff highballs in hand -ones that only cost us a buck each- Bif and I wasted no time in getting down to business. Shortly -it didn’t take long- I noticed Biff’s Southern Californian member well out of his pants and one of the girl’s had a firm grasp on it, while the other had lit a joint and she and I were smack dab in the middle of adjusting our attitudes. All was progressing nicely, if I must say so myself. The grooveathon was reaching critical mass when the head stewardess paid us a neighborly visit. The four of us stopped just long enough for her to admonish us -only slightly- asking us to please keep our seatbelts buckled and our genitalia under wraps, but should we desire some up close and personal contact with the other could we please adjourn to the back restrooms where we could unleash the beast in us? And, she added, if we thought it necessary to blow our minds, too, then we should also adjourn to the back restroom and by all means, help ourselves, but contact her before we do so she can meet us and clandestinely take a hit or two herself. ...Damn...
Needless to say, a performance of that caliber has long since been outlawed. There are some very specific rules that govern such illicit behavior in these days of teeth grinding angst and general Aryan uptightness. The sort of lascivious behavior and wanton disregard for family values we displayed then will land your ass in the pokey but quick these days, and thousands upon thousands of dollars will magically disappear from your accounts as you try your damnedest to stop the hemorrhaging, a massive bloodletting without end that will bring you to ruin’s doorstep, the ogre of doom laughing in your face as you cower and wail, seeking repentance for your tawdry sins.
Cowboy days were good. Fine. We were free and unfettered. Individuality was de rigeur, applauded to a degree. This land was our land. We didn’t know how good we had it, nor did we fully appreciate it then. Only in the last few years have I become much more aware and enlightened, watching in horror as our freedoms have been taken away one by one, the totalitarian whip steadily ripping my shirt, bloodying my back. Now, freedom is damn near shackled. Now it’s toe the line! wipe that smile off your face! let us brainwash you so you too can become a diligent little comrade! and don’t dare say anything contrary to the iron thumb that’s pressing shamelessly on our back, or prepare to suffer the consequences for being contrary, the machine all too ready to grind you into an unrecognizable bloody pulp should you swim upstream, against the grain.
The decadence which seemed so laissez faire and righteous back in the day is sorely missed now. ...Damn! I actually said it! Just like the old timers used to say when I was a kid! I can still hear them, remembering those wrinkled farts who’d shake their heads and say, “Those were the days, those were the good old days.” As soon as I’d hear that old timer shit I’d quickly scoff and sneer, and now here I am saying that same tired shit?! Am I that wistful? That old? Or...
William Burroughs said it best when he uttered these words, “A paranoid is someone who at the least knows a little bit of what’s going on.”
“Those were the days, my friend, we’d thought they’d never end. Those were the days, oh yes, those were the days.”
I will eventually burn out, but I won’t fade away. Until the end when my candle is finally snuffed, I will shine bright, bright enough to blind any who get too close, blind all who are unprepared and unwilling. Shining bright for yet others who are lost and hoodwinked, lobotomized and drooling. A beacon in any storm.
Convexing the current of the slipstream and jamming full bore in the whitewater, I am happy and undaunted.
The noose burns. The horizon is wide and inviting. Rust never sleeps.

Curdled Milk

I’m most disturbed -yet entertained- by a night clerk here at my abode. His pants are perfectly creased. The tassels on his shoes are flawless. His brow is permanently furrowed. He is sardonically dry. He is an imperialistic elitist. He speaks in monotone. He locks the pool at night. He is a bad boy, on the rise. He is lord over his domain and laughs at his subjects behind their backs. He is pitty pat. I bet his clothes hangers are equidistant. I bet no food ever touches any other on his plate. I bet his medicines are categorically organized and alphabetized. His cat must have seizures. His mother a closet speed freak. His dad had to have a speech impediment that mysteriously began when the night clerk was 4 years old. He secretly craves persimmons and ranch dip. He sticks an Oral B toothbrush up his ass when he goes to the grocery market.
I think I smell tofu.

A Modern Day Scourge

If I see one more person with a cell phone plastered to their ear, I think I'll implode. If I hear one more squealing tweedle and jingle whilst in a movie or a restaurant, I’ll turn murderous. If I barely avoid yet another car wreck because the driver is oblivious to the world around them, absorbed in gibberish conversation on their cell phone, I’m gonna come unglued. If I see one more person hold their cell phone in the air at a live music concert to let the person on the other end dig what they are undoubtedly missing, I will personally bludgeon them with whatever blunt object I can quickly lay claim to. I fucking hate cell phones, and more to the point, the people that incessantly use them, unable to live or breathe without the damn things or so it would seem.
Why do we feel the need to stay in such sustained contact with the world around us? Wherein lies the need? Do we need to feed these mega-corporations even more money? Are we that ill and deprived? Do we need more hugs from birth?! These devices have turned people into slaves and they’re oblivious. Stop! Look! Listen! There is a world outside of a cell phone conversation! Despite humans procreating like ferrets on speed and the incredible proliferation of these infernal cell phones, the world’s a pretty groovy place if one can ever part with their hand held devices; worth a look see at the least. Besides, I know the conversations taking place are far from engaging. Humans just aren’t that interesting! A few weeks back I watched a young couple seated at a table, on a date, taking conversation to an all new high/low. They sat, cell phones in hand, not saying a word to the other, preferring to text message each other instead. ...I know those two desperately needed more hugs and if they decide to procreate I shudder to think of the offspring. Just another jackleg to add to the already growing number of numskulls that litter our diseased society.
Life just keeps passing humans by while they yack yack yack yack yack. I refuse to join the trendy and cool, the hip and important. I’ll smell the roses instead. I won’t get any outrageous, unexpected bill full or roaming charges. I won’t wreck my vehicle while engrossed in circumspect horseshit, my insurance company in turn raping me for being so “in touch”. I will actually take the time to listen and absorb the music I pay to see. I will also enjoy the movie or the food and the ambiance without jarring interruption. And the phones I do use won’t ever cut me off in mid-conversation. Is this sensible, idyllic picture that difficult to digest?!
Cell phone users? Suck old butt! Fritter your life away. Meanwhile, stop subjecting me to your inane conversations wherever I tread. Despite the importance you place on your unflagging confabulation, I wish not to be forced in sharing in your scattershot, soul sucking verbiage. I could fucking give three shits and care not a damn for what you have to say, Scarlet.
Jabber jabber jabber, blah blah blah blah blah, winge winge winge winge winge, gab gab gab gab gab, wobble wobble wobble wiffle wiffle, ad infinitum, ad nauseum, et al. A wizard on ‘The Rocky and Bullwinkle Show’ always said it best when he uttered some very specific words which all who own and use cell phones should take heed. Right when elements would get too out of control for Mr. Peabody and Sherman, the diminutive, white bearded wizard would intervene, twirling his wand, saving Mr.Peabody and Sherman from imminent ruin by uttering these simple words, “Razzle dazzle, drazzle drone, time for zis von to come home.” and “poof!” Mr. Peabody along with Sherman would reappear from their historical disaster to present day safety, peace and tranquility. A metaphoric, yet direct call to sanity I wish all cell phone owners would take to heart, but doubt seriously they ever will as we are, on the whole, an overtly trendy, knuckleheaded bunch, and intelligentsia just ain’t a major component of our inherent DNA, as evidenced by folks who bitch about gas prices but vote for Bush and buy SUV’s.
Humans? A most curious lot. Furiously masturbating, rainbow assed Mandrill baboons have scads more sense than their bushwhacked and confused brethren. Infinitely better coif on the natch, too. Better bedside manner, as well. They feel the need to communicate? They yawn, they scream, they bark, they chatter, they gesticulate, they swing, they flail, they beat their chest and stomp the ground and fling shit with stunning accuracy if need be. Humans punch some numbers and the meter starts running, thinking, all the while, they’re making life more simple and dynamic when in effect they screweth yon pooch, all before they lose the connection.
Bring back log drums! Never kept the Africans from keeping in touch on any and all manner of subject. Long distance, too! More soothing. Melodious. Cost effective, as well. And a communication device that makes a woman’s ass shimmy and shake in the process gets a huge thumbs up from moi! With those elements working together, jabber as much as you fucking want! Have a tirade. Send sweet sonnets. Unleash a filibuster. Grandstand. Orate Pontificate. Hop on that soapbox and let it fly! Bring on the beats! Shake some rump! Kick out the jams! I play by sense of smell. I can see for miles...

