Poetry Is For Assholes: A journal of the arts

thought for the day

2011-09-21T23:44:00.001-07:00

Nazz Nomad and the Ecstasy of the Squares

2011-09-14T22:44:00.000-07:00

Fans of Poetry is for Assholes should be following the tormented artistry of Nazz Nomad at Bleedin' Out. In addition to being a family man, a native New Yorker and the bane of Brooklyn Hipsterdom, Nazz is also a salesman for a large concern. What the fuck were they thinking?

I've been following Nazz for at least a couple of years now. We've gone so far as to share our secrets in personal emails. I've come to like the guy so, when he told me he was coming to Reno I decided I would have to drive over the hill and check him out in person.

Nazz it seems, was visiting Reno for some sort of business related convention. He was going to try and have "fun" while he was in town. Here he is pictured having "fun". You can read his impressions of fun in Reno at his blog. I had my own opinions.

I have never liked Reno, or Nevada or casinos. They give me horrible headaches. By they I mean all of the aforementioned three, Reno, Nevada and casinos.

As fate would have it, Nazz was in Reno on the high holy day of the lunatic right, the happiest day on the Teabagger's calendar, September 11th. This year September 11th didn't just fall on the 11th of September, it was also the tenth time in a row that it was September 11th. Tell it to the fuckin' Chileans you flag waving phonies.

I had to respond to Nazz' comments on his tour of Virginia Street. Here's what I had to say.

"Comrade, our differences are slight but I did reach a somewhat different conclusion based on my own experiences in Reno.
My conclusion is that I am the worlds biggest fuckin' hippy. You know, I live in the heart of the hippy beast. You really can hear conversations here like,
"How you been man?"

"Not so good man. I'm really missing Jerry, man."

That's an actual conversation.

Everyone here claims to be a Buddhist and everyone here meditates and they all own hacky sacks made from recycled organic hemp and they all go to Reggae on the River and catch hepatitis A and dysentery, just like the '60's. They all drive Volvo station wagons and I DRIVE A FUCKIN' VOLVO STATION WAGON. Let's call that clue number one. I live in a town where the McDonalds and the KFC went out of business because no one would be caught dead eating corporate food but they will sit in their Volvos for an hour in hopes of getting a parking spot at Whole Foods Market. Everyone here has opinions on farming and agribusiness. Everyone here also has opinions on wine. I didn't have an opinion on wine even when I drank but people really have opinions as to what would go well with a nice seitan, quinoa and arugula salad.

Are you beginning to get a picture? Let's not consider the other, invisible everybodies who bus tables, drive old Buicks, pick grapes and live 7 families in 7 rooms. See that's why I mostly dislike the local hippies. They are completely oblivious to the presence of a massive underclass that exists only to serve their phony Buddhist asses.

Ok, so in my heart I am a Moslem. In my heart I am an American artist but at heart, when I'm home here in racist hippy liberalville, I am no fuckin' hippy.

That is until you transfer me to Reno, fuckin', Nevada. Jesus Christ, that place is some kind of heaven for the creepiest squares in existence. I am all in favor of excess but I mean the kind of excess represented by The Cramps or the kind of excess that leads to William Blake's palace of wisdom but Reno's excess is an extra jumbo large deluxe economy size can of spray cheeze food. It is an excess of bosco chocolaty flavored syrup mixed with vodka from a plastic bottle and served as a cocktail for people so hopelessly dull they imagine that they are jaded.

People work hard and save their money so they can come to Reno and enjoy hideous, square fun which essentially involves squandering their pathetically diminished wages on shit that no one in their right mind would want if it was free.

Fuckin' squares. I can't fuckin' stand them. Alright, that's a bit of an overstatement but I don't much like them and I don't share their enthusiasms.

Which leads me to my conclusion, the synthesis of ideas originally introduced in my opening thesis. I will freely admit that, by local standards, I am not any sort of hippy. However, by the standards of much of my native land, America, the beautiful- And here I must point out that we were celebrating, communally, all of us gathered in Reno, the ascension to martyrdom of the only innocents every to die in an act of war. That highest of holy days. The date, that by it's mere invocation, acts as a license for the shittiest political behavior in the history of our short lived and soon doomed nation- by those standards which a certain class of fuckin' moron would call 'American', I am such a fukcin' hippy that people wretch at the excess of patchouli stink that wafts their way as I amble by missing Jerry.

So Nazz, Rico, dude, you were there at the 2cnd tier regional magazine publisher's convention and awards dinner but I've got one question for you: ARE YOU GONNA BE THERE AT THE LOVE IN? I know I am.

Now If you'll excuse me, I've gotta go tie dye everything I own. It really was fun driving over the mountains to meet you. Next time meet me in the fucking parking lot and I'll get you a little ways out of squaresville. You were, after all wallowing in marshmallows and polychlorinated biphenyls in the shadow of John Muir and Ansel Adams' "range of light".

Art and beauty everywhere you look.

A world of pleasure for the connoisseur

As Johnny Paycheck once said, "Splendor, Lord you've got it wall to wall.

Donner summit. I'd rather eat you than spend another minute in Reno

Living on the beach.

2011-09-04T14:46:00.000-07:00

Peter Fonda, Jane's brother, rides out of Venice back when Venice was slummy and the living was easy.

My good friend, Ib, posted something about gentrification and Venice Beach. Ib is in Glasgow and I'm not altogether sure what he makes of Venice. Better to read what he wrote, here.

I'm kind of unmotivated on my own. Somebody has to inspire me but when they do, I don't know when it will stop. I ended up writing this as a comment on Ib's blog post.

"It's necessary that we recognize the realities of the market. In the case of mutts like ourselves the reality is that the market is a bunch of rich hoodlums wrecking our lives just 'cause they can.

I live in terror of real estate developers. I was nearly driven out of my little California hidey hole and forced to live someplace so squalid it failed to attract their attention. California was becoming unlivable as all anyone ever talked about was equity. As in "How much equity you got in that place?".

I'm so fucking glad the real estate market went to shit. I feel sorry for a few friends who bet their lives on the equity fairy dust but the truth is that my life has been vastly improved by the collapse of the real estate market. Bad for my friends who work in the construction industry too, and I know a lot of those guys, but I could tell them stories about industrial collapse that would almost make them grateful for what they've hung on to.

I spent a winter, drunk on my ass in an apartment on Venice Beach. I had just turned 21 and I stopped off there on my way from the collapse of Detroit to the gentrification of Oakland. Actually, I was wandering back and forth from Echo Park to Venice while I waited a couple of months for a check to arrive in the mail. My Echo Park hosts were cranky old (like 30 years old man) Trotskyists who were content to leave me starving and lonely in abject misery. Periodically I would find a few quarters under a cushion then I would walk down the hill to Burrito King where I would gorge on plain bean burritos. Nothing in them but beans and lard. I longed to be able to afford the bean and cheese burrito.
That was the longest I have ever gone without eating; about three days as I recall. I was very depressed. Periodically my hosts, senior comrades, would look up from their reading (The philosophic and economic manuscripts of 1905- VI Lenin) and scowl at me. "Stop looking so goddam pathetic would you!". I don't recall them ever offering to feed me.

This was all part of some Trotskyist factional intrigue. I was supposed to infiltrate this other, equally tiny and irrelevant, group and report back to my scowling hosts in secret. They hatched this plan when I showed up, unannounced to them, from Detroit. I had been told by the senior comrades (also about 30) in Detroit that my coming would be announced in advance and that I would be welcomed in Los Angeles by friends who would be only too happy to help me to anything I needed. Instead I was met with suspicion and indifference that only let up a little when phone inquiries had been made to Detroit and New York.
The infiltration plot was hatched when the elderly Bolsheviks of Echo Park found out I had high school friends living in Venice. I would be shipped off to Venice where I would intercept the hated enemy faction and become part of their circle, reporting back in secret to the wise elders of Echo Park.

Does this sound fucked up? Yeah, well it was.

So off I was sent for a multi hour long ride across Los Angeles on the LARTD. It takes most of a day to get from Downtown to the beach by bus, stopping every block. I'm sure the senior comrades would have given me a ride but they had some important documents to review preparatory to the next faction fight.
My Venice Beach hosts were two goofy friends from high school. They had moved to Los Angeles with the intention of attending film school. They had gotten as far as renting an apartment when their ambition ran out. One of them was working nights in a donut shop while the other survived off checks from mom and dad in New Jersey.

They were happy to see me. They fed me donuts and introduced me to avocados. We bought bags of cheap produce that we stir fried in corn oil and washed down with quantities of real cheap beer. Brew 102 and Lucky Lager were our favorites. "It's Lucky When You Live In the West".

The only furniture in the apartment was a card table, a folding chair and a tiny portable TV. We slept on the floor. The walls were decorated with front page headlines from the LA Herald Tribune. "BANANA KING LEAPS TO DEATH" was a favorite. An executive from United Fruit had committed suicide.
During the day we tended to stay inside. We were from New Jersey. The Venice Beach scene weirded us out. Sometimes we would walk up and down from Muscle Beach to the Santa Monica pier. It looked just like TV and we had absolutely no ability to relate to the muscle freaks, roller girls and drug creeps we ran into.
When we were thoroughly drunk, the night belonged to us. The surf was experiencing an episode of bioluminescence. We would stagger into the glowing waves and marvel as our footprints lit up in the wet sand. That was as close as I felt to happy during that dismal time.

I was allowed one friend in Santa Monica but what a friend he was. He was a comrade in our little cult who has gone on to become a public figure in Los Angeles. The names have been changed to protect the guilty. Max, as I'll call him, had started the original FM underground rock show in Cleveland. He was a hero of the '60's Cleveland music scene. He had come west to make a name for himself in broadcasting. He ended up as one of Wolfman Jack's writers on The Midnight Special TV show.

