Clubs Trump

Some jackasses are building a machine that could accidentally unleash mini-black holes on your neighborhood.

http://www.msnbc.msn.com/id/23844529/

If it were me, I'd rather not have mini-black holes unleashed on my neighborhood. If God were to come clean today and tell me, all black hole opinions aside, that the world must endure a mini catastrophic event to fulfill some divine scripture or something, I would certainly lobby against the mini-black holes. No matter what the consequences.

Of course old God could trump me up by suggesting eerier alternatives. And crooked smilingly force me to choose from these alternatives a new fate for Earth. You know, the "choose wisely my son" routine. I'd rise to the occasion, in fulfillment of some milder scripture. A second rate scripture perhaps. But one sans mini-black holes.

Fellow Earthlings, I would ensure our cosmic prevalence by choosing one of these alternatives:

- Mini butt rapings by mini prison guards
- Mini eye gougings by three mini stooges
- Mini bowl cuts by mini second rate female hair stylists
- Mini herpes infections spread by mini non-disclosing rural high school aged queens of the "outdoor party"
- Mini white holes

what the...

As I traveled south down the freeway, I glanced to my left as I sometimes do.  There lay on the side of the road a prosthetic leg.  This was not the prosthetic leg of an African American, or that of a Caucasian...no sir.  This was the prosthetic leg of a Native American.  Judging by the color of the missing "limb" I determined that it had to be that of a Native American.  When I was younger I read a few Hardy Boys mystery books, so I'm fairly certain that I am correct in this assessment.  Then again, it may not have been a prosthetic limb at all.  After all, I was doing 80.

Laxative bunnies

This time of year always reminds of a funny prank, that I think should be pulled more often. The Laxative Bunny. Great at work, Church, easter egg hunts, and metadone clinics. 100% comedy.

Joy comes in Eights

I have been learning to play the mandolin for over 8 years. I feel I'm a pretty competent player and overall I'm pleased with my progress. My mandolin is a great little instrument that has served me well. However, being an entry level instrument it's not what's referred to as a "banjo-killer". Regardless, I like its tone and feel blessed to have it.

The other night while my wife was at work and the kids were put to bed I did like I normally do and pulled out my binder of music, my mando, and settled in to pick for awhile. It was one of those nights where all the hard work you put in prior seems to really pay off. My playing felt fluid; my left hand glided above the fretboard. My pick brushed across the 8 strings with such ease that there was a true joy and abandonment in my playing that night. Looking back now I should not have been surprised by what happen next.

I got up from the couch to go grab something from the other room and proceeded to pick along the way. When I got to my destination I paused and finished up the passage I was playing, and there it was. Something that had never been there before. Upon my torso I could feel the vibration of the music I was making.

It might seem insignificant. After all sound is vibrations that travel through the air. For guitar players this commonplace, a large box that allows a large amount of air to move. But with the small body of a mando, especially an entry level one, the vibrations are barely noticeable. Not on this night.

I kid you not when I say a huge grin the size of Omaha filled by face. All alone in my front-room I continued to play, gradually intensifying my attack as the vibrations that had begun in my belly spread throughout my entire body.

I stood there for next twenty minutes reveling in the music I was making and the air I was displacing.

Now or never
Covered in chocolate is better

SUPER MONDAY!!

I don't think that Super Monday is getting enough coverage. I heard a whole lot about Super Bowl Sunday and the Television box has really been trying to form my opinions about Super Tuesday, but nobody is talking about today. Super Monday.

It doesn't matter if you are a Democrat or a Republican, for the AFC or the NFC, I encourage everyone to get out today and vote for their favorite football player. Then go home and liberally spread that leftover guacamole about your groinal region, put some sweatpants on, and go ask the neighbor to borrow his snowblower.

The Florida Rockies?

I'm not political. I'm not even apolitical. That said, I tried to find my polling place 4 days prior to Super Tuesday and this is what I found. Just so you know, it says:

File not found: /polling_place/index.cfm

So what you're saying is I can't find my polling place on Jefferson County's website 4 days prior to Super Tuesday? How inconvenient for me the voter.

double EntendrE double

The world in which we live is filled with impatience and gluttony. Every day images of obese children and acts of road rage flash across our TV screens. Our five minute wait in line at the bank is a form of torture. "How dare you keep me from important tasks! Don't those tellers know who I am"!

I find it hard that anyone would disagree with my point. But, for the sake of argument if you do, I present Exhibit A - Cheeseburger in a Can.

When did we become such assholes?

These questions are too big for me, and this blog. Perhaps. But find consolation in the fact that I have seen what could return us to a sedated state. You too have gazed upon its splendor. Of this I know.

A simple device who's origins date back to Africa and can be fashioned by combining ordinary household items; one standard issue comb plus a generous slice of wax paper. A singing membranphone, or kazoo to the lay-person, is a wondrous marriage in which the human voice is in sympathy with a vibrating skin. Sounds kinky.

The modern variant was created by Alabama Vest in the 19th century and manufactured in Macon Georgia to Vest's specifications by German clockmaker Thaddeus von Clegg. Long before Paul McCartney and Michael Jackson this pair made beautiful music together. The low guttural buzz of the glorious kazoo. So simple. So elegant. Like Om, the primordial sound from which the whole universe was created kazoo's harmonious buzz is the perfect mantra of the modern day.

So firmly grasp the shaft, gently place it to your lips and blow. All your troubles away.

!

As a general rule, I find you about as funny as cancer.

Although I will say that your hair has possessed a healthy sheen and lively bounce as of late.

Pulverized placenta you say? I might try it myself...

Really? Peruvian? Alpaca? How exotic.

ying yang

What is my idea of earthly happiness?
A photo of a man wearing a 3 piece suit and necktie. Instead of pants, his lower body is clad solely in boxer shorts and dark socks held up by calf suspenders (perhaps the lack of pants makes it a 2 piece suit?). He is pushing a lawnmower through the woods. Obviously, there is no grass in sight. The caption reads “Somerville Amateur Literary Society”.

What do I regard as the lowest depth of misery?
The man in the photo has a single tear running down one cheek. The right one. His right, my left.

From Pre-Pay to the PPA

Am I the only one who's noticed that when you pre-pay for gas the pump slows down like 9 minutes too early. I mean come on...seriously. Who's reaction time is this slow? Yesterday I had time to run across the street and help an elderly woman, Evelyn, needlepoint a life size canvas of Wilford Brimley (a special thank you for the Liberty One hook up) deliver it to him at his home in Martha's Vineyard and take the bus back. Funny story actually, the bus I happened to get on was the Montel bus, Partners for Prescription Assistance. Everything worked out great and boy was Evelyn happy when we swung that fat orange coach into her drive. I haven't seen her that high in days. She made me promise I'd help her out with another needlepoint the next time I pre-pay for gas.

A sly lapful of frottage

Recently a coworker of mine and I were playing a game of vocabularic badminton when he scored a 3 pointer with... Frottage.
I had never heard the word before and when I learned the definition it quickly shot into my top 10.
Go ahead look it up I will wait....

I know! The fact that this act has a word to describe it is great, the fact that that word is frottage is even better.
So I implore you to go forth this fine winter weekend and celebrate everything that is "frottage". By showing strangers and loved ones alike the most unabashed display of frotteurism since the white coats came to take Thrustin' Justin from that spaghetti dinner.

adventures in banjositting

The banjo was made by the Kay Company, Chicago, IL. They were in business from 1931 to 1968, mainly making student grade instruments.

Insert Here: That Dog Don't Hunt

The idea behind "Insert Here" is that we will give you a phrase or word and over the next several days you will try and work this word or phrase into your conversation. You will quickly see how rewarding this can be. You may see that others sometimes will react strangely to your choice of words. Fretnot, this is squarely on them.

The second step in this process is you reporting back in the comment section with the happenings of your wordplay shenanigans.