Where the Gut Meets the Hole

Men are really nasty buggers. When left to our own devices any sort of pleasantry or cleanliness or civility isn’t anywhere to be found.
At any given airport the men’s restrooms are eye openers, rib ticklers for sure. A veritable three ring circus for those not faint of heart. Want to see and hear men at their finest? Pay a men’s restroom a visit... but be forewarned; the sounds that spill and curdle forth are enough to make anyone lose their appetite for good and never look at a man the same way again. A barnyard sound. There’s puddles of piss all over the floors. Feces routinely spackle the walls. Nasty, disgusting paper towels filled with god knows what are strewn everywhere except where they belong. And then, of course, an odor pervades that will fare you well make every nose hair fall in a heap upon the floor. Manly fueng shui on prominent display.
Just the other day I walked into a men’s restroom at LAX and a Japanese man was taking a piss. It looked as if he was trying his damnedest to clean the walls with his pee as none of his rusty emissions were hitting the urinal. He turned and looked me dead in the eye when I walked in and farted so loud his pants flapped in the breeze. He looked at me like I should give him a compliment or score the fart based upon timbre and character. And that was just the beginning...
Seconds later a noise ripped from the stalls behind me that sounded as if someone were gutting a whale. And for minutes afterward the most putrid racket continued to explode as if the man were losing his entire intestinal tract. Then there was the godawful smell that followed, enough to make me gag. Before I could leave this garden of holiness a man standing over the basin closed off one nostril with his thumb and blew ribbons of snot all over the countertop and made no attempt to wipe it off, leaving the green chunks where they lay and walked out as if it were his right. Then a new wave of gloppy, liquid explosions careened off the wall from the stall to my right, a man inside moaning and groaning as if he were dying. No parts of decorum or punctilio anywhere. Only malodorous ubiquity. Pigs in human suits. Wallowing in their own filth and bathing in their fetid glory.
One thing’s for certain, I’m damn sure glad I don’t have to fuck one of us.

Honkin' on Bobo

If you’re stranded in an airport for several hours and you haven’t eaten, and you haven’t any money, do not, I repeat, DO NOT sit next to a barbecue joint when they fire up the smoker and the pig goes to sizzlin’!
Due to some misguided notions by hysterical ground staff at Austin Bergstrom Airport the other day, I missed my original flight. My carefully planned and coordinated day was dismally upended whereupon I found myself stranded for several hours in LAX unable to make my meetings I’d planned that morning and afternoon in Los Angeles, all before reaching San Jose’, my final destination that evening. Little did I know how uncomfortable my situation was to become.
Passing the time best I could, investigating other items on my agenda that needed tending to, I did the unthinkable, unknowingly sitting right around the corner and downwind from a barbecue restaurant. While caught up in the pursuit of musical gems and enjoying a Henry Miller rant the pungent smells of cooking meat began to waft my way and the carnivore in me wasted no time in baring his fangs. I immediately went to drooling like a dog who craves human food but just can’t quite get at it. My taste buds screamed, “My kingdom for a rib! Just one motherfuckin’ rib!” but my pocket book wouldn’t allow it, not having prepared for such a beguiling scenario. And I suffered. Badly.
I wanted my baby back baby back baby back... even though I’m better off without her.To make matters worse, the masochist in me wouldn’t allow me to move either. Murder was on my mind. The Neanderthal, Cro Magnon being that resides in my ancient DNA took over, and for a minute, everyone passing was a potential meal.
Thankfully, everyone was spared and as I cruised at 28,000 feet I found myself amazed that mere pretzels could be such a mouthwatering delight. No substitute for a rack of baby backs to be sure, but in my case, they worked their own unique brand of culinary magic, the beast in me appeased.
The smell of those ribs being smoked tingled my olfactories for days, and being I was thousands of miles from a decent joint the gnawing craving turned into pure torture for one who appreciates -as I do- a get down feast piled high with all manner of dead flesh done to a turn.
If I should ever find myself in that predicament again -I shudder to imagine- I won’t hesitate to slaughter the first young child who passes too close. I will build a bonfire with the bodies of ruthless, inconsiderate baggage handlers, unimaginative cell phone users, irascible security personnel, and slowly smoke a tender thigh to perfection right there in the gangway. Hell, I’ll even share! Won’t charge my fellow travelers a dime.

Gee Willikers

The polarization that is currently sweeping like wildfires across this nation of ours is downright frightening. The far right and the far left are reaching a crises point, so caught up in their own blind rhetoric that any possibility of understanding or a working dialogue is hopelessly doomed and frankly impossible at this point. Reminds me of the Palestinians and the Israelis, or the Protestants and the Catholics in Northern Ireland. Both sides, like the aforementioned, are irretractible at this point, and each day the division between the two ideologies are heading more and more toward a violent eruption.
Scary times are ahead folks.
Hell, even Linda Ronstadt got loudly booed during an encore at the Aladdin Hotel in Las Vegas for comments she made about the filmmaker Michael Moore being a good American! And then, incredibly, was removed from the property, not even allowed to retire post concert to her in-house lodgings, and was, in turn, also permanently banned from the facility! All for just speaking her mind, in what is supposedly a country that champions free speech?! Repugnant. Sig heil, Bush! You’ve almost got everyone goosestepping!!
In truth, her situation is small peanuts from what is arguably a showdown of epic proportions. One fast approaching. Just like the religious wars of the centuries, the good old U.S.A. is headed straight for our own version of internal Jihad. I’m sure God is real happy about this.
Ignorance and hostility are steadily gaining ground. Fear is being used like a weapon. The line in our fertile soil has been drawn and blood is waiting to be shed. Unnecessarily. Woe is be to us. We are entering into a dark time of which the scars will never heal.
God bless America. But unfortunately this has nothing to do with our Lord on high, this is man in all of his finery, doing his worst, all under the guise of carrying God’s torch.
Has either side read the Ten Commandments? Has either side really read and understood the basic principles set forth in The Constitution on which our country was founded?
I am ashamed. I am madder than a pissed on monkey.
This is not a time to sit idly by.

Assholes in a Knot

Apparently we have a national death to report today...
Who’s died, you ask?
Humor.
Given what I’ve been reading lately both sides of the lunatic fringe have been given over to a narrow, mean spirited view without any traces of humor to be found. The giggles, the chuckles, the snickers, the chortles, the guffaws, the crowing, the howling, the sniggering, the tittering, the yucking, the mirth, the merriment, the glee and rejoicing have been officially pronounced DOA. Jaws are locked and set. Frowns are on prominent display. Teeth are grinding. Assholes are tied in knots. Fingers are pointing. Spit is flying. Alacrity done left the building.
Whoopi Goldberg makes a few jokes about a man’s name and its comparisons to a mons venus and you’d thought she pulled Reagan from his grave and sucked his dick onstage at the GOP convention. Apparently Whoopi’s comments are just too much baggage for a company to carry, and within days Slim Fast had dropped Whoopi from its company payroll. Did they not know who they were hiring to represent their product to begin with? She is a comedian last I looked. She has been known to speak her mind on just about anything. Is why we love her. We do live in America where freedom of speech is highly touted, right? Slim Fast apparently takes issue with her sense of humor and her right of free speech, as they obviously care not and have none. Losing weight just ain’t funny folks.
Then a newly elected Governor Arnold Schwarzenegger makes a comment over what he sees as politicians not representing the people but the special interests who firmly hold them in their pockets, calling them “girlie men”, a funny reference to an older SNL skit. Now we have all sorts of folks in the press crying “foul!” The Lesbian, Gay, Bisexual and Transsexual Caucus jumped to the forefront, saying that the Gov’s remarks were insulting to woman and gays and distracted from budget negotiations. One female senator called his statement blatantly homophobic. Another male councilman said it was misogynist and anti-gay. Now, let’s look at the people who are crying foul on this one... just for a second... These are exactly the kind of folks who need a sense of humor more than most given their unusual predilections, and here they are blasting a man who made a very funny remark, governor or not! As a matter of fact, I found it quite refreshing to hear a politician actually “speak” after hearing more than enough of the moronic, carefully scripted blather these folks force feed the media and the public to the point of nauseum. All of the lesbians and gays and bisexuals and transsexuals need to go back into the privacy of their own homes and penetrate every orifice they have by whatever means they find necessary. as much as they need or want or can stand. Please. One must guess that twisted, aberrative, psycho sexuality just ain’t funny folks.
Is it any wonder we have a world where disgruntled people are taking the law into their own hands to mete out their own peculiar brands of justice? Is it any wonder we have mere children who see the world through eyes filled with hate? The world needs more hugs. A big old ball of confusion is all we got.
The old adage of live and let live, greet each day and everyone you meet with a smile are dying anachronisms. Get mean and nasty with anyone who thinks or acts differently than you, and keep everyone at arms length, protecting your “space”, is the new status quo.
To be honest, as I look around at the ridiculousness that’s rampant, I’m laughing now more than ever. As the screws are tightened beyond comfortability, I laugh. As unreasonable behavior and irrationality reigns supreme, I laugh. I laugh to keep my sanity in a growing more insane by the second world. I laugh... I laugh to keep from crying.

Bumfuzzled

Is it me, or does Courtney Love have the most hideous ears ever seen on a human being, and that’s the least of her problems?
Is it me, or can you blame Israel for building a fence, a thirty-foot high concrete barrier to give themselves some peace, keep the violence perpetrated on them to a dull roar?
Is it me, or does the man who hit his girlfriend several times by swinging his pet alligator like a ball bat after becoming rather dejected when they ran out of beer deserve to be put on the cover of Time?
Is it me, or do we have some serious schoolyard bullies in power who are manipulating the arts and the media even moreso than the McCarthyism we faced in the 50’s?
Is it me, or does anyone really give a shit about what Jennifer Lopez does anymore, her iconic bombeezy notwithstanding?
Is it me, or is Martha Stewart getting a bum rap while Ken Lay, a free man, frolicks with his preacher in tow?
Is it me, or does the woman who offered her pet pig as bait to catch an AWOL tiger in Florida need a lobotomy, or even better, become food for the pig she offered?
Is it me, or is Lance Armstrong a cyborg; a lucky cyborg who also, incidentally, dates Sheryl Crow?
Is it me, or do we seriously need more people like Chuck Barris?
Where's the humor, folks?!
Is it me, or do our political leaders worldwide need to have more sex, preferably with their spouses, leaving little boys to the Roman clergy?
Is it me, or do we need to push for alternative energies rather than drilling new wells in Antarctica, bringing our world that much closer to the brink of ruin and destruction over oil?
Is it me, or is it time someone does everyone a favor and fucks Anna Nicole Smith to death?
Clue. It isn’t me.
Our world is a roller coaster which hasn’t any end, only continually pushing the edges of the envelope further and further as we descend into madness.
Is it me, or does anyone give a rat's ass anymore?