That's right, the Wolfman did not spontaneously quip, "Outta sight baby" between acts on the show. Max and a crack team of LA writers had to confer and come up with that shit. Los Angeles. Show biz. What a pile of crap.

Nonetheless it paid the rent on a pleasant apartment in Santa Monica. At that time Jane Fonda was married to Tom Hayden and they were radically slumming it by living in a huge house in Santa Monica. It so happened that Max's apartment was right next door. I spent hours on the front porch, hoping to catch a glimpse of Ms. Fonda. It turned out she was out of town the whole time I was there. I never saw Tom either but it takes an enormous staff to be famous in LA. People were coming and going from that place all the time.

Max had a great record collection, a fantastic stereo and part time custody of a charming little boy named Martin. I got to babysit Martin a few times. I really enjoyed my time with him. He thought it was incredibly cool that I knew how to drive a city bus and he would ask me about bus driving. He was a great kid.
Max has gone on to become a well loved figure on LA Public radio and Martin has had success as a character actor. He specializes in playing creepy little guys. His most memorable roles were in "Drugstore Cowboy" and "Gummo".

Finally, the time came for me to begin the planned infiltration of the enemy sect. I was put on yet another bus where I was driven across interminable miles of Los Angeles to some sort of radical event where I wandered up and introduced myself to the enemy youth group. They were, not surprisingly, a geeky, enthusiastic crew almost exactly the same as the young people in my own little cult. I ended up spending a day or two with them. I don't remember. I didn't learn any secrets. I doubt there were any to be learned. I did have one of my many brushes with fame when I was introduced to a cute young comrade, Susan. She was bright, energetic and insanely seductive. For a second there I thought we were going to start taking each other's clothes off, just by way of saying hello. Then she walked away. Man do I wish there was more to tell but there isn't.

Years later I came across the name Susie Bright. I love that woman, and I love her writing. One day I was reading her account of her time in a tiny Trotskyist youth group in Los Angeles. I realized that she was the Susan I'd met years before. I was impressed. Maybe you aren't.

About that time my overdue check arrived from New Jersey. I treated my friends to drinks in a phony English Pub that sat in a haze of smog between two freeways. I think I did anyhow.

I reported back to Echo Park and the wise elders determined that it was time to send me on to Oakland. For once they were nice to me. They drove me to the airport where I stood in line to board a bizarre California institution, the first come first served Midnight Special flight from LA to San Francisco. You showed up early and stood in line at the gate. When the gates opened you handed over ten or twenty dollars (I can't remember now) cash only to the man at the gate. The line filed on to the plane until all the seats were taken at which time the plane took off. Drinks were served, cash only, from take off to landing and I arrived, somewhat drunk in San Francisco. That's another story."

Restless

2011-09-03T13:21:00.000-07:00

I am getting restless as hell. I'm not feeling like a wage slave. I'm not hanging with wage slaves. My part time hippie bus job is about to end for the season and I'm wanting to see the big world. The great Madame Pamita just did a reading for me and she assures me that love and adventure await me on the road.
I do not have a plan. I am not that good at plans. I am not going to do anything desperate like give up my house but if anyone would like to rent a room here at the Super Secret Pony Ranch arrangements might be made. My hot rod friend, Nic, has dubbed this place Jon's Super Secret Pony Ranch and I like the name. Rent would be around $450 a month but it's a really small room in a pretty small place. The location can't be beat and you will have the place to yourself for good chunks of time.
Initial plans call for a foray into the great Pacific Northwest, possibly as far a north as Abbottsford, BC, home of the great Mr. Beer N. Hockey.
If that's successful there might be a journey to the east coast in my future. Far off Brooklyn, the home of The Cahokian, beckons. There are still a few folks there I'd like to see and there are a great many demons I'd like to slay in my people's short lived homeland of New Jersey, or, as I like to call it, 'The scene of the crime'. I'd really like to see this hip new version of Brooklyn that the young people talk about. Brooklyn, for me, is the place where we visited Grandma and watched the relatives drink and complain about, "The goddam Puerto Ricans".
If money was no object I'd love to visit North Carolina for the annual performance of the Neil Diamond Allstars. I have a standing invitation and I'd love to honor it.
Then there's the friends all over the middle of North America. There's a chamber of commerce president I'd love to see in Joplin a tattoo artist in Detroit and a survivalist in Colorado.
There's a good chance I'll get seriously off the tracks I have beaten and go to Austin and I might even make it as far as Anniston, Alabama but I dunno. I am a yankee to the fuckin' bone. They might chase me back home.
So really, this is mostly a shopping list. If anybody would like a moody houseguest who snores but does put the toilet seat down, let me know. If you're interested in a temporary residence in a trailer on the edge of hippieville let me know.
Some of this is going to happen.
I never drove a Freighliner but I have driven a Road Commander. That was back before the short nosed conventionals that have become standard today. Me and the road, boy. I can go away but I can't stay away.
Steve Earle- White Freightliner Blues (Buy)

More to come

2011-08-13T15:05:00.000-07:00

I am sorting myself out. More posts to come soon. There's actually some interesting stuff going on in the world of poetry. I mean, I try not to take my poetic mission altogether seriously but sometimes it demands my attention.

Oh this is such a good poem and story. I read it and I had to say something. I might have told this story here before. I don't remember.

Here, somewhat edited, is my response-

I turned out for a few of those predawn hiring lines. Hours standing in the rain and the snow. When I was desperately trying to finish my apprenticeship at US Steel I drove overnight to Ohio to get in line at 5:00 AM. There were already a couple of hundred people in the line. By sunrise the line extended for several blocks. There was snow on the ground and the temperatures were in the 20's. I talked to the guy next to me about welding and stock cars. I had a fake local address for my application. He kept asking me about my neighborhood and I told him just moved there. I didn't know anyone. Finally at 10, a man came out on the front steps of the personnel office. He had a bullhorn and he told us that there were only two openings and that they would only be giving out applications to the first 50 people in the line. Someone threw a snowball at him. Then another. Then more. He ran inside and everyone started throwing snowballs at the building. Then chunks of ice. A window broke. Smash. Then another. Then more. People started kicking at the locked doors of the personnel office. The glass cracked. They tugged at the doors and the glass broke as the metal frames twisted. The windows to the building were broken. The doors were smashed. Hundreds of people milled around the doorway. The bullhorn man pushed a group of terrified young office girls into the doorway. Each of them held an enormous stack of applications. I walked up the steps and grabbed one. I mailed it in the next day. I never heard back. That mill closed a few years ago.

I dunno. Life is so interesting; so hard. Here's what I'm thinking today and I hope it doesn't disappoint those of you who are expecting me to be tough and ironic. I think that the world is complicated and cruel. I think that the only reasonable response is to try to be generous and simple. I'm not having an easy time of it but neither is anybody else.

Just wondering

2011-07-30T15:11:00.000-07:00

Who is it that keeps coming here from Cocoa Beach, Florida? You're one of the great mysteries of this blog. I often wonder who you are. I also wonder what Happened to Sarah from Mississippi. She used to comment here all the time and then she disappeared. She left behind a cryptic hint as to her email address. I figured it out and wrote her. I never heard back.
What's to do in Cocoa Beach now that you can't watch the space shuttle taking off? The weather there must be awful this time of year. The weather here at the other end of the country is overcast and somewhat chilly. I like it. I like it here but that's a long story.
I had a little adventure for a couple of months. It was good. I'd do it again. What do you do for adventures in Cocoa Beach?

Life's A Gas- Southern Culture on the Skids (Buy)

In the summer time there are little frogs in my bathroom. I like them. They're almost tame. Sometimes They'll stand on my foot to keep from getting washed down the shower drain.

I know I should be concerned about politics right now, but I get so pissed off when I try that I stopped trying- for the moment. If anybody wants to actually, you know, do something, count me in. I mostly listen to music. Music is good.

I'm crazy now but I won't be crazy long.

2011-07-26T16:07:00.000-07:00

Beloved leader of the people, Mick Farren, was unhappy about some of the rehab industry ghouls hoping to turn a buck off the recent death of a popular singer. I share his disgust. However, he described one celebrity rehab guru as an, "unctuous TV network 12 step fascist". I have no problems with calling the guy an unctuous fascist and God knows I don't have much use for TV networks but Mick, like a lot of people doesn't know nothin' about the the 12 steps. I wrote him the following,

"Chairman Mick, As a hypnotized 12 step zombie who has lost all sense of self and surrendered all independent thought to the anonymous mind control cult, I can assure you that anyone who claims to be representing the 12 steps or any anonymous group associated with them is, by definition, a fucking fraud. Truth is that all of the various groups ending in A are composed of anonymous amateurs. People who share a common problem and seek a common solution. There are no leaders. There are no professionals. There is no money. I have hung around people professing to be anarchists since my teens. The closest thing I've seen to pure anarchy is a good 12 step group. It's true, you can go to meetings of some 12 step groups and hear some incredibly stupid things being said. That's because anybody is welcome, no one can be denied membership and anyone can say whatever he wants. Even if he's an idiot and a fool.
Speaking only for myself, 19 years ago I was clinging to a shotgun, hallucinating rather vividly and drinking myself to a lonesome and early death. Fate in the form of the crazy girl I was living with intervened and I was introduced to a group of people, many of them almost as crazy as me, who had found a way out of the madness that had engulfed me. They came from all kinds of backgrounds, professed all kinds of beliefs. The only thing they agreed on was a simple plan that included helping other people who suffered from their condition.
19 years later, is my life without problems? Of course not. This is life, not Candyland. I can say that my life means something to me, that I care deeply about the people around me, that I am curious and eager to see what life will throw at me next.
Comrade, I know a fuck of a lot dead people. Many of them were smarter, more talented and better looking than me. I don't envy them even though I still love a lot of them.
Amy Winehouse was more talented than most of the dead people I know but she died about the same as the rest of them. Truth is that there are also a lot of famous and talented people in 12 step groups. You don't know about them. You're not supposed to. I've met plenty of them. When they come into "the rooms" as we call them, they're exactly the same as the newest fuck-up loser to crawl through the door.
I'm not saying the 12 steps work for everyone. I don't actually know everyone. We haven't been introduced. They worked pretty good for me."