Todays "Insert Here":
That dog don't hunt

for extra points work these phrases into the same conversation:
neither here nor there
might as well take a flying fuck at a rolling donut

Rumors

I sent out an e mail this morning to help settle just one of the popular rumors presented to me on a daily basis. It was brought to my attention that I should post this to PF to help others, who also may be wondering what to watch. So, here it is. I would like to inform you all that, contrary to popular belief, you do not need to watch Busty Cops I before you watch Busty Cops II. You, like me, may have thought that BC II would have picked up right where BC I left off. Not so. They are two completely separate movies. So, if BC II is on, go ahead and watch...and be assured, you haven't missed anything in BC I.

Monkeys and the things they do for fun

I am not a very creative person. Sometimes I pretend I am and dress in an ascot and monocle in my mind. I suppose if I were "really" creative I would wear a
banana-hammock and suspenders. But I digress.

I work for a company that most folks would deem "Creative". We have Art Directors and Copy Writers and our sole product is printed material that when put to match, blazes like the sun. Not sure if that last bit has anything to do with creativity but it sure is pretty to ponder. All day long Muse is fluttering about; having coffee, scolding the printer, necking in the broom closet. It makes for a fun environment.

I am also lucky to have very good friends, who I feel, are very creative. This here blog is a testament to that. But what this intra-fodder does not show you is that their creativity is not limited to this here site. Their cup runith over. Creativity is like B.O. and my friends reek of it.

I am not gushing like a schoolgirl to be boastful. On the contrary. I hope to inspire, like these folks inspire me. So in this new year I resolve to be more "creative". And to wear more banana-hammocks.

Jesus Was Stoked

Jesus had it easy.

Not only was his mom hot.

But she was tall, skinny, and a raging virgin.

That basically excluded him from all of the popular Jerusalem mom jokes.

the fork (spit) in the road...

we've all been there. Talking to a group of people. Driving home a point. You have the floor, their undivided attention. Then all of a sudden you spit upon enunciation. There it sits, the point you were so passionately trying to make, in all its drooly glory on the desk. You know they saw it.

What do you do?

Me? I pound my fist on the desk and say, "Who's with me?" Then I stand up and ride my imaginary horse (Bernie Mac) out of the office. Smacking my ass and whinnying. The joke quickly turns on me, though. Once around the corner, I realize that it was my own office that I just rode Bernie Mac out of. Now I have to wait for those (who so obviously were not with me) to awkwardly leave.

They look at me all weird-like when they pass. I just pretend to feed Bernie Mac some oats. They may think I have flipped my lid, but you know what? I guarantee that not one of those poor horseless bastards says one thing about me spitting on the desk.

Crisis averted, America.

Insert Here: Soup to Nuts

In the first of a new series here at PF, today I introduce you to "Insert Here"

The idea behind "Insert Here" is that we will give you a phrase or word and over the next several days you will try and work this word or phrase into your conversation. You will quickly see how rewarding this can be. Just last weekend, I had the pleasure of telling a guy that bore a striking resemblance to Willie Aames "... you my friend, have just run into a buzzsaw." It felt damn good. You may see that others sometimes will react strangely to your choice of words. Fretnot, this is squarely on them.

The second step in this process is you reporting back in the comment section with the happenings of your wordplay shenanigans.

Ok, now that you have said, "Yeah, yeah... I like this" and clapped your hands together in approval, lets get this started.

Todays "Insert Here":
Soup to Nuts

phlegm

I have some phlegm deep within me.
It wants to be freed, of this I'm quite sure.
I cough it out, then sneeze it out, making every attempt to breath.

As they say, it may get worse before it gets better.
Sleepless nights I spend, keeping the town awake with awful coughing.
I hope they won't hold a grudge.

It seems to last forever, what a limitless supply.
If only I could bottle my phlegm and sell it.
I would be rich...but not for long.

wanted: a bad operation

I need a bad operation. Something with old scissors, a roughed-up hammer, or a flame.

I need a bad operation. Something with clumsy stabbing, uncompromising jamming, and fraying, second-hand gauze pads.

I need a bad operation. Something performed by an english-as-a-second-language, degree-via-internet, runs-their-own-pharmacy, unsavory sort of fellow.

gene hackman wants to build something with me

Gene Hackman wants to build something with me. Just the two of us. Together. He told me so yesterday. I was sitting in the tub, drinking whiskey and listening to Hall & Oates...thinking about asking the 13" black and white panasonic to get up off the sink counter and come join me. That's when the man who brought The French Connection to the silver screen asked me to build something with him. "Let's build something together". Those were his exact words.

To be honest, I wasn't really paying attention to what was going on before this little invitation came my way. I was staring at the tile. Hating those tiles… But when the weathered pipes of Royal Tennenbaum pipe up, your ears prick up. When the calloused hands of Unforgiven's Little Bill knock on your door, you extend a laurel and a hearty handshake.

What to build? He didn’t say. But the answer will come in due time. He’ll let me know. I’m sure of it. As long as I stay in this tub.

toxic fog for a cyber professional

You’re a cruel cracker, aren’t you? Yes. Sailing your jungle ship through my playground. But I shan’t let your words flicker on me with brimstone zing. Like snail bingo in tree fresh captain’s quarters they are. And as such they’ll most likely stay.
Were it up to you, an oral snail would offer a lost shark a golden shimmer. “Let me fetch some nylon rubber” he would intone. Wouldn’t he?
You fail to grasp the appeal of kite saviors. The allure of whale hickies. Or the need for sundries, various or otherwise.

Revenge

Yea, I know who you are.
Your a card player, a thief, and a killer.
That man taught you everything you know.
How could you do it? To just leave him there on the side of the road...dead.
Well friend, I have some bad news for you.
Your luck has run out.
He may have been your uncle...but he was my dad.
And he taught me too.
Now, grab a seat...and deal.

Friday Links

It occured to me that I have been filling the inboxes of friends and acquaintances with a lot of random links this week. In a model of redundancy, I will again post some of them here. In a model of redundancy, I will again post some of them here.

Movember: grow a mustache.

Amy Sedaris.

Old Slumpy. A testament to urban decay. Detroit, Mi.
More Slumpy.

Help get the Tampa Bay Rays in stirrups for 2008.

Bell's beer might be coming back to IL!

Go see Don Rickles.

What's that you say about free time?

Letters: Stoneyfield Farm

In my profession as a dairy manager I've grown quite familiar with your product. Its helpful to have sampled theses little treasures so I'm able to give accurate feedback to the anxious customer. So from your Wild Berry Probiotic Smoothie to your Low Fat Carmel Underground Yogurt, you could say I've had the buffet. Generally speaking I'm quite satisfied from spoon to stomach. That is, of course, until my last encounter. It was a Tuesday afternoon, much like yesterday. I had just returned home after a long day of buying, backstocking and shelving thousands of dollars of your product along of course with your competitors, when I sat down to enjoy a 6oz portion of Whole Milk Vanilla Truffle yogurt. Well needless to say I was surprised to learn that 6 live active cultures are not the only treats inside, but could someone please explain to me the health benefits of a TWO INCH CODDER PIN!!! (pictures available on my camera phone). Clearly it was my bad though because I failed to read your organic guarantee "made without the use of antibiotics, synthetic growth hormornes and toxic pesticides." I see now that codder pins aren't listed anywhere on there...so, thank you for your time and carry on.

An Ode to Big Mac

What can I say?
Today, Bro, its your day.
Wow 50, the big 5. O.
That really is a long time, you know?
Across the strait,
that's great!
The link between the glove
and fudge island. Much love!
So many more I hope for you
I love you Big Mac, I do.

a haloween fact

A pumpkin
Can look like Paul Newman
If it has big eyes

Baseball 2007: a jumbled epilogue

... Run on sentences pulled from the realizations that the games are over...