1 + 1 = 2 ... much

Whilst in school there wasn’t much any study that I didn't comprehend nor appreciate. I could see the rational ends to the means and I applied myself. All except one. Math. I loathed math. I had complete and utter disdain for math. The practical study of numbers and the labyrinth of applications left me colder than cold. Basic math, sure, that one made sense to me. But it wasn’t until I got into algebra and geometry that my brain refused to accept the abstracts they demanded I grasp.
Now, here I am in the middle of my life, and one day, not sure why, but it hit me... everything I love with all my soul is high end math. Music. Photography. ...Fuck, everything is math!
I was laying on my float this afternoon, soaking up some sun, when out of the corner of my eye I saw an M.C. Escher painting on my forearm. The sun was glinting off the water, a film which barely covered my skin, and the light filtering through my rose colored glasses produced an orderly set of triangular fractals that spread across my arm like an exotic, shimmering coat. Very pleasing to the eye, but I wasn’t fooled by what it really was. It’s true identity? Math.
I’m no John Nash by any stretch of the imagination. But more and more, I’ve grown to appreciate the intricacies and the actual beauty that comprises math.
Having studied the photographic works of Henri Cartier Breeson, it was a real eye opener lining up the diverse moving elements in whatever situation you find yourself, as he did, ones that strike your fancy, twisting and turning the lens, turning upside down if need be, until the “shot” appears. And making the decision to never crop, ala Breeson, made me come to appreciate the reasoning behind the shot, all the geometric lines and angles lining up to make for a soothing pattern that begged for capture. Stanley Kubrick, too, was a master of geometry. Every scene, every shot, every placement of actor and prop, every shade and color of lighting was calculated and designed to produce endorphins of considerable measure
And I could go on and on about music, especially since computers have been integrated into the making of it. But even before that binary evolution, music has always been about numbers, numbers that when put into a particular circumference makes for an emotional response in a human being. Who would, even for a second, without any inside of knowledge of making music, think this to be so? The idea on the surface sounds ludicrous at best. But there have been various studies that leave no room for doubt, demonstrating by scientific formula certain mathematical equations are immediately recognizable and soothing to the human experience. To further the point, there was even a television commercial a while back that had Sting and his band in a rehearsal room, talking music, but referring to it in its numerical state. This commercial wasn’t a load of shite. No. That commercial accurately captured how it is we speak when we truly break it down into a common nomenclature of the most finite particles of sound and composition.
Math? X - Y = Z squared? Personally I shit it. Others don’t. They’ve captured the essence, the very core of numerals and built this world upon math’s shoulders. But in my life, I’ve finally come to appreciate the beauty which is math. My respect has been born anew. Big fucking props.
Now if I could just get someone to balance my existence, then maybe I could disappear into a blinding set of rose colored, isoceles fractals, never to be seen again. A rainbow up my ass.

The flesh the flesh the flesh the flesh the flesh

I felt the urge. It was overwhelming. Opportunity knocked. I opened the door. And there it was... there I was...
I am weak. I am human. I gave in. Despite vehement inner protestations, the reptile I’m trying to dismantle had its way one more time. Like being presented with a full on, all you can eat buffet, I dove in like a starving piglet.
Afterwards, even though tingling from head to toe, I questioned my judgment, chastizing myself over the process. The allure of flesh is one thing, the choices contained therein quite another. And it is the choice that makes all the difference, something I’m learning the hard way, hardhead that I am.
Immediate, mindless gratification ain’t where it’s at ultimately. Flirting with Pandora’s box at the same time was the icing on my ill fated cake. Flesh rending harpies were thankfully kept to a minimum courtesy of some last minute clarity, backpedaling as I did like a crawfish to get out of harm’s way.
I did a bad bad thing. My life won’t come to a screeching halt because of my unscrupulous actions, but I know better, dagnabit. I did a bad bad thing. I am stupido. Shame shame shame.
My heart beats strong. My dick is at parade rest. Love will keep me together. This I know. Surreptisiously, I’m casting nets. Love is all I need. All I need is love. Bring on the love.
This man has been a long time in the makin’. He’s almost ready, warts and all.

Time Is At Hand

There was never a choice in the matter.
I began, what I knew was to be, an arduous climb with a simple step forward.
The more I climbed the more tired and sore my legs became. Prickly spines tore at my arms, my sides, encouraging me to return from whence I‘d come. When I thought I could climb no more, I looked up only to see that I wasn’t near as close to the top as I would have liked to have been, but I climbed on. My footing gave way, but I managed. And when I thought I couldn’t possibly take another step, I girded myself and continued, each step forward a gritty victory. I climbed, still. A few steps later, I fell. Stood back up, and continued, step ....by step.
By and by I reached the mesa where I gathered ragged breath, taking in the grand vista surrounding me ...but knowing deep inside my journey was far from over.
I walked amongst the hawks, as well as the buzzards. I trod the lonely ground, stopping time and again to admire the most secret of treasures; God’s beauty all around if only you chance to look; waters rippled jade gold, caressed by soft fingers of a breeze, bark of a limb festooned with cemetery moss and sea foam mosaic. Nourished, I walked on. Crows flew overhead and laughed about nothing, chastising me much to their amusement. I saw dead animals. I saw red berries. I saw trees bent with age and wisdom. I walked along paths augured long before my time and walked into parts unknown, also. As the sun lowered under the edge of the world I continued on. I walked in the muck and among the brush, around the dung and through the clover.
And when I thought my journey had ended, bathed in apricot, salmon, and amethyst, I came upon another hill which beckoned.
A star’s fiery birth. A cry from a newborn. ...New day rising.

When All Else Fails

"The most radical, pervasive, and earth-shaking transformation would occur simply if everybody truly evolved to a mature, rational, and responsible ego, capable of freely participating in the open exchange of mutual self-esteem. Then, there would be a REAL New Age." -Ken Wilber

“Stay gold, Pony Boy, stay gold. Always stay gold...”
Simple words from a dying character in a movie I watched decades ago, but words which have transcended the movie and still, all these years later, reverberate with startling clarity in my conscious.
Words easily spoken, not easily accomplished. With the trials and tribulations you’re force fed daily most other metals, as well as simple igneous forms and lesser strata, are more easily attainable than this holy grail: gold.
I’ve taken out the polishing rag one more time, having grown tarnished down a long, winding stretch. I wasn’t entirely surprised to find the sheen that lay underneath the years of dirt and grime, but it’s going to take a fair amount of scrubbin’ to end up with the shine I desire. I’m up for the task, to rise above the ever encroaching shitstorm and achieve this vaunted state for myself, and for anyone I might run into at any given time afterward, standing tall as I can, an oak in a land of pines.
Stay gold. Says it all.
If we all swept our front doorstep we’d have a pretty groovy place.