I've been pretty wrung out lately. Your heart can take you on a hell of a ride. I did a lot of stupid shit. I did a few things that were flat out fucked up. I did a few things that I'll smile about till the day I die. I'll do what I can to clean up my part of the mess. It won't be easy but it will be OK.

Honest, there's no significance to my choice of songs. I've been listening to The Greenhornes a lot lately. This was playing while I typed.

Don't Come Running To Me- The Greenhornes (buy)

The secret world of compulsive writers.

2011-07-25T13:10:00.000-07:00

Tim, from Poop In The Pipes dropped by for coffee today. Tim is like me, he writes because he has to.

Look, I have posted some fairly personal and emotional stuff lately. Let me make something clear, what I'm doing here is called writing. I am not ranting. I am not engaging in emotional diatribes. I am thinking my feelings through as best I can and then writing them down while they are still fresh. I review what I've written. I make revisions. I discard drafts and start again. I am trying to take raw emotions and make them into something like literature.

You can dislike what I've written. That's OK. Just understand that I am trying to take my experiences of life and understand them by writing about them in a conscious and deliberate way. If I was a songwriter or a painter some of you might understand what I am trying to do. You might enjoy my work and say that I was "passionate". You might even understand that, even though I usually write in the first person, I am not always the person who speaks in my writing.

I have friends in the real world. I have a support network. I am part of other people's support networks. There are wise elders and trusted counselors in my life. I don't write because I have no outlets. I write because I have to.

And what exactly is it you do with them when they can't take a joke?

I'll probably regret this.

2011-07-24T09:28:00.000-07:00

Yep, sure enough. I regretted it.

Shit happens.

2011-07-18T23:30:00.000-07:00

I was kidnapped by a mermaid. She took me to her underwater lair and showed me the secret pleasures of the sea. Now I find myself washed up on shore, wandering the waterfront where the other sailors consider me mad.

Damn, life, boy, it's the only thing worth living for.

The Clovers- Lovey Dovey (Buy)

This happened to me.

2011-07-16T16:16:00.000-07:00

One time I got up really early in the morning and went for a walk. It was winter time and everything was covered in rime frost. As the sun rose, the frost lit up in brilliant yellows and reds. It dawned on me that everything I thought I knew was actually on fire. Soon enough the world I thought was real would be nothing but dust and ashes.

When I got home from the walk I started to run a high fever. I was feverish all that day.

This was not a bad experience at all.

Who knew?

2011-07-15T23:01:00.000-07:00

So one minute I'm sort of a Christian and the next minute the whole idea of a male god as the exclusive spokesdude for the numinous seemed silly and somewhat offensive. I was hanging out with some old Irish guys and sitting in on the Catholic mass and generally being kind of Xtian and monotheistic and it suddenly dawned on me that the austere old god dude and the baby raping culture were closely connected and the whole thing seemed dismal when obviously, I mean, obviously, the god business was meant to be fun and it is a good thing to be in a body and not want to run around hurting people.
Damn, I mean, I didn't think there was anything harmful in the old mystic paradigm but the new epiphany just showed up fully formed and perfectly trustworthy.
Quite suddenly, God became a fun sort of dudess.
I'm sorry to disappoint my "rational" pals but I still ain't no atheist.

What I hate and why I hate it so much.

2011-07-10T12:04:00.000-07:00

I sure am glad I don't have a television. I mostly stay away from newspapers too. It's not hard to keep track of whatever I find interesting. I like the internet. I can filter out some amount of the crap that is being fed to me.

So Mr. Hope and Change is escalating four wars while negotiating cuts in social security and medicaid. Let's get clear on something, sociopathy is the norm. We live in a society where virtually everyone has embraced the role of victim or perpetrator. Most of us are happy to play either part depending on which role the masters demand of us. Our job at the moment is to uncomplainingly shovel babies into the jaws of Moloch, 24/7. Whatever it takes to keep us on the job is what we can expect. The word from on high is that Moloch hungers and we must have our rations cut to satisfy him. Buckle down and hope for better times. His appetites cannot be denied.

So that's what our free enterprise system looks like to me; a world of slaves who feed themselves to an inhuman archon and struggle to meet his expectations; a death camp where the prisoners guard each other while they wait for their time in the ovens.

But what about our exciting lives? Our favorite shows? The edifying spectacle of news and information that forms our opinions. Why am I talking shit when some woman has murdered her own child? Am I incapable of compassion? Why can't I see that I am engaged in idle chatter while a terrible injustice has gone unpunished?

My fucking point exactly. A woman has failed to meet her assigned role. Her job is to prepare that young life for destruction not to destroy it herself. Who does she think she is? That child will never be free to know the joys of subservience. Isn't that woman contemptible? Well, I suppose she is and even our bleak world has it's bright moments. Everyone deserves their chance at whatever happiness this world might afford them. No one should be murdered. Right? Especially not by their own mother.

Let's get clear on something else. Society talks a lot of shit. We find it convenient to talk shit about protecting the innocent but societies reproduce themselves. Every institution in any society exists to perpetuate that society and regardless of any pious hypocrisy, when ever an institution, the family, the church, what fucking ever, is doing something again and again, no matter how little you like it, that is one of it's functions. Brutality, terror, rape, murder and incest are as common as bullshit in our society and that's because they are functions of society. I'll admit they're some of the more extreme functions but they serve the same purpose as every other mechanism: to produce properly functioning members of society.

And so what if some percentage of society is broken and insane? Let them serve as a warning to the rest of us. Let them bear the burden of society's dark side. Let them remind us of what good mommies and daddies and babies are supposed to be like. So long as we have bad TV mommies to hate we don't need to look at the whole evil institution or question our compliance with it. The archon reigns supreme and we live at his sufferance.

I know that I'm damaged and not quite sane. I know that anyone I will ever love will be damaged and insane. I know this too. Of the many damaged and insane people I have ever loved the only ones I will ever love without reservation are the ones who have declared war on the system of mental slavery, who struggle to break their "mind forg'd manacles".

Look, I will not do all of your home work for you. Google the word "archon". Consider the possibility that you live in a false world created by a false god. Consider the possibility that you have worshipped him all of your life.

I am hurt and angry right now. I am not avoiding the specifics of my feelings. My mood will change. My heart will lighten. I will not worship the god of this world.

Not quite dead poets

2011-06-05T11:19:00.000-07:00

I once lived in a place that looked almost exactly the same as this. It was a tad crude but I was happy.

I'm sorry I haven't been keeping up here. I've turned into a facebook asshole; flirting with elderly high school crushes and posting you tube videos with witty comments.

So, once again, the writing bug bit me at an odd moment and I went into a long reminiscence about a landlord I had more than twenty years ago. We had a falling out when his wife decided she didn't like my girlfriend and evicted us. I'm glad I had a chance to make up with him a few days before he died. He dropped stone dead while working. He was always working. I doubt that death will find me working.

Here's what I had to say.

"Good news is that it's been a hell of a spring for birds. I've got bluejays, house finches, and gold finches at my feeders. In the winter I also had juncos and sulfur crested sparrows. A pair of western bluebirds are nesting right outside my kitchen and a pair of hawks are nesting up high above them. Wild turkeys, which had disappeared from the county back in the '40's are now so common that everybody is sick of them. An immense herd of tom turkeys wanders back and forth through my yard, gobbling and displaying.
I was renting from an old time bird watcher, and Klan sympathizer and general racist nut case, when the first turkeys were seen around here. He was thrilled. He was a hell of an odd guy but we got along. He knew more about local wildlife than anyone I ever met and he managed his farm using old time sustainable practices. He composted religiously. He had planted douglas firs as windbreaks when he was very young and they had grown into magnificent stands of trees around the property. He made it a point to leave hedgerows and wildlife corridors around his orchards.
There was an old Pomo indian shell mound/midden heap in his lower pasture. He told me about it but he swore me to secrecy. "If anyone finds out about it, I'll have the goddam government all over me telling me how to run this place." He did spray chemicals on his orchard but I have never seen as many different birds as I saw around there.
He and his wife were both addicted to pain pills and they were mean as cat shit when they got a few drinks in them. His wife was a literal castrating bitch. The old man got prostate cancer and the doctors cut off his balls to try and stop it from spreading. I rarely saw her as happy as she was the day he came home without his nuts. I think she kept them in a jar and hid them.
He was quite well to do and lived very comfortably but he worked constantly. When he was in his 70's he was stronger than I was in my early 30's. He worked every day, all day, on his many cars and trucks, or cutting down old trees and bucking and splitting them for firewood. He had a beautiful old barn full of every kind of tool you can imagine, many of them antiques handed down to him but still in use. He had a complete set of 19th century hand logging tools.
For all of his tough guy bluster he was really a gentle guy. He knew and loved the wild animals around his property. I never liked his wife, partly because she made him kill some of the hawks after one of them killed some of her pet chickens. It clearly cause him great pain to go out after those beautiful hawks. The old lady gloated over their corpses.
I always figured he was such a racist because he was trying to add a little glamor and excitement to his life. He was extraordinarily privileged and comfortable and I suppose that seemed sort of dull to him. He liked to imagine that he was facing all sorts of adversity but he was tough enough to handle it. I'm sure that his fantasies about having to protect himself from the government, the Jews and the Blacks were very pleasing to him."