...I am a little bit worried about what the World Series is becoming. Over the last 4 years of a possible minimum of 16 games, there has been 17 player ('04 Boston swept St. Louis, '05 Chicago swept Houston, '06 St. Louis beat Detroit in 5, and now in '07 Boston sweeps again). Now you can chalk this up to the American League being a better league over that last decade on paper. But we all know "on paper" is rarely the way the games play out.
I think that a huge part of what is effecting these lopsided WS is the damn extended layoff. I blame this largely on network television and MLB wanting the series to start midweek, so there are less weekend games and therefore more people watching... more ad dolllars... blah, blah, blah... I mean the Red Sox had a 2 day layoff before the series started! Why? This lets everyone get their pitching in line and although that maybe make it a bit more "fair" in theory... what it does is let you win relying on a few guys instead of going deep into your rotation... now this WS both teams used 4 different starters so that doesnt really come into play this year, but it could have. The Sox could have used Beckett 1, 4, 7 if they had to.
The big thing is the Layoff. It derailed Detroit last year and it Derailed Colorado this year... I am not sure that the Rockies would have beat Boston or not... but I would have love to see the team that won 21 of 22 play the red hot Red Sox instead of the tenative, free swinging bunch of Rockies that showed up. It wasnt even fair. Put it into perspective, these guys play for 6 months with on average a day off every week. 1 day off... sure there is the 3 day all star break, a mini-vacation, but that is factored in from the preseason and happens year after year... you even hear guys that are going good dreading the all star break, because they are afraid it will throw off their timing... Now take a team that is red hot and say, "Ok, you don't have a game for 8 days!" have fun in the batting cage and with the INNER SQUAD GAMES!!! it is ridiculous! I hate it! It makes me so mad! I am sure this has to do a bit with what happened to the Tigers last year, and that that wound hasn't totally healed yet... but I just want to see a competive World Series... I remember 2001 a 7 game world series! Louis Gonzalez blooping in the winning run! that is how it should be... that is the fall classic... it seems to me, that in the networks attempt to manipulate the Series, they are watering it down. They want more ad money, just let it be and let baseball bloom the magic that it is want to do... seems to me that have 5, 6, or 7 games would present more opportunity for ad revenue than your modern day 4 game sweep any how...

Also, as I routinely fell asleep on my couch in the 7th inning watching this World Series, I thought about the 8 year old kids. How the hell are they supposed to watch their heroes on the grand stage that is October? In the East it is past midnight when these games are over. Is it too much to ask to have the weekend games start in the afternoon? Everyone knows bunting looks better in natural sunlight anyhow. It would be a flashback to the way it "used" to be... which always seems to be better... but they didnt have the big TV contracts back then to overcome did they...

The memory of watching your favorite team win the World Series, that was a childhood memory that is carved in stone in my mind. A cornerstone of my youth. It saddens me that there will be a whole generation of youth that will have a memory of when their hometown team won the World Series how exciting it was to watch it all on SportsCenter the next morning. It's all so conveinent, so encapsulated, none of the suspense, none of the throws over to first base, none of the meetings on the mound, none of the strategy, none of the peaks and valleys that make the game great... just a 4 minute wrap up, this is some of what happened, back to you Bob. A text message to the written letter. The sad part is that so many of those kids will mistake that "some of what happened" for what happened. It's the decay of our society in the parlance of our times... and so it goes... riding the conveinence train, down the drain ...

...Scott Boras is an Ass!
One last thing, Jeanne Zelasko is absolutely terrible! Can anyone argue that?

This has been one small man's reaction to his first day without baseball in 8 months.
God Bless Ernie Harwell,
God Bless the Detroit Tigers,
and God Bless Baseball!

and we laughed...

The man, whom I can only guess to be homeless, walked south down Woodward Avenue. Through the window he spotted me standing behind the bar. He promptly gave me the finger...no, the double finger. The double finger is when you raise both hands and give the finger with both. He waited for a response. When he got none he shook his head in disappointment and walked away, south down Woodward.

Later that very same evening, he returned. This time he was walking north up Woodward Avenue. He knocked on the glass. When I looked his way, he again gave me the double finger. This time I returned fire with a double finger of my own. He smiled and walked away, north up Woodward.

Two days later as I was standing behind the bar I heard a knock upon the window. I looked up to find the same gentleman (a term I use loosely) standing at the window. He raised his fists, and then his middle fingers...the double finger. I felt as if he were saying "fuck you" and at the same "I don't mean it buddy." I returned the favor. I was saying to him "fuck you" and at the same time "I don't mind playing this game with you, but still...fuck you." He smiled and walked away, south down Woodward. I haven't seen this individual in a few days now but am confident he will be walking the Woodward path one day soon. When he does, I'll be ready and waiting to flip him off...and I know he'll be ready too.

Dirty toes found in clean socks

Some time ago right here on this site a friend of mine spoke of an experience he had with a bum. Said bum showed that although the downtrodden of the world may be lacking in the material possessions department, they more than make up for it with their candor and wit.

This got me thinking about life, bums, and my experiences with the two. I too have had my run-ins with those-who-lack-an-abode and for the most part these encounters have been positive. Be it the legless dread-locked hobo that smiled at my two little kids outside the ballpark to all those bums who aided my friends and I in our quest for booze back in high-school. Transients in general have been good to me.

So as I reminisced it hit me that these men of the earth have taught me a great deal. Well not a great deal but when you reek like high hell your expectations for them ought to be low.

The derelict performing on an upturned pickle-bucket outside the Majestic theater years ago came to mind. He showed me that red wine greatly impairs my sense of rhythm but to hold fast that entertainment is made up of more than just skill. You can't put a price on showmanship but he'd gladly take the handful of coins rotting at the bottom of your purse.

Another such gentleman whose ancestors resided on the continent of Africa demonstrated to me the old adage that one should not judge a book by its cover. This wise soul was assisting a group of high school boys in the procurement of spirits in exchange for a ride, which is another lesson in and of itself about a free market economy. As we rode through the dingy streets of Pontiac he told us all about his intense love for Joe Cocker. Image my surprise in knowing that a middle-aged black man found immense joy in the music of an elder statesman of British rock. It was as if I was seeing for the very first time.

The gutter-pups I have come across through my time on earth have shown me that life is about much more than a place to live. Life is about people and how you treat them. I say go find yourself a bum, give them a pat on the shoulder, a dollar, and thank them for being around.

James Taylor Invents Deadly Kung Fu Move

No. Look closer.

I stood by when Hot Wheels turned plastic. I trudged
on through the jelly bracelet craze, the
fall of jelly bracelets and their hasty
yet triumphant return. I watched a lot
of Star Trek The Next Generation.

But my faith is tested by this man. Who
had an ear surgically implanted in his
left forearm. I have a tattoo on my left
forearm. He has an ear.

I know what you're thinking. Couldn't I
apply this cliche: "Ya know. He and I
are not so different after all?". But I
am afraid I cannot. I don't have an ear
in my arm.

I've worn a dress. I've slept under a
car. I've been heralded as a creative
genius, likewise a heartless thug. And
my journey is not yet complete.

This guy implanted an ear in his arm and
promises to artificially activate its
hearing capabilities. He'll likely succeed and revel in his accomplishments. And children will watch his smug victory dance in prime time. But I'm not fooled.

Ear arms are overrated.

See the full story here...

the kirbys

The Kirby salesperson stopped by today. Goddamn pink slips and an entourage of wares. A demonstration? Clean a room? Why not? Get down on it. I'll settle into a low-end rye while you paw around on all fours and assemble...
One assembly and 3 hours later, a $1600 vacuum seemed like the only way I could make the Reginalds across the street proud. I mean, look at Al Gore now. Won the popular vote of a U.S. presidential election. Given an Oscar. Received a Nobel Peace Prize. His neighbors must have a 22-hour erection for him. (Al rested on the 23rd and 24th hour). He invented the freakin' internet for crying out loud.
For crying out loud, come back to me. Can't you see I cannot breathe?
Truly, Deeply,
H

remembered

My wife and I sat on the couch. The room was quiet, relaxed. The television was barely on. Abruptly, her head snapped to the side and stayed as such, as if she were staring out through the window and into the maples. She looked calm, almost pleased…yet there was the faintness of concern around her eyes.
“What’s wrong” I ask, wondering what she had caught from the corner of her eye.
She doesn’t acknowledge me for a moment. And then: “Nothing,” as she turns back to the television and our relaxed quietude. “Just an acid flashback…”

reunited...