Hors d’oeuvres, I’m Not

Angst is something to avoid, at all cost, in my humble opinion. Especially when there’s enough danger lurking around every corner of this earth anyway. So to actively subject yourself to harm shows a lack of something. Fear? A will to live? Good sense, maybe?
The staggering diversity of interests are what makes the human existence so divinely formidable, as well as admirable. But to serve yourself up in someone else’s backyard where danger considers you a mere snack goes well beyond the pale.
A walla go I was on top of my float in the pool out back, bobbing contentedly on top of the azure water, my arms hanging down into the cool depths, my mind a thousand miles away. And as I looked at the shadows on the bottom -hypnotic, fluorescent, concentric circles emanating from my float- I recalled reading a few days ago of yet another surfer dying in Australia, damn near eaten alive, dead well before they got him to the beach after he was tag teamed by a couple of hungry Great Whites. And in my meditative state, it hit me...
I vividly recall being king hell high on mushrooms in a movie theater many moons ago. I was there as a guest of the owner of the theater to see a special preview of a new movie a Hollywood studio was testing in our area, a movie of which I didn’t have a clue to plot or storyline. None. No advance warning. So I took a gamble and along with some others went walking with the kings that night to see what sparks would fly. Stretch those boundaries, go under the surface at the least!
As I sat in my seat I began to feel the first effects of the ‘shrooms. Geezed up and ready, the taste of tin on my rear molars, my brain already expanding, a host of giggles issued forth combined with a most pleasing, vibrant expectation that teased the inner thighs.
The movie started out well enough. No credits, no title, instead opening to a beach at night. Under the moon’s glow a bikini clad girl decided to get naked and take a swim in the bay. Like I said, not a bad start at all, and my brainwaves immediately locked into the bliss this onscreen woman must’ve felt, loving the water as I did, having myself felt the freedom I knew she was experiencing.
As she tread the water, begging her too drunk boyfriend to come join her, the point of view inexplicably went underwater, looking at her lithe limbs in the moonlight from much deeper in the ocean. This ominous music, cellos slowly arpeggiating, began to surface and quicken as we neared the girls legs. Then we were above the surface and looking into the girl‘s smiling face... for just an instant. Knowing in my gut something horrific was about to happen but unable to do a damn thing about it, the skinny dipper suddenly let out a gasp and quickly bobbed in the water, like a cork will do when you’re pole fishing. Whatever had gotten her attention wasn’t altogether pleasing by her reaction. Before my mind could grasp what I’d just seen and heard this woman let out the most horrible of screams and gurgles as she was tossed around the water like a toy. My synapses went to melting, my senses screaming. Still, I couldn’t take my eyes from the screen. Next thing I knew she was slung against a buoy, trying desperately to catch her breath, then whatever was underneath grabbed her again and flung her sickeningly across the surface, like a ragdoll, before quickly jerking her under the water, a most uncomfortable silence following.
The film was “Jaws”, and after viewing that movie, tweaking as hard as I was, I made an immediate, non debatable, irrevocable decision to never step foot into the ocean again. Ever. Thinking back on it, I’m sure I would’ve made the same decision if I would’ve been straight.
And it hit me that here I was, bobbing lazily in the water, fear and angst about as far away as I was from Australia’s Gold Coast where surfers risk life and limb everyday, everytime they leap onto their surfboards. Every motherfucking time.
Like I said... takes all kinds...
I don’t miss the ocean. The salty water tastes like shit. It burns your eyes. The seas are now polluted beyond comprehension. And there are creatures who inhabit that world who will hurt and kill you if necessary, eat you if possible. Their turf, not mine. I leave them to it. I like walking beside the sea, listening to the waves crash on the shore, smelling it, lolling beside it, looking at it, but that’s about the extent of my involvement with it.
I don’t suffer from lack of thrills and chills, either. I have ways to get my ya ya’s out which suit my taste for danger just fine. None of which involve the possibility of getting eaten by a fucking shark.
My world, imperfect as it is, is my turf. I know where the dangers lurk, and I do my best to try and avoid them. So on any given day you’ll catch me out back bobbing in the pool. Safe and sound. An hors’ d’oeuvres? Not in that context, but if you want to bring me one while I bask, bring it on! Like sharks, I’m occasionally hungry, too.
A cruel world we live in, no matter how you look at it.
Imagine being a young, unprotected gazelle on the Serenghetti Plain when a pride of lions decide it’s time to eat? Or a little rabbit frolicking in a Wyoming pasture while a falcon dive bombs from a great height, a nest full of ravenously hungry chicks waiting on her return? Or a baby seal in the Icelandic surf who doesn’t see the orca’s fin rapidly approaching... Consider yourself lucky on the draw you got. There’s lots of ways to go during this life, but eaten alive by another creature has got to be at the bottom of the list. Please...
Here in Austin, Texas, I’m king of my domain. Eat or get eaten? At least it’s my decision. I’ll keep it that way. Angst far at bay. At least until a meteorite strikes the Earth and sends us all to a quick, liquefied death, or a terrorist attack blows me to bits, or eating an oyster gives me a skin eating bacteria, or a car hits me, or a pissed off, malcontented, wingnut shoots me in the head, or a rattlesnake inadvertently bites me while in the wilderness, or I’m struck by lightning, or I’m washed away in a flash flood, or I’m in a plane crash, or I have unprotected sex, or I choke to death on a morsel of food in an expensive restuarant, or trip and fall down a flight of stairs, cracking my skull, or I’m attacked by a vicous mob of rabid porcupines, or...

Rue No Longer

As much as I hate to admit it, it is the assholes, the jerks, the searing, galling, duplicitous, completely illogical, seriously in need of psychiatric care nimnods and kumquats of this world that are your friends. These adversaries are there to help you, as distasteful as the experience can be. Beware, they come in all shapes and sizes; friends, strangers, family, pious, not, male, female, single, married, employed, unemployed, drunk, sober, rich, poor, sweet, sour, happy, sad, the gamut. They lay in wait.
I can usually smell these people several miles away and avoid them like the plague, preferring to live a peaceful life in harmony with the world around me, best I can. Even though I live my life thus, there are times when despite my taking great pains to avoid the eventual blow-ups, the car wrecks I see fast approaching, happen they do, and my life has been greatly affected by them, immediately turned upside down, inside out by the bone-jarring collision.
What usually happens is I, too, get frighteningly mad, even though anger is my least desired emotion, frustrated beyond beyond by the altercation as I am. Rather than lashing out without reason or scope -even though I initially get in several cents worth to let the castigator know where I stand- I retreat to a quiet place to internalize. For days I will dissect all aspects of the holocaust, to see and weigh both sides. The recounting and replaying of the events to your satisfaction doesn’t help at all. The wounds are fresh and you’ll wake up thinking about them anyway; the worst way in the world to awake, misery on a scale without measure. But through this process it’s what happens next that’s important. The anger will reach a boiling point and like a mirage, truth will suddenly stand tall before me, enabling me to make crucial decisions, to gird myself so as to not ever let anything cause or allow such an aggregious impact on my life again. Then I begin the work; plotting, planning, putting into action various attributes at my beck and call that were heretofore unknown, dormant, ignored, or conveniently put to the side, to once and for all rid myself of the perdition. In short, I wake the fuck up. And then the ground zero purpose becomes crystalline.
Despite my unflagging opposition to such dire encounters, I end up thanking the bastards, as without them, I never would have put into play the new forward motion, the new mode of thinking. Putting one foot in front of the other with, or without, a clear cut destination is always good, in anybody’s book, regardless of the impetus.
So, to all you suck ass farging bastiches out there who’ve gotten in my face over the course of this lifetime? You were graciously spared a deserving throttle then. And now, I simply thank you. All is forgiven.
I feel better already.
Next.
Walk before they make you run.

This Ain't the Mudd Club, This Ain't No Foolin' Around

Sometimes when least expected, you get a burr up your ass and you are compelled to take stock, realizing that the mud is hardening around your ankles and unless significant effort is made to free yourself from its soon to be concrete grasp, you’re one doomed motherfucker.
I am parting ways with many effects of a lifetime past. Some things used to be a lotta fun. They ain’t now. Some behaviors used to be tolerated and expected. They ain’t now. Who or what is making me feel thus? Me. I’ve had enough of ‘what has become’ dead weight hanging on my back. Like a humongous blood filled leech it’s been slowly sucking my life force, keeping me in a state of suspended animation, at bay from reacting to my natural impulses. No good.
Now, it’s safe to say you can call my ass Neo. Here’s why...
I watched a show the other day, a very surreal event where they’d paid and filmed folks from all different callings of life to reside under a common roof. There was a male porn star. An ex rapper. Ageing t.v. star. Young and very confused reality t.v. star. Lying, good looking, fulla shit bimbo. And Tammy Faye, of Tammy Faye Baker fame.
One day all the residents of this television aviary accompanied Tammy Faye to a book signing for her new book, “I Will Survive and You Will, Too”, at a local bookstore there in Los Angeles... where else, right? All were in attendance except the porn star, who, without knowing the show’s itinerary, scheduled a bar bq for all his friends there at the house; surprisingly a most entertaining group who were also from all walks of life; a swath of libidinous wackos who were filled with a certain zest, a rousing panache, as it were. Most interesting lot (I actually ended up personally liking the porn star a lot, as did Tammy Faye, who took a lot of heat for it from certain interviewers, but true to form, she admirably held her ground) Meanwhile, while the meat was cooking back home all was fun and games at the bookstore. There were flaming gay men in attendance. Butch lesbians. Transsexuals. Religious zealots, too. Then there were her housemates. Wow, watta crowd!
Everything was really hoity toity and... gay, but then at the closing Tammy Faye gave a speech that turned everyone’s head around. Not a dry eye in the house. Especially the rapper. Nor mine, truth be told. In this overamped, peach crate stomping stream of consciousness, Tammy Faye got to the heart of it, describing how in ancient times if you killed someone their bodies were strapped to yours and you had to carry that body until you too, died. Can only imagine how gory that shit would get... now there’s you a sentence! But then, right when you thought Tammy Faye had ingested a little too much ether, she turned the corner and leveled everyone there, saying that at one point in time in her life, she too, found that there was a dead body strapped to her back, keeping her from truly living her life, trying to drag her down into death’s stagnant and rotting pit. By now the mascara is streaming down her face, and she’s not done yet... oh no! Her voice rising a few octaves, she says when she realized what was happening she threw this body off of her back and began to slowly live again. “Throw that dead weight from your back! Throw that dead weight from your back! Take your life back! Take it back!!” she wailed like a woman possessed, her face a clown-like mess, her conviction unshakeable.
I can’t properly convey the reaction of this crowd gathered there, but through the medium of television I too felt a tremendous lifting of spirit, kinda like when the crazed loony televangelists tell you to put your hand on the television screen and be healed, but this one, unlike those charlatans, was for real.
Who could’ve guessed I would be affected in such a positive way by, of all people, Tammy Faye?! But I was. And it was good.
I’ve been at work on myself for over twelve years now coming to grips with many aberrations that had become part of my everyday, ones that I’d simply outgrown. Not to knock what I did or how I acted, but a newfound sensibility is now driving my days and it’s been a long time coming in ridding myself of this dead body clinging to my back as it tried its damnedest to bring me down, keeping me tethered and buffaloed, bloodied and battered, headed for ruin and destruction if I’d let it.
That thunderous hellfire and brimstone speech by Tammy Faye stoked some flames under my ass that I couldn’t believe and these past few weeks I’ve become a hobgoblin of activity, determined to put my best foot forward and get back into the swirl of life after leaving society completely behind some four years ago. Those four years were time well spent. Entirely necessary. But I’m juking and jiving now, breaking free of the dead weight which was keeping me from moving at the pace I needed.
Fucking Tammy Faye at the helm of a critical juncture of my life? Whoda thunk it?!
I’m not gonna go wearing mascara and wigs anytime soon. My sexuality isn’t anywhere close to question -even though some varmints in Shitville are having a good time at my expense on that one given some vicious rumor and innuendo, coupled with a most narrow view which fills them with pitiful glee- ...sad, miserable fucks. But I’m proud to say that little bitty witchy woman burned my ass. Burnt it good. Everyone should be so lucky to recognize these angels when they descend to get your attention, and if your ass gets scorched in the process, take note and do something about it! Look at the possibilities, screw the impediments. You’re not living on the edge? Then you’re taking up too much motherfucking space!
First item of business? Remove head from rectum. All important. The rest will follow.
People get ready, for a change is comin’.