I'm back to work two days a week. I'd like more money but I don't want more work. I actually love my commute. I get up early, ride an express bus to San Francisco, stop for coffee and then head over the Bay Bridge to West Oakland. I love sightseeing along the way. I get to see all of the construction on the new Bay Bridge and I see how many ships are in the port of Oakland. I like living in the country but I am not an anti industrial neo hippy. I love seeing big, big things. The port is the product of thousands of years of human endeavor. People have been crossing seas and trading goods since before we took up agriculture.

After working 22 years for a bridge, I love bridges. The new Bay Bridge is huge and might actually be beautiful. I love seeing the hundreds of cranes, work boats and barges working on it. I feel lucky to even look at all that knowledge and skill in action.

I'm doing paperwork and learning the Department of Transportation's new system for quantifying bus safety. It makes some sense and it holds bus companies responsible for some of their unsafe behavior. Ever since deregulation in the '80's the trend has been to let companies engage in wildly unsafe practices and then hold the drivers responsible for accidents. I am really unimpressed by the performance of the Democrats in Congress and the White House but Obama's appointees at the DOT and the Department of Labor might actually do the world a small amount of good.

I'm lighting candles to the Virgin of Guadelupe and Kali Ma, keeping the spiritual road open and trying to do my little bit to make the physical highways safe.

The Victory Travelers- I Know I've Been Changed (buy)

In which I offer criticism of a major American poet.

2011-03-22T10:31:00.000-07:00

So, my friend, Alice, posted this video on Facebook and I had to make an observation. This is by way of getting some general bitching outta the way.

I dunno, isn't she bitching because the old timers won't let her work harder? I had just turned 19. I was a new hire at Ford's Dearborn Assembly Plant, the mothership of the Ford Motor Company. I was given a pointless, but easy job on my first day. I wanted the boss to like me. I wanted the job to work out. I threw myself into it.

After about an hour an old timer, a battle hardened veteran, a grizzled old autoworker in his late twenties walked up to me smoking a cigarette.

He watched me work for a minute then said, "Kid, come 'ere a minute. Do you like work? Lemme tell you somethin' kid. The more work you show 'em you can do, the more work they'll provide yer ass. Slow down."

He meant that, if I let them, they would work me until my back was ruined. Until my knees and shoulders were grinding bone on bone. Until I lost a finger, or maybe a hand in the gears of some machine. Until the smoke and fumes had destroyed my lungs. Until my heart gave out or the cancer ate me alive. He was trying to tell me to pace myself for a life time.

I'm glad Patti ran away to become an artist but that doesn't mean she understood what was going on. I love Patti but this time she got it wrong.

Honest, my faithful anonymous reader in Cocoa Beach, I'm working on an original post here at Poetry Is For Assholes. Trouble is I'm not much for work. If you catch my drift.

Poetry is also for dogs

2011-02-01T15:40:00.000-08:00

I really should do more with this blog. I didn't want all of February to go by without a post.

Oh hell, Happy new year.

2010-12-30T18:24:00.000-08:00

Do people still come here? It seems they do. I keep meaning to post something, really I do. I'll try again in 2011. Dope City Free Press has been on a hell of a roll. Tim's blog, Poop In The Pipes, is great. Daisy Deadhead at Daisy's Dead Air is always interesting. Brown Femi Power will always be a hero to me. Nazz Nomad continues to rattle his sword at the world. Brother Ib at Siblingshot In The Bleachers is back with a new addition to his household. The Cahokian has emerged as one of my big fave blogs. Princess Sparkle Pony is swell as ever. Doc 40 is now broadcasting from Brighton, England. Civic Center continues to expose me to high culture in my own town. Blogging is not as dead as some people would have it.

So I'm listening to Gospel music and Cotton mill music and reading Chris Hedges.

Honest, I'll try and talk about it soon.

Here's Cheetah Chrome, by the banks of the Wabash in my old Indiana home. He's playing with some old friends and acquaintances. That Frankie Camaro was a rockin' motherfucker.

Happy New Year everyone.

Further inspiration from Tim

2010-11-09T21:04:00.000-08:00

For a while I inspected the welds on these big ass diesel crank cases for locomotives and tug boats.

Tim has got a pretty good blog called Poop In The Pipes. He posted something about working in a factory that made me think about my last factory job. I suppose I mourn the passing of the industrial economy but not enough to wish I was working in a factory. The money was good. I used to get fired a couple of times a month. The foreman would yell, "Your ass is fired! Get the hell out of here!"

I'd stand there and say, "I'm not going anywhere till I talk to my union representative." Then I'd stand around and wait for the shop steward.

The steward would show up and ask me what was going on and I'd tell him I hadn't been to work for three days and I hadn't called in sick. I didn't have a phone and I didn't like driving to the phone booth to call in sick. He'd say, "That's bullshit. You don't have to call in sick till the fourth day." Then he'd go to the foreman and say, "Don't be an asshole. This man needs his job. If you fire him you'll be violating the contract."

The foreman would say, "Yeah, but it's the third time he's pulled that shit this month." This was true. I did not have much of a work ethic. Sometimes I'd get "sick" on Monday and Tuesday, come to work on Wednesday, think better of it and get "sick" all over again Thursday and Friday. I kept that up for a couple of years until someone crashed into my car and put me out of work for a couple of months. That gave me some time to think. When I came back to work I didn't last long at all.

I posted the rest of the story as a comment at Tim's blog:

"My last factory job was a couple of miles from the nearest bar. I could punch out for lunch, drive the couple of miles, drink seven beers, eat a sandwich, drive back to the factory and punch in in exactly 30 minutes. The beers would make the floor feel pleasantly rubbery just as I was walking away from the time clock. I was worthless after lunch so I tried to do my work in the morning. By quitting time I was sober and feeling like shit.

That was in Chicago and it was a long time ago. The factory made parts for locomotives. The parts got assembled in a different factory so I never saw what exactly I was building parts for. I would fish parts out of bins, assemble them in jigs, weld them up and stack them in other bins.

One time one of the crane operators came to work drunk. His foreman told him to go home so he went back to his car and came back with a 30/30 rifle and started shooting out lights. Eventually he ran out of ammunition, someone took the gun away and the cops came. This all happened about 30 feet away from me but there were stacked up parts bins between us and it was so noisy that I didn't notice the gun shots.I didn't even know I hated that job until my foreman explained it to me. He said, "Look, I have a wife and two kids and a mortgage. I have to work here. You're young, you don't owe anybody anything and you're wasting your time here." Every time I think about that guy I could fucking kiss him. On the mouth."

Update- I should add that at first I was an enthusiastic worker at this job. I worked my days off and stuck around for overtime. It was only after I got overexposed to racist bosses and some creepy racist and anti semitic co workers that I started to get fed up. I decided I didn't want to get into management or to rise in the corporation. Then, without realizing it, I started to hate my trade and to just get tired of the whole thing. Like I said, it took a smart and good boss to explain me to myself.

Nobody has listened to this song since I posted it months ago. What's wrong with you people?

Go Out Smokin'- The Meat Purveyors (buy)

Where I stand on the anarchy question

2010-11-05T22:52:00.000-07:00

From my friend, Tim: "The twelve step group model is the truest form of libertarian anarchy at work in the world today. No one is in charge, nothing can be changed without the informed consent of the people, it's free, you can leave when you want, you can come back when you want and, no one group is affiliated with any other. The entity has no opinion on anything other than their own business, anyone can join, all group politics are strictly internal and handled as such. Dues, fees and contributions of labor are all unenforced and voluntary." Be careful who you tell this to, they might not know they are involved in anarchy.

From John Ball: "When Adam delved and Eve span, Who was then the gentleman? From the beginning all men by nature were created alike, and our bondage or servitude came in by the unjust oppression of naughty men. For if God would have had any bondmen from the beginning, he would have appointed who should be bond, and who free. And therefore I exhort you to consider that now the time is come, appointed to us by God, in which ye may (if ye will) cast off the yoke of bondage, and recover liberty."

Really, I'm not much of an anarchist but I'll stand by these two quotes.

2010-11-01T20:15:00.000-07:00

A victory for gay hippies, latte drinkers, beatnik poets, pointy headed intellectuals and liberals. Also, a victory for a fine baseball team. I've had a real good time following the World Series and I'm enjoying this victory.

I was going to post "Till Victory" by Patti Smith but I bought it from iTunes and iTunes now claims that it owns all of the music that I bought from them and I am not allowed to burn those songs to CD or convert their format. Today the world series. Tomorrow we destroy the iTunes store. Wednesday we'll hang the last banker by the guts of the last Republican.

How about this instead?

I Left My Heart In San Francisco- Tony Bennett (buy)

Go Gay Hippies!

2010-10-30T23:40:00.000-07:00

This guy got on my bus 15 years ago who turned out to be this guy I hadn't seen in 20 years. In the meantime he had acquired a soon to be ex wife and a sweet terribly serious little boy. We made friends again and the little boy grew up. Along the way, the kid developed a taste for alcohol and weed and pain pills and lies. He ended up pissing everybody off so bad that he checked into rehab at the strong suggestion of his entire family. He finally decided that maybe that wasn't such a bad idea and he's been sober for almost a year and a half. Somewhere in there he picked up a guitar and became a pretty good player. He gets a big kick out of the fact that his dad's old friend is sober and we hang out together on our own now. He's been saying we should get together and learn a song sometime and today was the day and this was the song.

It was funny for me because he can play all kind of weird jazz chords and he knows all of this music theory and he can improvise in keys that only dogs can hear but he did not know how to play a country and western waltz. I got to get him up to speed on 3/4 time and led him through the chord changes chanting 1-2-3/ 1-2-3.