...and it feels so good.

Neil Young’s boot made it back to my doorstep today. All the sweat and sweet bourbon in the world couldn’t have made me happier. I took it as it rightly was: a symbol, a metaphor, a confidant. We peddled our nonsensical wares to one another.

After urging from the boot, I went into town and proposed to the woman I spend time with. A girl really, but the aging process would remedy that sooner or later.

With Detroit on my mind, I said good-bye to my would-be child bride and headed north. Confident that Neil Young’s boot would find me once again. Perhaps.

inco-heren...sisty...ness...

When you've poured everything you've got into being one of the greatest writer/poets of the 20th Century, you must have nothing left to talk to the cameras with.

The 10 Most Incomprehensible Bob Dylan Interviews (as defined by New York Magazine)

Kim Jong-Il at Target

I thought I saw Kim Jong-Il in the parking lot of Target today. I doubt that it was the real Kim Jong-Il, because I have been seeing his face all over the news with reports of the Korean summit. This man looked a lot like him though, which is not all that common at the Target where I shop. I was at the Target to buy a bathroom scale as I am preparing to increase the frequency that I weigh myself.

With weight and Kim Jong-Il dancing a slow dance in my mind, it wasn't long before I started to wonder how much the average Korean weighs and then I wondered how much the average American weighs. The mental picture that was in my head shifted to a picture of a very skinny Kim Jong-Il dancing with a morbidly obese Target employee. Luckily for me this scene also included a lonely wallflower, named the internet. I asked him to weigh in on the subject. This is what he told me.

It was loud in there, the Kenny Loggins tune that Kim Jong-Il and the Target employee were dancing to was really cranked, so I asked him again and his answer was this.

The average weight in the US is 163 lb for women and 190 lb for men
The average weight in Finland* is: 88 lb for women and 183 lb for men

I found this shocking, Women in Finland and Korea weigh almost half what women in the US weigh? Holy shit that is crazy, I thought!

With that in mind I decided to by the cheapest scale they had. $14.99. It was white, I wanted it to be stainless steel, but you can't win em all. I bought a personal cheese pizza at the Pizza Hut inside Target on my way out. I ate it in the car. When I came out of the store Kim Jong-Il wasn't in the parking lot anymore, poor bastard probably had to fly home to tend to his malnourished Finnish wife.

*Finland was substituted for Korea because the weight chart that was referenced only included USA, Canada, Finland, and the UK. Since Finland seemed less like the other 3 it was selected as the substitute. Scientifically selected, mind you.

Page 123, sentences 5-7

To be in the self means to be apart, to be separate. To be in the self means to become an island. To be in the self means to draw a boundary line around you.

Osho Zen Tarot
Osho

Page 123, sentences 5-7

"And then," according to Mr. Helm's memory of the episode, "somebody asked him was he a hitchhiker? Hitchhiking his way to New Mexico? No, he said, he was driving his own car.

In Cold Blood
Truman Capote

Page 123, sentences 5-7

The strings are tightened by four huge wooden knobs, man, which looks like ears. It is the weirdest fucking instrument I have ever seen, man, and when you play it it sounds like you are choking a hundred Chinamen. The incredible moon-lute is tuned, man, with the saxophone and trombone.

The Fan Man
By William Kotzwinkle

Page 123, sentences 5-7

Ads promoted the roadability of the '27 Stutz. Lush, low Weymann Flexible Bodies enhanced its appeal. Thin wires in the safety glass could actually be seen.

History of the American Automobile
By the Auto Editors of Consumer Guide

Danger is Chafing

Dangerous James was fired twice

from the Swedish Trained Killing Machine.

He wept, and blubbered, and boo hoo'd each time.

He wanted to kill, but his hands were so small!

He wanted to crush, but his crushing muscles grew sore!

After tomorrow's crushing practice, it'll be three cheeseburgers and a pill and a pill.

Fat secret agents have feelings.

Dynamite Freaks vs. Movie People

If someone gave me space to build a skyscraper.
Why...I'd build one.
Build one would I.
Tall and sleek. And dynamite freaks
would touch themselves. Thinking of the possibilities.

But.

If someone gave me a quiet place,
unworthy of explosive tastes.
I'd build an outhouse.
With textured twin rotating screens.
And movie people would watch me pee in cold weather.

Fiasco the Dead

God shot geese and shit blood.

This dilemma is trite and should have burned before it could

Get deep so quick.

Bing Bong. A coffin, fit with nail.

Is dead. Quite fittedly spread, wide open, and dead.

Fiasco the dead.

Try calling the train when the phone machine's dead.

Gridiron Heroes

Hail the colors blue and silver let them wave.
Sing their song and cheer the Gridiron Heroes brave,
Fighting for fame, winning the game,
Dashing to victory as they go.

Forward down the field,
A charging team that will not yield.
And when the blue and silver wave,
Stand and cheer the brave.
Rah. Rah. Rah.
Go hard, win the game.
With honor you will keep your fame.
Down the field again,
A Lion victory!

Go Lions!

Nice Flood: Epoch I

Nice Howses grow on Nice Howse Trees. In Nice Tree Forests. And in these Nice Howse Trees climb Nice Howse Lemurs, and sloths and banana slugs. And the Nice Tree Forest animals are graciously surveilled by nice wildlife photographers, full of ambition and somewhat good intentions.

Along the quietest border of the Nice Tree Forest lives the Mean Shoot of Bamboo. His family, wise from the generations, kept the harsh winds from the Nice Tree Forest. Until one particularly long rainy season when a wet scream bore down on the world. And the very skin of Earth began to crawl and shift like a hundred worms cramped in a dead man's wallet. And the dirt blanket squished itself a new existence, warped proportionally, and resembled little of its former self...

I found myself on a lone street in a long forgotten section of town. Perhaps it was by chance. Possibly fate. Might have been Aliens that snatched me while I slept, had their way with me, then dropped me off. Who's to say.

Regardless of how, there I stood. A long swatch of concrete pointed out from my toes as if they were in need of a good trim. (Oh did I forget to mention that I was totally nude 'cept for the jean-shorts and faded Motley Crew t-shirt I had on?) Tall buildings flanked my right. On my left were buildings identical to those on the right, except that's not the hand I write with.

The only sounds I heard were of the concrete growing. Stretching and moaning faintly in the breeze. If you've ever been thirteen and lied awake in bed at night you'll know the sound in which I speak. Although growing concrete has a tad more earthy sound to it.

I was completely content to stand there. Listening. Receding. I image now that those Aliens, the ones that were so kind to give me a lift, had looked down to see the sea of grey stone expanding while the speck that was Me slowly fading away.

Robot Hands

You and your clan have robot hands,

Tugging and toiling in gardenless anguish.

Your teeth chime like metal flowers

In a sawblade windstorm.

This is the green earth.

Its dirt kin fabuloso.

Fish, fowl and famine!

So what if rain comes on Sundays?

Keep your robot hands in your robot pockets.

What? No pockets?!

No, you pantless rogue!

Gepetto laughs last!

Here's a flowerpot for your ass!

Leftovers are haute cuisine?

I thought I smelled tuna.

Is there a dolphin in your pants?

Or are you just happy to see me?

Pint

The foamy residue hung to my glass like a loved one
Regrets, longing, thirst
Quenched

Fuzzy on the edges
Linger for awhile longer
Lost
Found

Warm fuzzy

I had a dream to make a sweater out of belly button lint.

Well it's done. I had enough left over to make a pair of mittens. They're nice.