Splashamatic

This dog of mine will stand on her hind legs and furiously splash the water with her front paws, like a threshing machine; splashing and biting and barking, splashing and biting and barking. She won't stop. She’s gone. The happiest creature on Earth.
She doesn’t want to rob anyone. Beat anyone up. Sell anyone crack. Talk bad about someone. Cheat an elderly person. Behead someone. Lie to anyone. Rape anybody. Flip anyone the bird and say bad things about their family. Spit on anyone. Stab someone. Cheat anybody. Take over another country. Throw trash on the side of the road. Eat until she can’t walk or breathe. Shamelessly use animals for monetary gain. Do heroin until she dies. Get drunk and drive. Drive. Mow the grass. Trim the hedges. Spray insecticide. Torture anyone. Go to Burger King... no wait, she likes Burger King. Fuck a stranger for money. Fuck her best friend’s boyfriend. Get her labia pierced. Get tattooed. Wear cheap shitty clothing. Make an obscene phone call. Spend all day beating off to porn on the Internet. Buy insurance. Buy gasoline. And fuck a buncha cars and trucks... no wait, she likes pick-up trucks. Believe in false prophets. Falsely drive up the price of a stock. Eat Fugu fish. Drink someone else’s piss. Have someone beat her with a cat ‘o nine tails. Shoot someone in the face for no reason. Believe in science as an absolute. Get married for money. Poison someone. Lock anybody in a closet and stick them with pins. Drown someone. Silently fart and leave the room without telling anyone... well... Make a chocolate milkshake. Get botoxed. Have breast implants. Hate anyone.
Yet we say dogs have no souls. We say we are way smarter than dogs.
My dog wants to splash and bite and bark. She shits in public but she could give a fuck all about it. She likes snacks. She’s love. She’s happy. Perfectly content. I look around. I’m not.

Sticky

A good restful sleep has eluded me the past few nights. Admittedly there are a lot of boiling points in my life at present, but one, more than most, has been weighing heavily on my heart.
Just a few months ago, someone whom I was very close to, both personally and professionally, died unexpectedly. His passing has already created a most immense void in my life as it has in others who were close to him; and there weren’t many.
To complicate matters, his affairs were rather complex. As if his passing wasn’t cruel enough, I now helplessly watch as different factions of loved ones, people who were all incredibly important to his life, whom I love dearly, are taking issue with the other. To be expected to some degree as the estate is substantial and both sides have raw emotions, exposed ganglia, if you will, due to some malcontented, predatory sons-a-bitches who viciously attacked from every angle; gouging, ripping and tearing at scabs which covered wounds not yet healed. Only natural, way I look at it. The storm of emotions wreaking their havoc. Humans being less than. The way.
I’ve observed from a distance thus far, but only in the last couple of weeks have both sides asked that I enter into the fray to help bring some clarity to a gulf that divides. A good sign, as I know deep down everyone involved cares for the other and wants to do the right thing, despite the current chilly temperature.
Normally I’m a rather cool customer, if I must say so myself. Not easily rattled even under the most caustic of circumstances. But I must walk a very heated tightrope here so as not to muddy the water. I must be neutral and fact based in answer to the myriad of questions being levied my way. A sticky sitch, if ever there was one. One that has me slightly discomforted on the inside, as much as I try and ignore it, as evidenced by my fitful, dream riddled sleep.
My only hope is that I can be the bridge that will help span the gulf. Meanwhile, I’m polarized, carefully groping for due course through this minefield as I dearly love all sides and they me, and I desire more than anything those feelings never be impugned. I pray for words. I pray for big sky. And I endeavor to build this bridge, brick by brick by brick by brick...
It’s my supreme hope that one day we will all gather privately and have a much needed laugh ...and cry, celebrating this man and his life and the effect it had on each of us. I know it can happen. It’s what he would want. But for now, no one’s laughing. There are only bitter tears and confusion. The unexpected wake he left enormous .
There’s a hole in my heart that needs mending. Perhaps ...just perhaps, by stepping into the fray I can mend this hole, and in turn, dry the tears of others.
My burden. One I accept.
“Take a gamble with your heart, take a chance on happiness. You’ll be glad you placed the bet. Think it over, what’s to lose? All the odds are in your favour.”
Good advice from the man himself. Advice I readily accept and hold dear.
I can already see the cliff’s edge, growing further distant as I take flight, narrowly escaping a kiss of the earth, the sun blinding...

Dukin' It Out With The King

Chuckles are in very short supply these days, as any of you who’ve read my recent posts will surely understand. But despite the hell I’ve been enduring, I still retain my sense of humor ‘cause without the ability to laugh at myself and the absurdity I’m subjected to, I’d be double clutch fucked and quick! So I search and search every day for reasons to guffaw, to allow the mirth and merriment to spirit me away from the senseless pain that is so pervasive in these mean spirited times. Sometimes the gods smile upon me and in turn, the reasons choose to seek me out. This morning, such was the case. It all had to do with a king and his music; King Sunny Ade’, and his recording, “Juju Music” -which I highly recommend, by the way. One day, a long time ago, me and The King got crossways, and today I got a big ass chuckle out of it.
I once dated a most rambunctious young Greek woman, Estheraki Ash. A spitfire. Hellified woman in the making. Devilishly good looking courtesy of a gene pool that was top shelf; her mother a cross between Gina Lollabrigida and Raquel Welch. But moreso than her looks, Estheraki had a flaming spirit that was unquenchable and she and I enjoyed many years together, traveling the world, enjoying everything we encountered to the nth degree, squeezing the maximum yield from every day. A relationship of a lifetime.
Through my musical travails and my inadvertent association with Island Records, I was fortunate enough to stumble upon the aforementioned debut by King Sunny Ade’, an honest to god Yoruba prince who was making international waves at the time with his infectious high life music. Both Estheraki and I fell in love with this record, always the perfect accompaniment to any desert hideaway soiree, of which we had many. And as luck would have it, King Sunny was touring only a handful of U.S. cities to support this new release and one of his stops was at The Greek Theater in Los Angeles, our home at that time.
The both of us were beyond excited to be able to go see this man in concert, and the added touch was it was at The Greek, one of the coolest outdoor amphitheaters on the planet, nestled as it is in heavily wooded Griffith Park, high in the mountains above Hollywood.
The mood was set.
The concert was pure magic, No other word to describe it. Under the night sky and the stars, the King commanded a forty-five piece band of which almost forty were percussionists. The rhythms were dastardly. Divine. Diabolic. One’s ass could not be still. The crowd swayed like a cobra before its master. A joyous musical celebration lifted every one there beyond the surly bonds of this earth, if only for a little while.
After the show we were due to meet our good friend, Der Jamie and her new beau, Baby Huey, at Carlos and Charlie’s, a rather notorious, exclusive nightspot on Sunset. Der Jamie is another larger than life character, at one time managing Prince and a host of others. Never a dull moment when in this woman’s company... trust me.
The four of us were enjoying ourselves beyond compare, still bubbling from the concert, knocking back some first class cocktailage when in walks King Sunny himself, attended to by a squadron of beefy bodyguards, all resplendent in regal Nigerian garb.
Now, I will admit Estheraki was always a bit star struck even though we regularly traveled and existed in these circles. And true to form, when the King walked in she was suddenly pure liquid without a container.
All was cool... for a minute.
Without any provocation, suddenly there was one of the King’s bodyguards next to Estheraki, reeking of vanilla, informing her in his broken english that, “The King would very much like to meet you, madame. It would be the King’s honor.”
With those big brown eyes that were framed by a set of exquisitely sexy dimples, Estheraki pleaded with me to let her go meet him, and hell, how could I say no? Not everyday you get a chance to meet a king, much less one whose music you love, so I told her, “Sure, why not?” I wasn't, and am not, an insecure person by any stretch.
The bodyguard took Estheraki’s hand and away they went. Der Jamie kept shooting me looks, keeping me in check. I remained chilly, ordering another drink as the evening’s buzz needed some fine tuning.
Several minutes passed by and all was fine until the King and all his minions rose, taking a surrounded Estheraki out the side door with them.
I’m no small guy, and prefer peace to violence, but I’ve dealt with my share of horsehockey and if it comes down to it I’m not averse to mixing it up. A line had been crossed and King or no King, I wasn’t about to stand for it.
Der Jamie immediately saw the mood swing and tapped Baby Huey on his shoulder -himself no small fry, an ex-NFL player- and said, “You better go get Esther or a kingdom will be without a king tomorrow.”
Baby Huey gave me the eye and told me to stay put, then he stood up and hustled out the door after my girl. Shortly Baby Huey returned safely with Estheraki in tow. Even though excited by the King’s overtures, gloating over the fact the King wanted her, Estheraki was reasonably contrite and promised to make it up to me later.
I really couldn’t blame her. I mean, who can resist the allure of being seduced by a King, for goodness sakes?! A talented one, at that?!
And true to her word, she indeed did make it up to me later. Big time.
So today, as I put on “Juju Music” to be my theme music for concocting a brekkie repast, this memory came back to me, providing a chuckle or seventeen.
Thanks Estheraki. Thanks Der Jamie. Thanks Baby Huey. And special thanks go to King Sunny Ade’, for without him and his music none of this would have been possible.
Laughter is good. I highly recommend it. As I do “Juju Music”.
And the beat goes on... ladee dadee dee, ladee dadee di... Same as it ever was, same as it ever was.