He suggested that maybe it would be cool to try playing the song to some kind of speeded up ska beat. He thought that would make the song sound funny and not so serious. I had to explain to him that the song is already funny. Apparently he hadn't considered that possibility. I sang it to him in my best super sincere country western voice and he had to admit that maybe it was a funny song after all. He played me a really funny song he wrote about having sex with farm animals.

The hardest part of "Pardon Me" is the spoken word part. You have to sound like you are just talking casually but pace yourself so you say the last word just as the guitar plays a G chord. We just barely got that going when it was time to leave.

I dropped him back at his house just before the Giants game started. He said, "I really wanna see the San Francisco Gay Hippies beat the Texas Oil Assholes." It didn't happen tonight but it's nice to know that every Giants victory is a victory for gay hippies everywhere. I keep thinking that it's my imagination that the World Series is about politics but the TV kept showing that notorious asshole and murderer George Bush. I was watching the game in a taqueria for a while. Somebody said "Bush really looks like shit." Somebody else said, "Good". To me he looked pretty hung over.

I had a pretty good day. Go Gay Hippies!

Then there's this

2010-10-29T13:13:00.000-07:00

This is as lovely a Bay Area moment as I have ever seen and I don't even like Journey.

I'm a fair weather newbie fan, so fucking what?

2010-10-29T11:53:00.000-07:00

Nobody here but us Giants fans. Good to know that San Franciscans are still all about "fuck you".

I haven't really followed professional baseball since the Mets won the 1969 world series. I am really enjoying this world series though. After hearing, for years, that San Franciscans aren't really Americans, from tourists for chrissakes, it is a real pleasure to see George Bush's baseball team beaten by San Francisco. I know this makes me not a real fan plus how dare I confuse sports with politics? All of that. I don't care. This is fun. Texas fans are scandalized by Giant fans smoking weed in the stands? Personally I think that gay Giants fans should scandalize them worse by kissing in the stands. As Soupy Sales once said, "I'll kiss you between the strikes and you can kiss me between the balls." Sadly the series is moving to Arlington. I'm sure Arlington has a really nice Walmart and I'll just bet they have a really good TGIFridays too. As the Talking Heads once said, "I wouldn't live there if you paid me." Go Giants.

Apropos of nothing whatsoever, I really like The Thermals first ep. They have some other good stuff but this is the one for me.

No Culture Icons- The Thermals (Buy)

Posted elsewhere

2010-10-24T19:15:00.000-07:00

Originally posted at John Shirley's Facebook page.
A work friend very earnestly explained to me that his wife did not understand his desire to get together with other people who are "interested in exploring anthropomorphic animal costumes". I about shrieked, "Holy shit! Are you a furrie?"
He started looking all serious and said, "Why? Is that a problem for you?"
I think his wife should restrict his computer privileges. This is a man who has already admitted to me that he has built his life around ideas he learned from Star Trek.
Moody-ESG (buy)

Why I write

2010-10-16T12:13:00.000-07:00

So the other day I'm watching this interview with some guy I've never heard of. He says, "Writing is for people who like to be by themselves but also feel this need to communicate." That sums it up. I don't write much and I don't write for noble, world changing reasons. Sometimes I need to tell somebody something

A Perfumed Garden- The Television Personalities (buy)

Detroit in the '70's

2010-10-16T11:32:00.000-07:00

Like I've said, all my best stuff gets posted elsewhere. A few days ago a friend sent me an article about Detroit. It set off this long reminiscence about life when I was 19 or 20 years old.

"I moved there 37 years ago and huge areas of the city were already abandoned. I used to live in one of the semi abandoned mansions near Indian Village. 13 of us were renting a 10 bedroom house with servants quarters and horse stables for something like $150 a month. It was as insanely dangerous as the South Bronx or Alphabet City (Back then) but cheap to live, tree lined and you could get a two day a week student job in the car factories for union wages. If you were lucky one of your two days was Saturday so your pay started at time and a half. For a while there I was even living on my earnings working one day a week at Chrysler's Jefferson Avenue Assembly plant. It was the weirdest mixture of Industrial culture, apocalyptic urban collapse and '70's bohemianism.
Cheap rent, high wages but there were no grocery stores, drug stores or laundromats. You had to take a long bus ride to the suburbs to buy fresh vegetables or do your laundry and anything that wasn't left locked up with serious hard core locks would be missing when you got back. Everyone (except me and my friends) carried a gun and people got shot all the time. When I was living in a row house near downtown someone kicked in our back door while we were upstairs. We thought about going downstairs and then realized that who ever it was had heard us and they hadn't left. We figured he'd kill us if we went downstairs so we stood at the top of the stairs and cleared our throats until he left. (Ahem, ahem) There wasn't really anything to steal so he ended up loading a box with all of our groceries and stole the little radio that was our only source of music. Everything else had already been stolen earlier.
I find it amusing that some of the trendiest anarchist ideas being advocated by dreadlocked vegan trustafarians were originally developed by friends of mine in Detroit. They were mostly young autoworkers taking classes at the Harvard of the industrial proletariat, Wayne State University. I still sometimes hear from those guys and I don't think they're impressed with their followers.
A while ago I ran into one of my old radical roommates from those days, a (then) young Black guy who grew up in Harlem. Now he's a shop steward for the San Francisco City electrical inspectors. He's married to an old radical girl from back then. They own a house in an outer neighborhood in SF and talk about moving to the Sierras when they retire."

A little further reminiscing, My roommate Jim was a tall skinny hillbilly intellectual from some little town in upstate New York. He had a badass Mercury Cougar with alloy wheels and wide tires. He used to be a heroin addict. Then he was an auto worker. He said that factory work was like being a junkie. A year or two would go by and you couldn't remember anything but a couple of bad days and a couple of good days. All of the other days were the same.

One morning we woke up and Jim's car was sitting in the alley without wheels or tires. The thieves had courteously left the car propped up on cinder blocks with a full tank of gas. We had already been robbed of our little radio and the house was so cold that turning on the furnace was more an act of defiance than a remedy for the cold. We gathered up our tiny collection of 8 tracks and went out to the car to get warm, listen to music and drink. We were having as much fun as we were capable of, even if we didn't know it.

Below Your Means- Alice Cooper (buy)

He's In A Hurry (To Get Home To My Wife)

2010-08-26T19:20:00.000-07:00

OK, So I decided not to post that song but I'm posting these two other heavies. This CD has a ton of great titles and a hell of a lot of great songs.

Look, is anybody following my logic here? I don't listen to much "punk rock" and I almost never post any "punk rock" songs here but I think most of what I post here is pretty much punk. Perhaps I am full of shit.

Then again, one of my favorite quotes is, "I used to think I was open minded but then I found out I just liked weird shit." Make of that what you will.

Pardon Me (I've Got Someone To Kill) - Johnny Paycheck (Buy)

It Won't Be Long (And I'll Be Hating You)- Johnny Paycheck (Buy)

Paycheck was the most morbid hard core honky tonk guy on Earth. There's songs about nuclear destruction, songs about getting beat in bars, songs about cheating wives and songs about murder. It's the nuclear destruction thing that kind of pushes him over the top. I mean, most honky tonk songs are about self loathing and drama but you know...

I posting this in a hurry but I'd like to pause for clarification. No one has ever exactly defined hipster to my satisfaction but most people seem to agree that hipsters enjoy irony. I'm not a hipster. I like these songs.

World of Dispensation

2010-08-01T22:15:00.000-07:00

Because life is not all silly songs. Sometimes life is beautiful songs. Around the time this came out I was suffering from some kind of brain fever. Too much liquor, guns, drugs, unhappy girls, poverty and small town life. I was turning into a grown up and life was not trending in a grownup direction. There were, however, these moments of unbelievable clarity. I didn't know what to do with them. The fever would break and I would be granted a moment of peace. Hearing this song was one of those moments.

World Of Dispensation- Singers And Players (Buy everything they ever recorded. Do it.)

Breakeroo! Still Keeping It To Once A Month.

2010-08-01T20:52:00.000-07:00

I sent this song to Blogpal Devil Dick but I enjoyed it so much I had to share it with the whole darn blogosphere.
It seems obvious to me that the guy who recorded this is gay. Gay people often have much better and more subversive senses of humor than straight people. That makes the song sort of a double joke. I used to listen to it with my friend, Vern. Vern was a real cowboy, raised on a ranch training rodeo horses. Among other things he used to drive big rigs over the road. He was also gay.
We shared a deep and abiding love of beer and old country songs. When I played this one for him he laughed so hard he pissed himself. I'm sure the beer didn't help.
Last I heard from him, Vern was working for the CHP in Southern California. This goes out to him and all of the other gay rednecks on I-5

C.B Savage- Rod Hart (buy it if you can find it)

Update- Turns out the whole album is available to download at Amazon. Bread on the waters!

Oops, I missed a month

2010-07-01T15:49:00.000-07:00

I haven't posted anything for the entire month of June. I've been real busy and pretty happy about it. A day or two a week I ride the bus to Oakland to work at the part time job. That's one of our buses pictured above. I've been enjoying the job, even though it is a job. I was just sworn in as a delegate to the North Bay Central Labor Council. I'm a retiree, but I'm still a union member and our local president asked me to take the job. It's nice to meet some real labor people and learn about some of the good work they're doing, right here in racist hippie liberalville. Hey, I love racist hippie liberalville but there's definitely room for improvement. I've been seeing my friends. I'm playing a little music. Went to the Jim D'ville ear training workshop. I'm going for lots of walks in beautiful California nature.
OK, so the world ain't right. It's definitely not right but at long last I'm approaching the problem from a good place.
So look, I just wanted to share this song. Danny Barnes is impossibly cool, too smart to be real, wholly dedicated to music and capable of transcending genres in the blink of an eye. This is some kind of banjo weirdo death chant.