Filthy Freeloaders

The spiders in my house pay no rent. Yet they watch the cable and throw their shit everywhere, and I’m pretty sure one of them has been drinking my beer. I can’t prove anything of course, but the way they avoid eye contact makes me suspicious. Maybe tomorrow I’ll buy a frog. I feel less guilty if something else does the killing. And besides, who doesn't want a nice cuddly frog around.

Your Red Wagon

Uncle Walt and Diamonds,
The last time we were on your farm seems like years ago. We have been many places, many unfarmlike by design, and we have traveled miles without end. You, I imagine, sat on that dusty porch wondering where the hell we ran off to. Well, we were trapped in perpetual red wagon traffic. We're mighty fine here now and so is our superhuman crew. Namaste and fuck yeah to you.

Trivia Jean

It's time for a cowboy hat.

I think it's time for me to start wearing a cowboy hat.
I also think it's time for me to tell you that you should wear one too.
Just, please, don't get one like me.

I don't want people thinking that we are doing it to start some sort of trend.
It just so happens that you and I are both at a point in our lives when it has become time for us to wear cowboy hats.
It is kinda weird that we have arrived at this juncture at the same time, but hey, you know when its time to don a hat, that is just the way it goes. If your buddy happens to be sporting a hat too, well that is that. deal with it.

I do have an idea though, I think that maybe we should get different kinds of cowboy hats, just to give ourselves some separation, or at the very least so our friends can find us easier in crowds.

How about this? You get one of those old western hats like Clint Eastwood would wear, with the straight brim, and I will get one with all the feathers on it like Richard Petty would wear. They would be different enough and we will still be able to quench our need to wear cowboy hats. what do you think?

I also think it is time for me to have a fast and easy sexual realationship with a woman named Phyliss. Do you know anyone named Phyliss?

Also, do you know wear we could get these cowboy hats?

Where East meets West.

I've been there. Once. They dress like fancy airline pilots and serve booze in a glass. Piano reigns supreme. Where East meets West.

Bow Wow

Inspired by my young daughters I got my first pair of Flip Flops.

Huh? What? Do I live in a ditch?

These are likely the questions you are hurling at your computer screen. Indeed. I have never, prior to this moment in time, owned a set of Flip Flops. I realize now the error of my ways.

There was a time when the thought of wedging a strap of cloth, let alone anything, between Big Toe and Little Piggy Stayed Home would have caused me to throw up in my mouth, but like peanut butter and pickle sandwiches you don't know what you're missing until you try it.

As I sit here now smiling, my feet practically nude, I revel in the thought that if my dogs were to bark there is nothing to prevent them from being heard clear across the room.

are we still on for dinner?

I’d like to take you out for a $10 dinner.
No strings attached.
Order the halibut – I hear it’s a coldwater delight. And at $8.50, it’s a bargain, to boot.

I’d like to take you out for a $10 dinner.
No, I won’t try to railroad you into 5 minutes in the men’s room. Please. A little credit?
Oh, and look there. Under vegetarian delights…cucumber and port wine stirfry. It sounds terribly tempting, doesn’t it? Yes, and frugally priced. You could order two servings and still be able to the feed the meter afterwards.

I’d like to take you out for a $10 dinner.
No. Not the lobster. At $19.95 a tail, I’m afraid it’s a little too rich for our blood. And pre-emptively, I’ll point out that it’s probably safe to assume that “market price” for the king crab is out of our league as well.
Yes - our league…it’s out of it.
No.
No.
I’m sorry. Perhaps I wasn’t clear. You’ve got a ten dollar dinner coming your way. What part of ten dollars are you failing to grasp? Shall I write it down for you? Perhaps we could call the young man over and ask him to point out each menu item that is priced to our means?
No?
Very well then.
Where was I then?
Oh yes.

I’d like to take you out for a $10 dinner.

A little off the top

I've just started shaping my mustache. Nothing crazy. It's not like I sculpt it or anything. Just begun to clean up the top edges.

Since doing this though I've noticed that the sky is bluer, the bird's song more true, and the fish styx more crisp. What a change it has made. I suggest you too examine your body-hair and look for a crop that could use a trim. You'll thank me.

the day the earth stood still:MGD renounces meat

There is a quiet little porch attached to a quiet little house, on a quiet little street corner in Ferndale, Michigan. And on this quiet little porch sits a black charcoal grill, lovingly manufactured by the fine Weber folks in Palatine and Huntley, Illinois. Much like the porch, the house, and the street corner, this little black beauty is also quiet. Its dark porcelain bowl radiates no warmth. Its ash can is empty, with only traces of expired charcoal from days gone by. The small circular top vents have ceased to emanate their beguiling aroma – an aroma that called to the belly, that beckoned the nostrils, and that harkened back to a time when primitive peoples broiled their meat long and loudly through fire-lit nights. No longer, though. Not on this porch. Not on this street corner.

But it was not always this way. Time was, this porcelain chamber burned hot to the touch. Time was, this culinary furnace belched forth heat and steam so succulent, it could only be the result of briquette-inspired fire playfully and eagerly massaging a choice cut of beef. A stampede of cattle-inspired products paraded their way across its iron grilling surface on a nightly basis: ribeye, brautwurst, T-bone, ground round, sirloin, and chuck. Porterhouse, sausage, ribs, filet, and of course the New York strip. And MGD presided over this procession as its master of ceremonies.

Like the surgeon who carefully wields a scalpel, MGD was equally adept with grill tongs, meat forks, and basting brushes. Like the mother who gently and lovingly cares for and watches over her children, MGD stood at a constant attention, a watchful eye trained on his sizzling packets of animal flesh. And like the mighty Vulcan, MGD lorded over his fire pit as master and commander of all he surveyed.

But, I digress. That was then.

The utensils of his craft have now been relegated to some interior room of that quiet little house. Meat no longer makes the journey from cold carcass to hot delicious dinner on that porch. And much like Prometheus who snatched fire from the gods, so too has fate snatched the burning coals from this quiet Ferndale street corner.

Now then…think back if you would. Think back to a few weeks ago. Think back to what you were doing when you had that feeling of uneasiness. That feeling where it seemed that for a moment, just that one brief moment, that the world had come to a halt. Not a screeching halt; not a blatantly obvious, life-changing, mind-jarring halt. Rather, just that feeling that everything had slowed to an imperceptible pace. That feeling of living someone else’s life, when you’re quietly aware of how freaking strange anyone’s life can be. And then just as quickly as it came, that feeling is gone. I shared that moment with all of you. When you were watching the faucet pour water, or talking to your sister, or walking up your basement steps, I was watching waves of High Life slowly roll back and forth between my lips and the bottom of a glass bottle. In that moment we shared, I ceased to be able to swallow. A rolling wave of High Life stopped midway in its trans-container journey. Right around where the girl’s boot-clad leg hangs down over the edge of the moon. It was in that instant that MGD turned our worlds into chaotic mind-fuckery for the briefest of moments.

“I’m not really eating meat anymore” he says.

“I haven’t eaten any meat in a couple months actually” he says.

You notice a single solitary drop of water among the deluge. Your conversation becomes so quiet, it’s deafening. You almost lose your balance on the basement stairs because of that feeling. The sloshing inertia of my High Life quietly acquiesces to Newton’s First Law.

cats

As I was driving down the highway last night, my mind drifted to the subject of cats. I am not really sure why but this is some stuff that I thought about while zooming...

...They say curiosity killed the cat. It is kind of amazing to me that you don't see more dead cats on the side of the expressway. I mean, the expressway is a pretty curious thing to me... and I understand what it is all about. I can only imagine what it must seem to be to a cat... and it just seems to me that curiosity would get the better of them and they would want a closer look... that is all I am saying.

also, with this whole "curiosity killed the cat" thing...
It is said that cats have 9 lives. If you subscribe to this theory then I wish to argue the fact that "curiosity killed the cat" and present the possibility that "stupidity" killed the cat.