Junkies

Wanting badly to escape the madness my life’s become of late, I sat down under my favorite stand of trees as the sun disappeared under the lip of the horizon and I shut ‘er down. I closed my eyes and waited for my brain to readjust, wanting more than anything for the world as I’ve come to know it to reappear. Slowly, as if reconnecting to the source, I began to hear the songs of birds, the rush of the wind, the tweeze and zizz of the insect symphony around me... the peace that is nature. But as quickly as I sunk into this state of bliss another sound radically obliterated the harmony I sought; the moan of rubber on asphalt, the dull roar of gas driven engines. A hateful, marauding sound that tore the tranquility I craved into so many jagged shreds. And I grew sorely ashamed.
We, the human race, think we’ve made progress. But have we?
What have we done to our host but mock it and use it like a cheap hooker?
The other day I read a most enlightening and entertaining screed from one of our most treasured men of letters, Kurt Vonnegut. A letter he felt compelled to write as he, too, watches us not so slowly destroy everything around us, including one another. And he had a most distinct reason why we are approaching a disaster of epic proportions, breaking it down into a most basic and entirely logical premise. “We, as a human race”, he said, “are addicted to fossil fuels. That fact will be our demise.” The truth contained in those two sentences hit me like nothing I can ever recall. And what sickened him worse than the fact that we allowed ourselves to be seduced by it was the fact that we are so brazen, so hooked, in denial, we aren’t even looking ahead to the day when we’ll run out of the fossil fuels, prudently doing what we need to do to avert the coming disaster. It’s almost cold turkey time and we’re buying fucking SUV’s for chrissakes! How blind, how arrogant are we?
We’re talking worldwide collapse here folks.
I met a wildcatter a few years back who predicted all that is facing our world now. At the time he was looking into some antiquated geological surveys where he was betting oil would be, and he told me why he was taking such a gamble. He explained that over in the Middle East they’d recently discovered that Allah wasn’t going to provide a never ending stream of oil after all. The Saudi geologists found that the end is indeed in sight. They’ve peaked. This wildcatter told me to watch world events over the next few years. He said that there would be horrific wars over oil and that gas prices would rocket out of sight. “The party is over” he said. And how long before the cold turkey, you ask? Well, from the information I’ve been gathering, much sooner than anyone in any position of power anywhere on this Earth wants to let us know. The folks in power rather like the lifestyle they’ve carved out for themselves so they keep us hoodwinked and pacified. Just look at our administration today. They are the biggest drug dealers on the planet and they’re free, raping this country, this world, making billions annually. Our leaders on high are consorting with the biggest drug cartels in the world, too. The Saudi’s. And do they care what happens to the children who’ll inherit this fucked up world? “Shit, that’s their fucking problem”, they’ll say, “we got money to make... go buy another gallon of gas and shut the fuck up”. They’ll be dead and long gone so it’s no sweat off their wealthy and getting wealthier backs. Our whole infrastructure is dependent on this shit! Without it, we’re all fucked! So what in the hell can we say in defense to that? The game’s rigged. They got us by the short and curlies folks, right where they want us.
However, there will be some groups of people who will have the last laugh on this one. They’ve been saying it for eons, and have also had the balls to live it, walk it like they talk it. I’m talking about the Quakers, the Amish, the Mennonites, and others like them. As gasoline creeps up to prices no one will be able to afford, what will these groups do? Keep traveling by horse and buggy, eating the food they’ve been growing, completely content, self-sufficient, their world unchanged, while the world around them collapses in a hellish scene never before witnessed in the history of humanity.
You’re a junkie. I’m a junkie. We’re all junkies of one sort or another. Supply and demand folks. You figure it out.
I almost wish I could be here during the age when the well runs dry. Then maybe I could get some peace and fucking quiet again!
Anybody remember a dynasty called The Roman Empire? This next worldwide failure is gonna make that demise look like child’s play. The whole shit is gonna implode and it ain’t gonna be pretty.
We are no better than the goats who were left on that tiny island in the Pacific who, over time, ate everything on it, then they all died of starvation. We, too, had our chance. We blew it. Our situation is inexorable. It’s only a matter of time.
Party on while it lasts folks! Sodom and Gomorrah is in full tilt boogie. Rome will fall. We’re the next dinosaurs. Do the T-Rex!!

A Fart in the Wind

I consider myself a fairly well rounded, semi-literate, marginally educated person. But just when I think I have a handle on things, I sit back and watch all of my so-called knowledge go down the shitter in a handclap.
In truth, in the grand scheme of things, I know diddly squat.
I am nibby nobby nooby.

Silence Is

Every day we’re given has a definite purpose; a twenty-four hour chunk of time that’s irretrievable once past, so it’s a time in which you can advance as you see fit or get left behind and trampled underfoot by the thundering herd, who are, for the most part, running amok without a smidgen of purpose or flat out give a shit.
Even though there are some out there in this modern age who would take issue with this, spending a day under a shady tree, watching clouds floating overhead is far from a waste of time. And for those who think otherwise, I say, “You’ve lost the fucking plot.”
My yesterday was one of those days where I purposely left the world and all of its bohunk twaddle behind. A retreat, if you will, from the stampede of little lemming feet. An inside my skin day. A look in the mirror. A seeking of balance. A temperature of the heart. A conditioning of the soul. A cleansing, as it were.
And I wallowed all up in it but good.
In silence I find the voice of God. In silence I hear the water, the creatures, the trees, the wind. I smell the melodies they conjure. I tune in, I go clear, feeling the Earth as it is, as it was intended, slackjawed, dumbstruck, bathed in ageless serenity, insight, and concert. One day I’m gonna start fucking glowing and disappear into the silence, leaving this place far behind, never to return, a burnt spot on the ground where I once sat.
Silence is full of the primordial jizz of life. Lose it at your own peril
Even Franki Valli and the Four Seasons sang, “Silence is golden, golden.”
Silence is cool. Silence is sexy.
Silence spawns everything. From that empty canvas the whole kit ’n caboodle comes alive, sez I. Therefore, it is.
Yesterday I succumbed to the silence. It made all the difference.

One Stone

I was sitting there alone at the bar. My pockets were bare. The music was over. My ex had left in a squirrely huff. And it hit me. Life has been a series of car wrecks lately, all designed to teach me, enlighten me, but fuck! have all the breaks, all the mysterious connections that produce wonder and magic vamoosed for good? All rhetorical questions of which I know the answers, but some days you are in need of unexpected luck, a kind word, a smile, a lick from a dog.... something, anything! Today was one of those.
As the people filed out, I sat at the bar, in the corner of the room, by myself. Not looking at anyone. Nor caring to. Minding my own business. Nursing my wounds.
Without warning, suddenly a dude was standing right beside me, looking a tad nervous. He put his beer on the bar and told his date to wait a second, then he looked at me and under his breath, in all seriousness, he said, “Man, I’m 33 years old and I don’t know where my life is taking me. But all I got to say is, if I look as cool as you when I’m your age, then I know I’ll be alright.”
All I could do was smile and nod. I mean, I knew of what he spoke as I’ve heard it from others concerning my demeanor and my attire, but what can you say to something like that without being uncool? So I left it at that. The dude saluted me with his beer then threw his arm around his chick and split.
Deep down I know everything’s gonna be okay. I’m doing the work necessary. But I was glad he’d said those words to me. Made me feel better, at the least. Angels come in funny packages.
It’s the small things that count and in this day and age I'll take 'em where I can get 'em.
How to move a mountain? One stone at a time.
You gotta get behind the mule and plow.