Funtime- Danny Barnes (Buy)

Oh and thanks to Mike W. for putting me on to Mr. Barnes

Fuck yes, I'm from New Jersey

2010-05-26T19:23:00.000-07:00

Every year my family would make our annual memorial day pilgrimage to "the shore" as we call it in New Jersey. My favorite shore city was definitely Asbury Park. We used to go to Palace amusements and ride the bumper cars. For a lot of reasons that I'm not going into, I got a picture of "Tillie", the smiling face on the side of the now destroyed Palace Amusements building, tattooed on my left arm. Yep there's Tillie, almost in my armpit. My left arm is almost all ink and there just wasn't any place to fit him in. I'd consider posting a picture but he's all nasty and puffy looking at the moment.

Thanks to Devil Dick for this swell song. DD is a great guy and a Jersey patriot.

I Like Jersey Best- The Phil Bernardi Band (Definitely no longer in print.)

Farm livin' is the life for me.

2010-05-26T18:15:00.000-07:00

For those of you who are urban dwellers. City people often imagine that life in the country is quiet. Rural America is all about small, unmuffled gasoline engines. starting at sunrise. Some guy has been running a bucketloader, back and forth and back and forth and back and forth and back and forth and back and forth and back and forth and back and forth and back and forth and back and forth and back and forth and back and forth and so on for the last nine hours. He's supposed to be preparing the riding arena by scraping off the top few inches of loose soil and preparing the ground so that several tons of sand can be dumped on it. The arena is about 2,000 square feet. You'd think he would have hit water if not China by now. Actually, the arena looks about the same, except for the tire tracks from the bucket loader. All of this is taking place about five feet from the sheet metal walls of my home. I am grateful to report that the guy got here before sunrise and wanted to get started right away but my landlord wouldn't let him. What is wrong with people? I can't think of anything that I would want to do at five in the morning. I'm guessing that several large truckloads of sand will be dumped at my backdoor at five tomorrow morning. Then the bucketloader dude can spend nine more hours spreading the sand, back and forth and back and forth and back and forth etc.

Don't get me wrong, it's beautiful here, but I'm thinking I might want to return to the big city. I'm not making any plans or looking at any apartments. I'm just putting it out there. The last time I put something out there, I got a job. I think I'd prefer a small, quiet place of my own but I'm open to the possibility of roommates.

I notice that nobody, nobody at all, pays any attention to the songs I occasionally post. This is great stuff here. Listen up. Here's some of what I'm listening to lately.

Howsabout I try a "provocatively" titled song?

The Girls Are Naked- The Creation (Buy)

Dock Boggs was one fuck of a punk rock guy.

Old Rub Alcohol Blues- Dock Boggs (Buy)

Finally, this is simply the most badass white blues song ever recorded. Absolutely.

Release Me- Charlie Feathers ( This is seriously out of print. Buy it if you can find it.)

Any chump with ears can listen to music. Have you been producin' any art lately? (Comrades Nazz and Todd, you've already posted your answer in the affirmative.) I've worked up an almost satisfactory version of "Crazy" as written by Willie Nelson and made famous by Patsy Cline. For some reason I've been enjoying playing Television Personalities songs. The down side of my amateur musical career is that I have not been making it to any Ukulele Club meetings which is a real shame. I did however receive a fan letter for this very blog from the head anarchist down at the Petalukes. She publishes an interesting blog, California Women, I'm looking forward to reading more of it. My lessons with Tippy Canoe are on temporary hiatus as Tippy tours and I reintegrate myself in the workforce. However, thanks to the good works of the Petalukes, I will be attending a work shop by Jim D'Ville. I'm just working around to studying Jim's book on music theory and his ear training for ukulelians video.

Sometime soon I'm going to work up ukulele versions of "Nature Boy" by Nat King Cole (among many) and "My Andy Warhol Poster" by The Time.

Life is pretty good.

The smell

2010-05-10T23:15:00.000-07:00

So I started the new job today. It was OK. More some other time. What I ended up thinking is that if you willingly spend more than 5 hours a day taking the bus to work and back you are going to end up looking for a place to piss. In San Francisco the public sector and private industry have joined hands in closing every restroom in the whole goddam city.The last time I had to use a men's room in Golden Gate Park it was flooded in piss, ankle deep. It was the only public restroom for miles. I waded in and did my manly thing. In most of the city there's nothing that nice available. Despite the fact that it was raining off and on the whole fucking city stinks of piss. Really, the whole city is one giant urinal. I suppose I'll just have to take advantage of the city's many reeking doorways.

Hello, hello! Greetings and welcome

2010-05-07T00:06:00.000-07:00

People keep coming here. Some of you seem to come here more often than me. Sometimes I think I should say something about my current situation. My current situation is fine. I go for acupuncture twice a week. I can breathe. I go for long walks with my friend, Mark. I play the ukulele every day. Sometimes I go to Oakland and take lessons from Tippy Canoe. It's OK.

I seem to have landed a job. I'm going back to work for a company I worked for 26 years ago. I WILL NOT be driving. I'll be working in the office and the shop 2 days a week. I'll be working for my old bosses' son. Back in the day I was a young hot shot. Now they want me to be an old pro. It's OK.

I suppose I'll have to do something with this blog soon. Thanks awfully for coming here.

RIP

2010-04-20T23:52:00.000-07:00

This little rooster was my good friend. A fox found our little family of chickens. It carried off a chicken every other day. The lone survivor was my friend, the rooster. He managed to last for a week and a half after his little wives had been killed. He was damn near crazy with loneliness and he would follow me around and stand next to me any time I left the house. I felt bad for him. He disappeared sometime today. He was a good rooster. He was kind to the hens and chicks. He wouldn't eat until they had eaten and wouldn't roost until he was sure they were safe. His little flock was prosperous and healthy under his leadership.
He had been hand raised by a young boy and he was always friendly and curious towards humans. He would eat out of my hand if the hens would let him. He would run to see me, flapping his wings and pausing to crow.
He was an uncommonly handsome bird. I will miss him.

Good Old Boys, Or, Why I Live Here

2010-04-17T15:50:00.000-07:00

I'll have to admit, I don't get it. I don't really know why Southern White people with no money would identify themselves with the flag of the Confederacy. I get that poor white southerners feel like a separate ethnicity or culture or something. I know I was thinking about "If That Ain't Country" by David Allen Coe. I watched a video of Coe performing it. It's a simple little song, but he makes a hell of a case for poor white southerners as a misunderstood and disrespected minority and he makes it playing a guitar decorated with a Confederate flag.

So, I'm thinking about good old boys, while I'm sitting in the parking lot at the acupuncture clinic. I get that you've got to honor your heritage and I get that you've got to stand up for who you are and I get that you've got to call 'em like you see 'em and damn the consequences but what all of that has to do with the southern slavocracy I'll never be able to understand.

There aren't many poor white people in Northern California. There aren't that many genuinely poor people here. It's too damn expensive. We have a few people around who sort of fill the good old boy niche. They look like the guys in the picture above. They sit around and talk about Grateful Dead shows in 1967, what pot is selling for these days and why the Republicans are the cause of the world's woes.

Just then a cranky looking old white guy pulled his pick up truck into the parking lot. He was driving too fast and he looked like a bit of a mean old guy. He had a bunch of bumper stickers on the back of the truck. I couldn't see all of them but I could see that he was an NRA life member and a member of The Marine Corps League.

"Oh good", I thought, "maybe he's a real California redneck".

His wife got out of the truck first. She had to help him a little. It took him quite a while to get out of the truck. He was a dried up old guy and it looked like everything hurt. I could see where that mean look came from. I waited for him to walk past before I pulled out of my parking space. I drove past the back of his truck and checked out the rest of the bumper stickers. There were a couple more NRA stickers. There was a big red and orange sticker that said "Once A Marine Always A Marine". There was a sticker that said, "No Farms No Food". There was also a sticker that said, "War Is Never The Answer, Wage Peace" and another that said "No On H8- Everyone Has The Right To Marry."

Honor your heritage, stand up for who you are and call 'em like you see 'em and damn the consequences. God, I love it here.

April is poetry month

2010-04-17T14:56:00.000-07:00

Poetry is for assholes and I am an asshole. It truly doesn't get any better than Amiri Baraka. I'm sorry to say that I have not
spent as much time as I should listening to women poets of color but a lot of what little I know about life, I learned by taking
the plugs out of my ears, sticking a plug in my mouth and listening to non white artists and thinkers.

Straight Street- John Coltrane (Buy)

The Confederacy can kiss my Yankee ass

2010-04-13T14:00:00.000-07:00

The execution of a Confederate war criminal.

I haven't been posting much. I've been busy. Life is swell although I'll have to admit that I was pissed off about the whole Confederate History month thing. The subsequent "Whoopsies, we forgot about the slaves!" episode only pissed me off a bit worse. The Atlantic slave trade, the basis of The Confederacy, was one of the great crimes against humanity. The states rights argument which has been drug out time and again to justify outright racism is bullshit, plain and simple. The latest variation, "But there were Black confederates and lookit all them Black conservatives", is bullshit too.

I got somewhat pissed at a friend of this little blog for reviving some of those arguments. She's good people and a fine writer, but she's just plain wrong this time. I tried, and obviously failed, to keep my sense of humor. She can delete my comment. That's OK. This is not necessarily a free speech zone. I'm not going to link to her post. I will add two things. First, I'm aware of the fact that Lincoln was a Republican. I'm also aware that he was no champion of civil rights or the Black race. I went to liberal Yankee schools where I studied history. Second, this is not an altogether anti southern post, but really, fuck the Confederacy.