My thinking is this:
I will admit that cats are indeed curious creatures, no one is disputing this. However there is a fine line between curious and stupid. Let's use a frayed electrical chord as an example. The cat, we will call him Sammy Sosa, with all his innate feline exploration tendencies really must check this out, and subsequently will receive a mild to moderate shock. Depending on how curious Sammy Sosa is about this particular wire he may "use up one of his 9 lives"... this is where the thin line between curiosity and stupidity comes in. Perhaps I can help you here. If Sammy Sosa keeps going back to the wire, it is no longer curiosity, it is stupidity. Curiosity ends after lets say the third time, when Sammy Sosa should have said, "damn, I hate that wire"... any more wire messin' crosses the line into stupidville. Keep messing with the wire, you will die. And when you die, I will be sure that people know that stupidity killed the cat, not curiosity.

independent from suction

Today all the suction cups in my home failed. I thought that odd.

Then I realized that it must not only be independence day in America, but in the Suctionville too.

To celebrate I shot off a roman candle in my bathtub and gave the suction cups the day off.

I thought that having a holiday in the middle of the week was going to suck, turns out just the opposite.

The homeless man

The homeless man walked into the bar
with no intentions of making a purchase.
He was looking for a shower in the bathroom
as the soap doubled as body wash.
He also requested a sandwich, a cup of water,
and some change.
He was politely asked to leave
once and then again.
As he was walking towards the door
he said, "hey, do me a favor."
"Kiss my ass."
Society had taken many things from this man,
his wit was not one of them.
So it goes.

vroom

I don't care how old you are...hanging your arm out the window of a moving car on a warm summer day like an airplane wing is one of the best things ever.

Months Make Marks

Four months can climb faster than three, by sheer number

And numb a tongue to quit talking

Four months can form factions of real dicks

That flick you with no ending

Four and more confidently rule

Like the swing set over the pool

And they leave with all debts pending

Diary: June 20, 2007

A fucking coyote...with mange? Please! I don't look anything like a fucking coyote with fucking mange. I've been around...Puerto Rico, the Dominican Republic, Argentina, Bolivia, Colombia, Honduras, El Salvador, Panama, Peru, Brazil, Mexico, and yes, even the fucking United States. I'm one bad mother fucker. From Texas to Maine...a fucking coyote with mange....my ass! Is it my fault that I like to attack livestock and suck the blood and occasionally and organ or two right out of them? Nope! So what, I have a fucking weakness for goat blood, big fucking deal! I've heard rumors of you humans describing me as lizard like with scaly greenish-grey skin. I've also heard that you think I have sharp spines running down my back...now your getting somewhere. I do what I do, get used to it. And by the way...Mother Russia...you aint so bad. I've killed there too!


Chupacabra

flag day

The Flag of the United States of America was born almost a year after the Declaration of Independence. The Stars and Stripes to which we pledge allegiance was authorized on June 14, 1777.  Just as we celebrate the birth of independence on July 4th each year, the people of our Nation celebrate the birth of our Flag every year on June 14th. in 1916, President Woodrow Wilson (pictured above) issued a Presidential proclamation making June 14th a day of honoring our flag and celebrating its birth. However it wasn't until 1949 that the United States Congress took formal action on the matter of Flag Day. On August 3, 1949 President Harry S Truman signed their resolution "That the 14th day of June in each year is hereby designated as Flag Day." Today it is the right of every American to proudly display the flag that speaks of our freedom.  But with every RIGHT comes some RESPONSIBILITY as well...including the responsibility to display the flag properly and with respect.

So fly that flag proud today and while you are at it pour out some of your 40 for old Woody Wilson, because he invented this fine holiday. A holiday that has been overlooked for far too long. Why is it we go to our cabins and get drunk in the woods in the name of freedom on Memorial Day, 4th of July and Labor day but hardly life a High Life tall boy on flag day? This is a true injustice. We don't care about our banner of liberty? Year after year we continue to neglect the wonderful stitchwork of Betsy Ross. The very stitching that has held this wonderful country together for over 50 years. As we continue to branch out and shove liberty and freedom down the throats of the nations of lesser intelligence I implore you to stop and take a moment out of your fossil fueled day and think about our old star spangled banner and all those bombs bursting in air. May they continue to give proof through the night and may our flag always be there!

Below you will find the guidelines to flying your banner of liberty. Read them all... unless you hate freedom.

175. Position and manner of display

The flag, when carried in a procession with another flag or flags, should be either on the marching right; that is, the flag's own right, or, if there is a line of other flags, in front of the center of that line.

(a) The flag should not be displayed on a float in a parade except from a staff, or as provided in subsection (i) of this section.

(b) The flag should not be draped over the hood, top, sides, or back of a vehicle or of a railroad train or a boat. When the flag is displayed on a motorcar, the staff shall be fixed firmly to the chassis or clamped to the right fender.

(c) No other flag or pennant should be placed above or, if on the same level, to the right of the flag of the United States of America, except during church services conducted by naval chaplains at sea, when the church pennant may be flown above the flag during church services for the personnel of the Navy. No person shall display the flag of the United Nations or any other national or international flag equal, above, or in a position of superior prominence or honor to, or in place of, the flag of the United States at any place within the United States or any Territory or possession thereof: Provided, That nothing in this section shall make unlawful the continuance of the practice heretofore followed of displaying the flag of the United Nations in a position of superior prominence or honor, and other national flags in positions of equal prominence or honor, with that of the flag of the United States at the headquarters of the United Nations.

(d) The flag of the United States of America, when it is displayed with another flag against a wall from crossed staffs, should be on the right, the flag's own right, and its staff should be in front of the staff of the other flag.

(e) The flag of the United States of America should be at the center and at the highest point of the group when a number of flags of States or localities or pennants of societies are grouped and displayed from staffs.

(f) When flags of States, cities, or localities, or pennants of societies are flown on the same halyard with the flag of the United States, the latter should always be at the peak. When the flags are flown from adjacent staffs, the flag of the United States should be hoisted first and lowered last. No such flag or pennant may be placed above the flag of the United States or to the United States flag's right.

(g) When flags of two or more nations are displayed, they are to be flown from separate staffs of the same height. The flags should be of approximately equal size. International usage forbids the display of the flag of one nation above that of another nation in time of peace.

(h) When the flag of the United States is displayed from a staff projecting horizontally or at an angle from the window sill, balcony, or front of a building, the union of the flag should be placed at the peak of the staff unless the flag is at half staff.  When the flag is suspended over a sidewalk from a rope extending from a house to a pole at the edge of the sidewalk, the flag should be hoisted out, union first, from the building.

(i) When displayed either horizontally or vertically against a wall, the union should be uppermost and to the flag's own right, that is, to the observer's left. When displayed in a window, the flag should be displayed in the same way, with the union or blue field to the left of the observer in the street.

(j) When the flag is displayed over the middle of the street, it should be suspended vertically with the union to the north in an east and west street or to the east in a north and south street.

(k) When used on a speaker's platform, the flag, if displayed flat, should be displayed above and behind the speaker. When displayed from a staff in a church or public auditorium, the flag of the United States of America should hold the position of superior prominence, in advance of the audience, and in the position of honor at the clergyman's or speaker's right as he faces the audience. Any other flag so displayed should be placed on the left of the clergyman or speaker or to the right of the audience.

(l) The flag should form a distinctive feature of the ceremony of unveiling a statue or monument, but it should never be used as the covering for the statue or monument.