Fireworks

Like many scattered across this country of ours, I watched a fireworks display last night. But mine might not be the same kind of which you’re thinking.
From my balcony which overlooks the city, I was able to watch the traditional downtown fireworks -brilliant displays of color and texture- while all around me rogue individuals set off countless packs of Black Cats, sounding like Beirut on a good night. I had a belly full of grilled turkey burgers and chicken dogs. Some vino rosa. Tequila. A grand mixture that had me on the edge of wetness. I was indeed in a festive mood, the holiday spirit upon me in fine style. The icing on the cake was I was invited to a concert last night, and given my day had been picture perfect I looked forward to a nightcap of good tunes and hand jive.
At the concert hall I was standing there with my business partner -a great friend- and an old flame, diggin’ the sounds, ready for a evening full of butt shakin’. Next thing I knew the old flame reached up and grabbed my partner’s ear, inquiring what he had in them. He pulled away from her grip and told her they were earplugs. The old flame didn’t say another word, walking over to the side of the stage. My partner, in turn, disappeared into the crowd. After a few minutes I walked over to my old flame’s side to better see some onstage antics as the band had pulled a girl onstage and were playing their guitars on her butt. As I did so the old flame seemed to purposely move away from me. I waited until the song was over then I casually asked her if she’d moved away from me on purpose. With as much chill as she could muster, she said,”I’m watching the band.” O-k-a-y... I walked away as fast as I could, realizing that for the millionth time this woman is tossing a wobbly and will not stop until she ruins everyone’s night. Why was she mad? I hadn’t the slightest and just don’t fucking care anymore. I walked over to the bar and took a seat and proceeded to have a wonderful time, listening to a band and a songwriter at the top of their form.
Midway through the show I saw the old flame walking brusquely from the venue. I, against my better judgment, followed her outside. As she was hailing a cab I asked her why she was leaving and without missing a beat she turned and leveled a blistering tirade my way that was based around my partners reaction to her touching his ears. Yeah... you read that right.... I was bamboozled. The tirade went on and on and I was accused of being basically nutless because I didn’t take up for her! Over what, I’m still uncertain. Not wanting the perfect day to be ruined by this mindless harangue, as I have watched many of my other nights be destroyed by this wastrel over the course of our relationship, I turned and walked back inside, took my seat, and immediately got back into the groove, as I should.
The rest of the evening was just divine. A perfect ending to a perfect day.
The fireworks continued though. I came home to the most unbelievable e-mails delivered by the old flame, accusing me of the most inane, topsy turvy shit, all due to my partners reaction to her touching his ears! I tried to respond to let her know her anger was completely unfounded but she’d blocked me. So instead she got to stew in her own juices, as she probably deserves. I’d say the woman is wound a little tight, no parts of humor to be found. Got a few issues and then some. Basically has lost the plot.
A day of fireworks indeed; overhead, in my face, all around me. But more and more, rather than my giving in to their shock and awe, I find a most pleasing calm settling over me despite the concussions.
The sparks and the cloudbursts are dazzling. The colors are most pleasing. I’m finding beauty wherever I look, even in the face of ugliness. I embrace the chaos, but I seek love.

Tired of So Much Shit Around Here

Man had just hung up the phone, reamed by a nasal-voiced, cigarette smoking bitch from Avco Finance. Man was three months late on his payment. Man had had about a gutful. Man snapped. Walked down the hall from his bedroom, his black cat strolling towards him, purring. Man drop kicked the cat into the hall mirror, shattering it. Man's snaggletoothed, butt-less girlfriend came running down the hall, too, “What was that, hon’?” Man jerked a wad of nosehair from her nostrils, crushed his boot heel on top of her bare foot, then bitch-slapped her in case she didn’t get the point. Man called his mother on the phone. Told her he didn’t love her at all and her breath stunk. Man exited the house, tearing through the unopened garage doors in his new Camaro, financed by, you guessed it, Avco, sideswiping the postman who was due to retire that afternoon and ripped up his mailbox by the roots, scattering, amongst other things, a letter from the IRS to inform him of a pending audit. Man ran the first stop sign he came to, smashed into the side of a elderly woman driving her Mercury Comet to see her husband who was in the hospital for hemorrhoid surgery. Elderly woman was incontinent, didn’t have any insurance, either. Man got out of car, ignoring the woman's expletives hurled his way and walked down the once quiet street to interrupt a pick-up basketball game in progress in a families driveway. Man grabbed the ball from one of the teenage boys, took out his Swiss army knife, ripped a gaping hole in it. Fuzzy white poodle scurried towards him, yapping. Man picked up dog, sodomized it right then and there. Didn’t wipe off. Stuffed the now subdued but enlightened dog into the deflated basketball and flogged a persimmon tree in the front yard with it, snapping all the trees branches. Stole one of the teenagers Suzuki Ninja motorcycle. Drove to a gun shop. Bought a Browning Automatic double barrel 12 gauge and four boxes of shells with a Visa Card whose payment was long overdue, then held up the employee and robbed him of an additional forty-four magnum and two boxes of shells. Casually departed and shot down every signal light he came to. Killed every car in the State Farm Insurance employee parking lot with a single forty-four round through the engine block, too. Threw the now empty shotgun through a health food store window, populated with hairy-legged women, screaming his mantra, “Namyangoranginkyu! Namyangoranginkyu! Namyangoranginkyu! Namyangoranginkyu!” Stuffed the forty-four in the back of his pants, went into a coffee shop and ordered a large, black coffee and a piece of lemon meringue pie. Snarfed it down. Didn’t leave a tip. Took the money from a collection jar by the register for Little Stephanie Sims, recently struck down with leukemia, please help. Man drove to a liquor store. Bought a fifth of Southern Comfort with the leukemia money. Drove to a local AA meeting at the Holiday Inn, walked onto the podium, kicked a whining alcoholic square in the nuts, downed as much of the Southern Comfort as he could. Farted with pride, waved the .44, randomly quoting Bukowski, W. C. Fields, and Winston Churchill. Left with an alcoholic girl who took a shine to his bravado -recently moved from California- in her brand new white Mazda RX-7 with blue leather trim and all the extra features. Made her down a healthy quantity of the southern sour mash and give him head as he drove. Yep, still hadn’t washed off. Sold her to a visiting Saudi dignitary at the local strip joint he frequented. Robbed every one of the dancers at gunpoint. One surgically endowed girl was sad he hadn’t forced himself on her. It had always been her fantasy, besides, it’d been a slow day. Pistol whipped the bouncer who’d thrown him out one night when he’d had too much to drink. Pissed on the front door on his way out. Marked his territory. Drove the wrong way down one way streets to Tower Records. One car, driven by a Valium laden housewife, veered out of his path, lost control, and slammed through a house, bursting through the wall to the TV room mangling a family of five as they watched Americas Funniest Home Videos eating fish sticks with lots of tartar sauce on t.v. trays. ...Methodically put a one-inch crack in every Shostakovich record in the classical section at Tower. Bought the bought Captain and Tennille’s Greatest Hits CD. Got back in the Mazda and played it at full volume on the cars stereo. Muskrat love.

A Boinking We Did Go

I’ve mastered the debilitating effects of guilt over the issue of indiscriminate sex. Sometimes there are times in ones life when the need to release pressure is paramount, and over the years I’ve found no better way to release this pent up back up than a get down with an adventurous,willing female. After my week past, yesterday could easily be categorized as one of those days where it was necessare', and I was lucky to have found the right partner, and she me. A mutual release unto the flesh, as it were.
I still believe that love makes sex better, the ultimate form of expression between a man and a woman. But what do you do when there isn’t love? I’ve been celibate for five years at a stretch, my choice, so it’s not a matter of control anymore, and if the need exists, and you look at her, and she looks at you... then tally-ho, by gum! Way I look at it, love will eventually have its day and believe me, I’m ready for it.
We didn’t hold back. We did the pretzel. The poop-a-loop. The shimmy shake. Buns up kneelin’. Wheelin’ and dealin’. Surrenderin’ to the feelin’. And then she went to screamin’; strobe shocks on an inner thigh; plunging, spinning, twirling, blinking crimson, juice dripping on the sheets; moans; groans; squeals; acceptance.
I slept good. And today I got a little pep in my step, a little glide in my stride, all because of what the French call, “the little death”. If that's what dyin’ feels like, then I’m not afraid. But I’m in no rush, mind you. I'd rather get in as much practice as possible.
Here’s to orgasms for everyone! Shove a sparkler up your ass and sing “The Hallelujah Chorus”. Today is a great day to be alive. Live it!
CausemommaI’msurehardtohandlenowyesiram!

This Ain't No Bar BQ

It was Memphis.
Earned enough money mowing yards during the summer and wanted to make a purchase of my own. My first. Capitalism, my father called it.
Morgan and Lindsey and pronto.
Plunked down approximately $4.37 on a vibrant pair of pink sunglasses and a hot, fat pretzel -sans mustard-, sack of maple nut goodies on the side.
“Are you experienced?” Hendrix sang. “Have you ever been ...experienced?” Gypsy man spoke to me. A light turned on. He stood up next to a mountain and chopped it down with the edge of his hand. 6 was 9! I didn’t know, but the virgin cracks in the four walls hemming me in were anything but indelible; fissures erupting from sheer will and daring do. A price paid. At any cost...

Puked afterwards, bug-eyed in a pink world.
Bad combo.
It was no wonder.
It was Memphis.
Ol’ Furay sings the blues for all of us ...always has, always will. Martin Luther King paid his price of admission. Even Elvis died. I was born there.
Take me to the river. Wash me in the water.
Burnin’ down the motherfuckin’ house.