Here's what I said;

"Oh friend, if you make it to the end of this one, we are probably not going to be friends anymore.
It's a well known fact that I am a communist from Northern California. I believe that only homosexuals should be allowed to become bishops in the Episcopal Church, that all women should have an abortion whether or not they are pregnant and that all men should be forced to marry a gay person. I believe the federal government should force my beliefs on everyone.
I am aware of the fact that there are possibly as many as 37 Black conservatives in America. I have known one or two, although I have never seen two at the same time.
I am also aware of the fact that there are people who liked to be tied up, humiliated and given enemas. I have seen several of them together at once, although I don't understand them either.
I also know that many people are convinced that we have a two party system, not like the communists who were only allowed to vote for competing communist candidates. Here we have a choice of two candidates each of them representing different corporate interests, neither of them representing my interests.
Some people are stupid enough to believe that the oil and coal corporate party is the party of freedom. It is the party of oil and coal. I can tell the difference. I do not listen to the radio or watch TV.
As to the Confederacy, here's where we truly part company. I'd like it real well if all memory of the Confederacy was buried. If the burial ground was plowed and sown with salt, that would be even better. I'd like it if flying a confederate flag was considered an act of treason. I'd like it if confederate nostalgia was criminalized the way nazi nostalgia if criminalized in Germany.
I am real tired of sending endless federal dollars to the south and then hearing about how awfully the south suffers under the cruel burdens of medicare, food stamps, federal highways, school lunch subsidies, social security, unemployment insurance, workplace safety requirements, etc etc. If there weren't innocents involved I'd say we should grant you your wishes, stop sending money and let the south slide even further into third world poverty. Maybe Mexico would help you out.
Finally, if you insist on believing that we have two parties, look at the statistics. In the southern states, voting is almost exactly along racial lines. Black southerners consistently vote to the left of most northern Democrats while White southerners consistently vote the same as northern Republicans. Stop trying to hide behind black folks."

While I'm passing new laws for the south, I'd like if they made it illegal for people named Hank Williams, but who aren't really Hank Williams, to stop releasing records under the name Hank Williams. .If Pisspants Braindamage Williams and Pathetic Richkid Poser Williams want to keep releasing records that's OK. Just stop trying to trade off your tenuous relationship to a talented dead relative.

Wildwood Flower

2010-03-28T10:30:00.000-07:00

This got my Sunday morning off to a good start. I don't have much to say here because I've been out and about in the real world. I'm going to start missing the money soon, but I don't miss my old job one little bit. Many people have said they've never seen me smile so much. I wasn't in a bad mood before, I was just too tired to work those face muscles. My health is improving. My blood sugar is essentially normal I'm losing weight. My breathing is better I haven't had anything like a real asthma attack in weeks. This is OK. I even got offered a part time job, driving a big rig to Portland and back a couple of times a month. I'm not sure about that one. I don't know if I feel like crucifying myself behind the wheel again. Then again, I could probably use the money and how many people are being offered jobs, unsolicited these days? I've got a few weeks to think about it.

I'm also being showered with ukuleles. Here I am with Gary Timmons number 001. A very successful prototype built by my friend Gary. What a jolly old bastard I'm becoming!

By the way

2010-03-22T12:36:00.000-07:00

Click on the picture for a look at the detail that goes into a Style O Deluxe. Why is God so good to me?

I'm feeling pretty good but I'm finding that taking care of myself is pretty demanding. My travel plans are starting to seem over ambitious. I spent two days away from home last week and damn near starved to death trying to stick to my food plan. I'm staying home and cooking for myself for a while. I'm still going to try to make it to the So Cal desert next month (Todd?). I'm hoping to make it to Seattle to pick up a banjo uke from Jere Canote in May (Mike?) and I might even make it to Indiana for the Ukulele World Congress in Needmore in June. (Anyone in Bloomington?)

In truly weird uke news, I was checking craigslist last week while having my coffee. There was a posting for a National Style O Deluxe resonator ukulele. I know I said I liked my Republic resonator better than the National I tried, but I was curious. It's hard to imagine a classier resonator uke than a style O. So I called the guy and he was asking less than half of list price. He said the ukulele was almost unplayed and in mint condition. The big hook was that he was just a couple of miles down the road.

So I saddled up the elderly Volvo and headed over to see what turned out to be, as advertised, an almost brand new Style O Deluxe.

I played it a little bit and it was apparent that it is more ukulele than I need. I'm just not that good, although I am enthusiastic. The seller turned out to be a pretty good player and he ended up letting me fart around with the uke while he got out some other ukes and gave me some tips to improve my playing.

After a while, it began to dawn on me that I would never see another Style O at that price again. I would spend the rest of my days going, "I coulda hadda Style O for cheap, but I felt that I was unworthy". It also dawned on me that I would probably never again find myself with a little bit of cash to call my own and a Style O at the same time. As to the quality of my playing, well, that's what practice is for. The Style O is sitting across from me in all it's nickel plated glory.

Much as I've loved it, The Republic resonator is for sale. Or not. There's a lot to be said for owning too many ukuleles. I mean, God forbid, what if the world ukulele supply suddenly ran out?

And you know what I did the next day? I went to Oakland and took my first ukulele lesson from the great Tippy Canoe. I think I've gotten as far as I can with the self taught thing. I need someone to correct my mistakes and push me in new directions. Tippy turns out to be, among other things, a great listener. She heard me play, she listened to what I hoped to achieve and she gave me a push in a good direction. She's got me working my way further up the neck, playing chords in more positions, and she's got me working on playing with others. I think we also had a lot of fun. I'm looking forward to going back soon. What fun!

By the way, Tippy is teaching at Acme House of Music. I was curious about Acme, I pictured a hipster haven, done up in Nuevo Retro style. I couldn't have been more wrong. Acme is a truly ratty old music store, littered with weird musical junk that, on closer examination, all turns out to be unbelievably cool. The store was recently bought by a younger couple, but the original owner is still enthroned and holding forth. I liked hanging out there. I got there early by accident the first time, next time I'll get there early on purpose. There's a good coffee shop across the street. I'm looking forward to a nice cup of coffee on Acme's sofa.

2010-03-21T20:56:00.000-07:00

For some reason blogger has started making up it's own mind about things lately. I'm not allowed to post pictures or links or much of anything else because I get error messages about something called "span". I've gone to war with this damn software and won before. I don't feel like figuring it out now. I'll get around to it sometime soon.

summer is coming.

2010-03-14T11:08:00.000-07:00

I was going to buy a t shirt from this blog but it seemed kind of pricey.

2010-03-12T23:55:00.000-08:00

Remember when I posted about my fondness for the town of Boron, out in the High Desert above Los Angeles? Boron is in the news because the folks at the Borax mine have been locked out. Management refuses to bargain with the union unless they will concede seniority and almost every workplace practice. No surprise, the union couldn't negotiate on those terms so management locked them out.

America is being turned into a nation of rats and punks. People are so thoroughly narcotized by television that their highest ambition is to someday be allowed to kiss a billionaire's ass. I'm glad somebody is willing to stand for some kind of principle rather than blaming the immigrants or the poor people or unwed mothers or whoever they think needs kicking. If things go on this way soon we'll be a nation of Walmart employees who can't afford to shop at Walmart.

The normally unreadable Mike Davis wrote a pretty good piece on the lockout- Here

Update- The miners are represented by The International Longshore and Warehouse Union. I'd love to know the history of how the longshoremen ended up organizing so far from the water, but I can say that the ILWU is everything a union should be. Over the years I've had quite a few friends and a couple of family members who were ILWU and it is a real stand up, rank and file, solidarity based union. You can read about the lockout at the union's website HERE.

This is a nice little slide show on LA Labor's support for the locked out miners.

2010-03-12T18:51:00.000-08:00

Sometimes I just love San Francisco. It's this jumble of shapes and perspectives and colors. I've never been any place like it. On the other hand, it's no bargain.

This swell photo was stolen from the SFist blog.

Come to Jesus

2010-03-11T16:41:00.001-08:00

Hat tip, as they used to say, to Michael Homan. This is a spectacular piece of calligraphy, and it's one of my favorite Bible books but you know I also just kinda like looking at it.

He Got Better Things For You- Memphis Sanctified Singers (Buy)

Better Things For You- Holy Modal Rounders (Buy)

2010-03-05T16:41:00.000-08:00

Have I posted this before? I don't think so. I've been sending it around to friends. The singer has real star qualities. I'd probably hate her all done up on TV in front of a band but she knocks me out performing with her boyfriend in her living room.

You want covers? I got covers for you.

2010-03-04T11:45:00.000-08:00

The mighty Ramones have fallen. The Hypstrz are no more. That leaves GUGUG as the greatest cover band on earth.

Germ Free Adolescents- X Ray Spex (Buy)

2010-03-04T10:41:00.000-08:00

"The pure products of America/ Go crazy"- William Carlos Williams

I ain't dead yet. I am feeling pretty disoriented. I can tell you that I don't feel like I did the wrong thing. Otherwise, I'm getting my feet under me. I'll let you know if I touch ground.

Psychobilly Freakout- Reverend Horton Heat (buy)

this is it.

2010-02-25T22:41:00.000-08:00

I have a real bad cold or allergies or something. I feel lousy. I've been off work all week. I was about to let the whole thing slip away, but I got a couple of phone calls from friends encouraging me to come to work tomorrow. I'm driving one more trip into the city tomorrow morning. I'm all done after that. I've been driving for a living off and on since 1973. 1971 if you count moving trucks around a parking lot and backing them up to a dock when I was a teenager. I think I'm done with all that. A bit over a million miles. Something like a million and a quarter. That's plenty. I'm glad I did it and I'm glad it's over.

From Kass

2010-02-25T22:39:00.000-08:00

Our friend, Kass, posted this in the comments section,

"I haven't updated all of you who were kind enough to include my daughter in your prayers and thoughts because I kept waiting for some final "happy ending" to report, but life is not that pat. My daughter is still in the hospital, but what I can say is we are finally out of the woods, so to speak.