(m) The flag, when flown at half-staff, should be first hoisted to the peak for an instant and then lowered to the half-staff position. The flag should be again raised to the peak before it is lowered for the day.  On Memorial Day the flag should be displayed at half-staff until noon only, then raised to the top of the staff. By order of the President, the flag shall be flown at half-staff upon the death of principal figures of the United States Government and the Governor of a State, territory, or possession, as a mark of respect to their memory. In the event of the death of other officials or foreign dignitaries, the flag is to be displayed at half-staff according to Presidential instructions or orders, or in accordance with recognized customs or practices not inconsistent with law. In the event of the death of a present or former official of the government of any State, territory, or possession of the United States, the Governor of that State, territory, or possession may proclaim that the National flag shall be flown at half-staff.
• The flag shall be flown at half-staff thirty days from the death of the President or a former President;
• ten days from the day of death of the Vice President, the Chief Justice or a retired Chief Justice of the United States, or the Speaker of the House of Representatives;
• from the day of death until interment of an Associate Justice of the Supreme Court, a Secretary of an executive or military department, a former Vice President, or the Governor of a State, territory, or possession;
• and on the day of death and the following day for a Member of Congress.
The flag shall be flown at halfstaff on Peace Officers Memorial Day, unless that day is also Armed Forces Day. As used in this subsection-
1. the term ''half-staff'' means the position of the flag when it is one-half the distance between the top and bottom of the staff;
2. the term ''executive or military department'' means any agency listed under sections 101 and 102 of title 5; and
3. the term ''Member of Congress'' means a Senator, a Representative, a Delegate, or the Resident Commissioner from Puerto Rico.

(n) When the flag is used to cover a casket, it should be so placed that the union is at the head and over the left shoulder.  The flag should not be lowered into the grave or allowed to touch the ground.

(o) When the flag is suspended across a corridor or lobby in a building with only one main entrance, it should be suspended vertically with the union of the flag to the observer's left upon entering. If the building has more than one main entrance, the flag should be suspended vertically near the center of the corridor or lobby with the union to the north, when entrances are to the east and west or to the east when entrances are to the north and south. If there are entrances in more than two directions, the union should be to the east.

SOURCE (June 22, 1942, ch. 435, Sec. 3, 56 Stat. 378; Dec. 22, 1942, ch. 806, Sec. 3, 56 Stat. 1075; July 9, 1953, ch. 183, 67 Stat. 142; July 7, 1976, Pub. L. 94-344, Sec. 1(6)-(11), 90 Stat. 810, 811; Sept. 13, 1994, Pub. L. 103-322, title XXXII, Sec. 320922(b), 108 Stat. 2131.

!

Carbonated dialogue swimming the air-ocean between us. Effervescent talk bubbles pop against my cheeks and ears. Each one a windy burst of summer shimmer.

i think we shared a moment there

I had no idea: Ahmad Rashad

I have been thinking a lot recently about Ahmad Rashad. Don't ask me why because I won't tell you. I was very skeptical about how he got to where he was. "What the hell did Ahmad Rashad ever do to get that cushy gig" is what I would say... finally I shut up and did what has become a synonym with research in these future times we live in.

The thing that I was most surprised to learn is that he and Ms. Phylicia Rashad are no longer married... this immediately rekindled a rather large fantasy that a younger version of me had with Mrs. Clare Huxtable. So I got that going for me.

I apologize Mr. Rashad, it seems that you have done something to earn your suit and microphone, what that is I am not exactly sure... But it is something none the less.

Good day, and keep the Stuff Inside.

In the Tines

Little girl, little girl, what have I done
To make you treat me so
You've caused me to starve, you've caused me to decline
You've caused me to leave my forks at home

In the tines, in the tines, where the sun never shines
And your silver points all lined in rows

The longest meal I ever ate
Went down that Buffet Line
The Mostacholi emptied at six o'clock
The Swedish meatballs gone by nine

In the tines, in the tines, where the sun never shines
And your silver points all lined in rows

I asked my waiter for the soup of day
He said he throwed the utensils away

In the tines, in the tines, where the sun never shines
And your silver points all lined in rows
Hoo-hoo, hoo-hoo, hoo-hoo

Fork In The Road

After work this afternoon, while in a partially spaced out state of consciousness, somewhere between sleep and wake I overheard the television make a statement that jolted my subconscious and subsequently the rest of me. The man on TV (and they never lie) said studies have proven…are you ready for this…that exercise is good for you! Now generally I’d let something like this go with a simple “no shit Sherlock” or similar retort, but the TV man went on to claim that beyond the obvious physical benefits, the effects of regular exercise on a person’s mental well-being are similar to drugs or psychotherapy. My initial reaction (being lazy enough that I’m about two steps from buying my clothes at a big and tall and special ordering my underwear) was, what a cruel world this is where exercise is “good” for you, but things like fast food, lawn forking and sex with random strangers in a bathroom stall in Shreveport are “bad”. But after giving it some more thought it occurred to me, who said lawn forking was bad anyway?

why 101.9, why?

As like-minded individuals know, National Public Radio’s affiliate in Detroit, Michigan broadcasts on 101.9 FM, WDET, from the campus of Wayne State University. Over the last 1 – 2 years the station has gone through some fairly major changes, specifically in programming, and to a lesser degree, in on-air talent. This changing of the guard has brought with it the baggage of the “2 camp segregation” that accompanies any change of pace: you’ve got one group thrilled with the change, and one group crying out for the way things were. [Granted, there technically is a third group that consists of the Unawares and the I-don’t-cares, but they have no bearing in this discussion.]

Now, these adjustments – both to programming and talent – have aroused the ire of the local NPR listener community. From my limited viewpoint, programming, by far, has taken the brunt of this backlash. The on-air talent has been lamented to a much lesser degree.

Having said that, I can somewhat understand adjustments to programming. The program directors claim their market research shows people want more news, more talk, more Detroit (read: urban/social issues around the city’s plight) –centric discussions, etc. And if you’re going to increase talk shows, that airtime must come at the expense of radio's other offerings: music and entertainment.

I understand that these program directors are going to do whatever they can to cater to their perceived demographic > increase their aggregate of listeners > increase potential donations > keep the station profitable > keep their jobs. I’m not so disillusioned by idealism that I think the people calling the shots at WDET are above self-preservation and would stick to the heritage, to the pedigree, of the station (even though I secretly want them to be above it, and to stick to it). Hell, I even genuinely like some of the morning and afternoon-commute programming they get from NPR and PRI. But it is lamentable that an uber-rich tradition of music (a tradition that you’re not going to find anywhere else, mind you) of world music, of Detroit music, of all kinds of music, is no longer available, cut down in its prime, like a young River Phoenix going lifeless in a Hollywood gutter. God bless you Mr. Bandyke. Blue shadows on the trail Ralph Valdez. Coo-coo coo-choo Ms. Copeland. Hello, amputated Ed Love, stunted Michael Julien. Larry McDaniel, when’d you get out of the hoosegow? I thought they’d sent you packin’ for good this time. Well, never you mind. Welcome back fella. You just make yourself comfortable. Grab a seat right there. Yes, right there. Right by 5 hours of BBC World Service and just to the left of an hour of our new News & Notes (read: “talk from an urban/social issues perspective”, to put it mildly) with Farai Chideya. Yes, Larry I agree with you. News & Notes is terribly misleading for programming that pats itself on its back as it “kicks off a month-long series on hip-hop with…free-wheeling and at times combative interview(s).”

Whatever. It’s just a shame. But so is most progress.

At any rate, most people who fall into the “way things were” camp bemoan the change in programming – but what really puts the proverbial bustle in my hedgerow is the on-air talent that WDET has forced upon the common man. Now, I know I just went off on the programming decisions, but let’s face it: I’ve got CDs, I’ve got the internet, I’ve got an iPod, I’ve got friends and associates with desirable music. The well of new/fresh/cutting edge/just-plain-great-music didn’t dry up for me when WDET’s program directors thought they were starring in a bad 80’s slasher flick down at the Bijou, cut the heart out of the station, and then proceeded to go off the reservation. I can live with it. What I can’t live with is Amy Miller. Billed as “a Detroit native, experienced reporter and news host”, Amy Miller crawled her way out of the Missouri backwoods to return to our fair City of Dreams. Once here she played charmer to Joan Silvi’s (WDET News Director) snake and landed the coveted "host of Morning Edition" gig. This is prime time for this genre of radio station. The morning commute. You need to be on top of your game. A game that consists of introducing segments, reading local news, traffic, and weather, and handing it off to local WDET talent. If you’re incapable of doing that, take off the cans, and get off the mic. If you can’t read your updates without massacring the English language, give it up. If you are prone to stumble when speaking, try being an assistant to someone who knows what they’re doing. If you can’t adapt – if you can’t generate a smooth transition when the occasional technological flaw heats up, get out of the kitchen. And when you’re voice drives me up the freakin’ wall as it drips with the smug overtones of “I’m really good at my important job” as you drop the ball again and again, then pack it up, go home, and stick your head in the oven.