On The Waterfront

Marlon Brando died yesterday. Sad in a way, but yet not. Man lived his life to the fullest; highest of highs, lowest of lows, so how can you feel sad for a man who’s lived thus? Celebration is in order! So I won’t ladle on the pity and condolences, preferring instead to tell you a story about how he and I met and became very silent friends during a time when he and I had the same itch for the same gal, a most unusual girl; an Indonesian ex body builder from Detroit.
I met her when she was an instructor at the Jack LaLane Health Spa on Wilshire Boulevard in Santa Monica. I knew the second I saw her that she and I were destined to be together. Not a doubt in my mind. Didn’t help that I was already dating a fabulous young Greek girl, but the truth was I was perpetually horny and stupid back then; my dick calling all the shots. I was just a life support system for it.
True to my instincts, soon enough this gal and I were embroiled in a tempestuous, clandestine affair, not able to keep our hands off the other.
One day after a rather fierce session we were laying in each other arms, legs 'twined 'round the others, basking in our sweat and afterglow, feeding each other grapes, when she surprised me by telling me she was dating another man. By nature I’m not a jealous person, so solely out of curiosity I asked a variety of questions about him but she wouldn’t divulge anything; his name, occupation, nothing. We never discussed the matter again, preferring to keep our animal instincts sharp and clear, unmuddied.
One day while out riding my bycicle along the ocean, I dropped in on her unexpected like. She made no bones about being uncomfortable with me there, and told me the fellow with whom she was spending her other time with was on his way over. I told her point blank I didn’t have any problem with it and before she could protest there was a knock at the door. She got nervous as a cat in a house fire, but dutifully answered it. To my shock, there in the doorway stood an old woman, all frumpy and bulgy. A baggy floral dress covered her lumpy body and she wore a headscarf pulled down low on her forehead, right to the edge of her sunglasses. I heard them mumbling to one another, then my gal waved good-bye and away they went.
The Detroit Indonesian and I avoided the subject when we were together, even though I was busting a gut after seeing "the other man", preferring, as was our want, to concentrate solely on the prurient interests of the other. We did, and how!
A few weeks later I unexpectedly dropped by again after a day on the beach. My gal wasn’t near as nervous as last time but mentioned her date was on his way to get her again. Shortly there was a rap at the door and my gal asked me to answer it. So I did.
I opened the door and there stood the old woman again. I asked her to come inside and she did, taking a seat on the couch, never looking me in the eye, mincing with her cuticles, saying nothing. Finally my gal came out of her bedroom whereupon the old lady bounded up from the couch with a leopard’s graceful ease and hugged and kissed her passionately; then without another word said, only a look over her shoulder that screamed of a burning desire for me, did my gal leave with him.
I must admit to being rather confused by this odd scenario, but this sort of triangular relationship continued for months and the old woman never once said a word to me, only grunting here and there when things were offered, but never engaging in any parts of conversation.
Knowing something was up, something quite indistinct in this not so Rockwell scenario, I just played along, allowing her to date this “old woman” while she and I didn’t miss a beat either, ravenous as we were for the other. And the old woman never objected to my being there either. A menage’ a trois of mutual love and lust, I deduced.
It wasn’t until many months later that my gal told me she and her fellow had unfortunately broken off, their relationship at an end.
I asked her to unveil the mystery.
She told me she and her fellow most always did the same thing. They would be taken by a limo to a grungy, seedy pool hall in Venice where they would eat peanuts, drink beer, and play pool until the wee hours, then he would bring her home and disappear back into the night.
Of course, my curiosity wasn’t sated by this and I had to know. “Why the old woman getup?” I asked.
She smiled a devilish grin, pacing the length of her apartment, wanting badly to tell me but by reading her body english it was obvious she was about to break a great trust. Finally she couldn’t contain herself any longer and she told me. “The old woman was Marlon Brando. He loved me and I him, but because of his marriage he had to don a disguise, not to mention he liked his privacy and it was the only way he could get any.”
“Marlon fucking Brando?”, I said.
“That’s right”, she said, “Marlon fucking Brando.”
Knowing as I now do of Marlon’s predilection for dark, swarthy island types, I’m not surprised he found my gal, this unpolished diamond, in a town overrun with the most unbelievably drop-dead gorgeous blondes, amazon Aryan wanna be’s. My gal, our brown-eyed brown-haired gal, was plain and simple and pure. Without a stitch of makeup on, nor without any cosmetic enhancement, she was divinely beautiful on the outside; inside resided a soulful, deeply rapturous woman. In her, both he and I found a solace, a peace, a spirit that moved us and a skin that made our mouths water.
Marlon and I never spoke, and in true Brando genius -my naivete’- I guess we both played our parts to perfection on this stage of our making.
Marlon’s gone now. His roller coaster of a life has come to a close. We'll never know the demons that haunted him, but I do know that he sought, through these women, a simplicity, a natural order in a world that’s upside down, a world that champions most anything fake and unnatural. So, Marlon, in his own way, got it right. And I know it’s why he harbored disdain for his craft in his later years, because to him and others like him, the work is all that’s important, and all the accoutrement that’s yoked around the work in this modern society is what kills the childlike spirit. And in these dark, swarthy island women he found that peace, that perfection, that simplicity he craved to be able to wake in the morning, take a deep breath, and live within his own skin.
Good night, Marlon. Sleep well.
As for my gal, she too grew weary of Hollywood, moving back to Detroit and marrying an auto executive, from what I hear. I miss her. I hope she’s happy. If the man is worth his salt, I know he’s happy.
Me? I left Hollywood, too, and I, like Marlon, am seeking my peace and attainment through my work, my life, and I’m patiently waiting on a dark, swarthy island girl to tap me on the shoulder and say, “Come with me, let’s leave this world behind”. I won’t hesitate. I will take her hand, and we, too, will disappear into the night.
I know she’s out there. I’m waiting... I’m ready.

Man did it

Man had an idea.
Didn't want to live in the South. Too hot. Didn't want to live in the North. Too cold. Man had an idea.
Discovered the exact midway point between the Equator and the North Pole officially bisected Cadot, Wisconsin, U.S.A. Man traveled there. Found a plot of land to his liking. Man bought it.
Man designed his house; the exact latitudinal point slicing directly through its midsection. That done, man built the house.
First day in, man sat in the Equator section of the den -cold drink in hand- waving north to all his new penguin and polar bear friends.
Finest kind of a day, it was. Not too hot, not too cold. Pea porridge in the pot.

A Tidal Wave of Feces

I’ve come to the decision that nothing in this life will ever come easily again. The shits, the screwheads have indeed taken over the asylum and they are bound and determined to make anything and everything as difficult as can be imagined for any and all who wish to show some originality with whatever they seek to accomplish. These days you are left with but two choices: 1) Get a lobotomy and step in line and become like everyone everything else, never saying anything out of line, just do your job get your paycheck shut the fuck up and be subjected to a shit life courtesy of the greed mindfuck screwheads. Or, 2) See the game for what it is and keep hammering away despite the obstacles, to finally win freedom from the tidal waves of feces that keep getting thrown over us to keep us hoodwinked and stupefied. Not really a choice, way I look at it. But fuck me, even the most simplest of exercises have become studies in tediousness and crackerjack bullshit that go well beyond the norm.
Yesterday I encountered such a wave. I damn near drowned, especially after the fight I had the day before to just keep a roof over my damn head, fighting as I was with a numskull of epic proportions! Like I said, nothing comes easy...
I have a new column in a magazine that is run out of South Louisiana. An old chum is involved and I’ve regularly sent him my stories for other publications. I appreciate the outlet to the nth degree. My friend is a lovable cuss, but in the grand scheme of things he is not what I would call the most reliable person in the world. I’d sent him my story over a month ago, and knowing the issue was to be published first of next week I contacted him to make sure all was copacetic. He stuttered and stammered around, not knowing jack shit, so I asked for the e-mail address of the graphics department so I could make sure everything was nice and tidy (they’d put in the wrong picture with the wrong column title last time, the first time the column was run).
Well, imagine my surprise when I was contacted by the managing editor of the magazine, wondering who in the hell I was?! After we negotiated that minefield, I was then told that my story was too long and I needed to shave it down by almost four hundred words! By tomorrow morning!! And then the kicker. He stated that they had a problem with a word in my piece, and that they wouldn’t print this word because if they did their readership would most definitely light up the switchboard in moral outrage and manic disdain. The word? Pubic... yeah, pubic.
My asshole squared up in a knot on that one and again, I realized it was me against the screwheads one more time. The right wing fully supports this idiot in power who’s squandered gazillions of dollars and untold lives in a war that’s enabling he and his cronies to get fucking rich, but yet they object to the word “pubic”!! How does one rectify and legitimize such outrageous dumbass?! Do these people fuck while they are in different rooms?! The mind reels...
All afternoon me and the managing editor exchanged a flurry of e-mails trying to find a balance, an understanding, so that we could operate within the agreed upon guidelines. I will say this, the fellow was on top of it, had a brain, and was flexible to a degree, and soon enough, we both understood our mutual playing field.
I took out my scalpel and managed to cut away the required number of words without losing the punch of the piece. I managed to fight the flow of skullduggery that impeded, or wanted to impede my progress, and after the fur flew my piece will indeed appear in the next edition.
How did we get there? COMMUNICATION. UNDERSTANDING.
But still, it didn’t come easy.
We exist in some mighty strange times, my friends. But know this, we need individuals who aren’t afraid to stand up and be heard, who will speak the truth despite the opposition. So stand up, fight the good fight. You might get wounded, you might get your ass kicked from time to time, but to win victory on your own terms is life itself.
Breathe deep. Keep your wits about you. And above all, sling your rectum around with wild abandon and dare someone to tell you you can’t.