See you in the unemployment line Amy Miller. I'll be the guy flashing daggers at you.

when you slap me, it makes me happy

Did you ever tell Daddy that? I bet you did. And while that was going on, where was Ed McMahon? Nuzzling up to Johnny’s teat he was. Talk about absentee parenting…

I ask the reader (not just manus manus pinguis): consider another figure of male role-model-ship, won’t you? Consider the man in the Hathaway shirt.




That’s right, the Hathaway Man. He’s one helluva fella, and one look gives you the impression that he could most certainly sire a large litter if he so desires. Now, I hear your collective “A-ha!” rising like an Indonesian Boxing Day wave. “Laying pipe alone doesn’t make a great male role model!” you cry. Agreed, agreed… But I ask you to hold judgment for the moment. Allow me to introduce you to the Hathaway man…

I’d like you to close your eyes. But I need you to read this, so just pretend to close your eyes. Now think about strength. Try to picture integrity. What do you see? You see the goddamn Hathaway man, that’s what! You see a mustachioed gentlemen in a starched white shirt. With his fist on one hip, he commands action. With another man’s hand on his other hip he demonstrates comfort in his sexuality.

He is a Man of Leisure, and like all great Men of Leisure, he enjoys the finer things in life: conducting the New York Philharmonic at Carnegie Hall, playing the oboe, copying a Goya at the Metropolitan Museum, driving a tractor, fencing, sailing, buying a Renoir, and so forth. Who else but such a man possesses the credentials to be the face of 170 years of shirt-making expertise? That’s right. No one.

And lest you think him unapproachable and intense, think again: He is a balanced man, as all role models should be. Consider his diminutive tie. It is the perfect counterweight to the hyper-masculinity of his eye patch.

The next time daddy’s in the garage drinking, look for integrity. Look for impeccably pressed linen that frames a cycloptic stare. Look for the Hathaway man.

It is what it is

I never liked Jimmy.
Or his douschebag father.
Replace me with a goldfish...HA!
The vibration of death was my way out.

Poster Nutbags

greener grass III

the grass is greener
greener grass II


“water…”
I could barely get the word out. It wheezed and whistled its way through a swollen throat and over a tongue in desperate need of a shit, shower, and most importantly a shave. Although, when your vocal cords feel like they’ve gotten the business end of a 3000-watt hair dryer, I suppose speaking is the least of your troubles.
I realized one eye had been open ever so slightly for some time now. How long I couldn’t say - and not because of my current speech impediment – it’s was just one of those things. Like when you realize you’ve been staring at the spot on the wallpaper again, and you have no idea how much time has passed. You just know that afternoon has become evening, that the urine has evaporated, and she’s still never coming back. Through that eyelid crack I realized I was seeing the mouse. I guess I didn’t understand it at first because half of my view was being pulled and bent. What I thought were vestigial traces of last night’s psychotropic dabblings still being weakly pumped through my bloodstream turned out to be, upon closer examination, a glass bottle lying in front of me, perverting my perceptions. But that’s to be expected when you hang your hat on the kitchen floor.
But I digress.
The mouse. Inclined against his doorway opening, resting one shoulder against the wall, one leg bent around the other in the shape of a distorted “4”. He leaned there, reading his morning paper, the yellow plastic bag it came in tucked under one arm.
“water…?”
It came out like a question this time.
The mouse raised a mouse eyebrow as he peered over the edge of his periodical, one side of his whiskers twitching ever so slightly as he regarded the empty, discarded shell of a life sprawled out in front of him. With another whisker twitch he dismissed me and went back to his daily.
“That little shit” I thought to myself. “That selfish little prick…”
But I couldn’t really blame him. We had danced this dance before. And we both knew it would play out the same way. We could roll these dice a hundred times and they’d always come up boxcars. He’d come out with a cup of water. I’d scream at him in a high-pitched, spittle-coated voice that “he knew goddamn-well that that cup wasn’t going to do jack-shit.” What was a mouse-sized cup of water going to do for me? Abso-fucking-nothing, that’s what. He may as well have brought me a bag of play sand. Or a mouse-sized pistol to help with a graceful exit…
Yeah. I could see that whole bit play out again in his eyes. I knew he was reliving that bit. Right between that first twitch of whisker and the last.
Right on cue, the mouse shot me another look of disappointment (or was that pity? was that fucking pity?!? god so help me if I could get up off this floor…) and headed into his hole. Were there any fluids left in my body, tears would be flowing. Were my voice still open for business, sobs would be working the cash register. After contemplating moving, only to dismiss that notion as sheer lunacy, I realized that my vantage point on the floor afforded me a direct line of sight from my one open eye to that spot on the wallpaper in the adjoining room. I took comfort in the old familiar spot, and as I relaxed my bladder, I felt the comforting warmth quickly spread.

time, space, and my place under the Man's thumb (JoJo the monkey-boy wins big in the New Jersey lottery)

what to post?
oh, tis my day

so fricking busy
no time to play

here it is
short, yet sweet

if you don't like it
suck my toes

What Gives?

I spent my holiday afternoon hiking in the Poudre Canyon. All in all, the trip was delightful, but something bothered me upon our arrival that stuck with me throughout the day. Being a sunny Colorado afternoon, the parking lot to what I would describe as a moderate to difficult hike was completely full with the exception of not one, but two spaces devoted specifically to handicap vans. Now perhaps it’s not PC and maybe even a little discriminatory, but why the hell are two perfectly good parking spaces reserved for the handicapped outside of a difficult hiking trail. I have yet to see a wheelchair bound hiker or other such person of special needs along the trail. But seriously, if they’re capable of traversing through the backwoods and mountains, you mean to tell me they can’t walk an additional twenty feet of parking lot pavement like the rest of us. What gives?

My intentions with your daughter (Assuming that your daughter is Memorial Day weekend)

1) I plan to drink upwards of 17 Miller High Lifes from the bottle
2) I plan to be shirtless for much of the weekend
3) I plan to wear my sunglasses constantly
4) I plan to perform feats of potato salad-eating wonder
5) I plan to grill much encased meat, and I intend to use my new tongs with reckless abandon (while singing "the thong song" with tong substituted for thong)
6) I plan to listen to Bob Dylan in the dark
7) I plan to play lawn sports as much as citily possible
8) I plan to foolishly shun sunblock
9) Since I will most likely not be around any large bodies of water, I plan to loudly and frequently proclaim that the proper way to celebrate any of the "Big 3 America days" (Memorial Day, 4th of July, Labor Day) is to be shirtless, waist deep in a lake, while drinking a Budweiser tallboy... The only reason you should not be in that lake is to be playing one handed lawn sports with your buddies (the other hand is for beer)... when playing croquet you should take every opportunity to "Blast" your opponents balls and speak with an english accent.
10) I plan to bitch about how Flag Day (June 14) gets absolutely no credit
11) after all this is done if there is any time, I plan to have sex with your daughter while I wear my sunglasses, after which I will eat more potato salad

in the jailhouse

Well,
I’m in the jailhouse now
Lord, what you done?
I’m in the jailhouse now
Hope you had your fun
I’m in the jailhouse now
‘Till the kingdom comes
Lord, ‘till His kingdom comes