It's too long a story to go into and the details don't matter really. I'll just say it's been harrowing, but miracles do happen and she's going to be OK.

With love and gratitude for all that positive energy that's been sent her way,

Kass"

Miracles do happen.

For Ib, brother and comrade

2010-02-21T16:48:00.001-08:00

Ib, I just haven't been giving you the attention you deserve. For your undying devotion to Moulty and The Barbarians,
This is for you. From the department of Ukulele gender studies at Poetry is For Assholes University.

For those seeking enlightenment, you may learn more about Ib HERE.

Malcolm

2010-02-21T10:38:00.001-08:00

From The Cahokian, a reminder that the great Malcolm X was killed 45 years ago today.

Also from The Cahokian, an excerpt from one of Malcolm's last speeches,

"Now, the press, behind something like that, they call us racist and people who are "violent in reverse." This is how they psycho you. They make you think that if you try to stop the Klan from lynching you, you're practicing "violence in reverse." Pick up on this, I hear a lot of you all parrot what the [white] man says. You say, "I don't want to be a Ku Klux Klan in reverse." Well, you - heh! -- if a criminal comes around your house with his gun, brother, just because he's got a gun and he's robbing your house, brother, and he's a robber, it doesn't make you a robber because you grab your gun and run him out. No, see, the man is using some tricky logic on you. And he has absolutely got a Ku Klux Klan outfit that goes through the country frightening black people. Now, I say it is time for black people to put together the type of action, the unity, that is necessary to pull the sheet off of them so they won't be frightening black people any longer. That's all. And when we say this, the press calls us "racist in reverse."

Malcolm X 1925-1965

Good news from the culture wars.

2010-02-19T13:48:00.000-08:00

One of the few images of the man reputed to be B. Traven.

A little further internet searching has turned up a few books in print by B. Traven. I found a short biography of Ret Marut, the man most people believe was the real "B. Traven" here.

I also found a great little short story by Traven. It gives a nice feel for what Traven was all about. Traven's books are widely available in Spanish. In Mexico he is known and loved as a true friend to Los Indios. You can read the story here.

Traven was a pseudonym. He didn't want to be pointed out as the great author. He sincerely wanted to be a worker among workers and a bit of the salt of the earth. He knew he was an artist, but he saw that there are artists everywhere and he just wanted to make his art.

Now, the other day, I was walking past The Borders Book store at China Basin, across from the ballpark in San Francisco. It has to be the worst big city bookstore in the world. Its only a half hour walk from City Lights Books, one of the best bookstores in the English speaking world. Borders seems to be mostly a gift shop, but they do have displays of currently popular books. In the window they had a huge display of the works of Ayn Rand.

Rand was the polar opposite of Traven. She wanted her face on the cover of every book. She appeared in every media outlet that would let her in front of a camera. She thought she was a genius. One of the few geniuses in the world and set apart from everyone else.

Traven wrote simple, poetic prose about the lives of ordinary people. Rand wrote turgid, adjective laden woofing about the suffering of billionaires. I suppose it's only right that Rand should be given a prominent display in the worst bookstore in San Francisco.

No one knows how white men suffer

2010-02-18T22:18:00.000-08:00

Doesn't it make you sick to see this guy exploiting all of his unfair advantages?

So, I get off work and I go into the driver's room There's this asshole sitting there watching Fox news, as he does every night. I find that I am being asked some over personal questions as to just what my retirement income will be. I make a little joke, "Look, I'll have a check coming every month and if I have to panhandle for the last week of the month, I don't give a shit."

The asshole says, "Yeah, but those panhandlers make 60 or 80 thousand bucks a year. They're all hustlers."

So, I say, "Asshole, err I mean Bob, that sounds like an excellent hustle. Why are you working when you can make that kind of easy money standin' around in the rain?"

Asshole says, "What about the guy in the wheelchair on Van Ness? He always gets all hunched up and looks bad when he's panhandling but you see him later and he's doing wheelies. He probably doesn't even need that wheelchair."

I say, "What a lucky guy. Living that good life in a nice wheelchair. Why don't you get a nice wheelchair like that and start living large?"

Asshole says, "You know what I mean. Those guys have put together a scam."

I say, "Bob, I hate to break it to you. There's a lot of fuckin' scams in this world. That TV you worship is a fuckin' scam. The banking system is a fuckin' scam. Putting on a suit and keeping up appearances so you can lie to people and steal their money is a fuckin' scam. Don't be chickenshit Bob."

So, Asshole says, "You know what I mean. Half of those guys don't even need those wheelchairs. They're lying!"

"Alright Bob, don't scam. Be an honest man. Show some ambition and initiative. Be a man Bob. A moment of pain and a lifetime of privilege. Take a fuckin' chainsaw and cut your fuckin' legs off. You deserve it Bob. Shit, you owe it to yourself."

At this point I'm so angry I'm shaking. I walk out and call Doctor Wayne. Doctor Wayne is another one of those wheelchair scammers. He has cerebral palsy. What a fuckin' scam. He was told that he was mentally retarded and spent much of his childhood in some of those real plush California state hospitals. He has a PhD in psychology. He is remarkably kind and patient.

"So, Wayne, could I have handled this any better?"

"No," he says, "but you probably should have cut it short and told him to fuck himself."

Really, there are assholes out there who feel oppressed and exploited by guys in wheelchairs. Fuck me.

Fuck them.

The Wonders of Science

2010-02-16T20:00:00.000-08:00

The late Jim Hurd, public librarian and man of the people, used to drink with a good ol' boy named Li'l G. G was not impressed by Hurd's computer abilities. "I'll buy a computer when they invent one that'll suck my dick", said G.

Hurd said, "Well, Li'l G, start savin' up".

There's supposed to be some kind of mobile app thing on my fancy new phone that will allow me to post here. I got cross eyed typing on those teensy little keys and then hit "Post". I got back an error message saying that I needed to register my device by sending an email with the word "REGISTER" in the text. I made the mistake of sending the word, "register" instead. I got back another email ordering me to send another email with the word "REGISTER" in the text. I tried to comply, got another error message. Tried again, failed again etc.

Finally the google and phone company decided I was a good boy and set me up with a new blog. I don't want a new blog. I want to post at this blog. Oh well.

I don't care how many stars it got. I'm not going to buy that blowjob app.

the plan as it currently stands

2010-02-15T15:00:00.001-08:00

I am off work today for the three day Valentine's day holiday. Tomorrow I go back to work for two weeks and then it's all over. 22 years on the job and I'm done with it.

The plan as it currently stands is to take a couple of months, get rid of most of my stuff and hit the road for a while. The big plan, more or less, is to cross Canada, head to St. John's and finally see Newfoundland, where my father was born. After that, I'm thinking I want to head down the east coast and look up some friends in the New York/ New Jersey area. After that I have no idea what I'll do. I'll have my passport with me.

Any invites, especially for a free place to sleep, will be welcome.

To tell you the God's honest truth, I'm kind of scared. I've never had this kind of freedom in my life. Actually, I'm trying to scare myself. 22 years is a long time to be plugged into a routine. I'm hoping to break some habits, find some new ways of thinking about things.

I've got a fancy telephone. I can send emails from most everywhere on earth. I can even squint at the internet on a little screen. I'll be bringing along a ukulele. Something is bound to happen.

Juimonos (Let's went)- Little Richard Elizondo Combo (Buy)

I'll admit to being in a bad mood

2010-02-15T14:19:00.001-08:00

In addition to the fact that Ayn Rand thought that she was the greatest genius in the history of history since forever she also considered herself to be an irresistible temptress whom no man could resist. If she had not made a brilliant career out of writing bad novels advocating narcissism and sociopathy as worldview and ideology she believed she would have had a brilliant career as a femme fatale film starlet.

And yet, so many of her admirers are creepy assholes....

Anyhow, when I said that you should beat up a graduate student to get the money to buy B. Traven novels, I didn't really mean it.
I have a friend who is a former graduate student who really did read W.S. Maugham and she is a perfectly decent person. Don't beat her up.

Also when I said that I would gladly see Ayn Rand forgotten by history in exchange for a world where B. Traven is shown the respect he deserves I was sort of overstating my aim. I really just meant that I would gladly see Ayn Rand forgotten by history. Traven could take care of himself.

I follow the games

2010-02-15T14:13:00.000-08:00

Thanks to my friend Alice Wolfson. It is fun to be old and laugh at the affectations of clueless young people. It really is.

Rumor control

2010-02-15T13:22:00.000-08:00

Rumor has it that "Hallelujah" by Leonard Cohen is the greatest song ever recorded. A lot of people seem to believe that they are required by internet law to email me links to various persons performing this song. I've checked it out on Snopes and other internet sources and there appears to be no foundation to these rumors.

Through careful research, I've been able to determine that this is the greatest song ever recorded:

LSD- Go Devils (Buy)

Be sure to post it on Facebook and send all of your friends real bubbly emails with links to this wonderfully beautiful and inspiring song. I'm sorry to say there does not appear to be a video on Youtube of the Go Devils performing this song during the Olympic opening ceremonies so don't forget to let everyone you've ever come across on the internet know how moving their performance was.

A post script

2010-02-13T10:59:00.000-08:00

And on the other hand, the modern world is swell. I tell you it is swell. When Traven is silenced someone else will take his place; someone whose heart is as vast and whose vision is as plain as Traven's.

I can only give you a link to part of this fine piece by Rebecca Solnit. She's not the modern Traven but she's worth reading. Track down this article. Read it. go celebrate Carnival. Turn the world upside down, for a minute, in one little place, anytime, anyplace you can. LINK HERE.

the modern world sucks

2010-02-13T10:31:00.000-08:00

The internet is full of bad news. Bad news.

I just found out that there are no B. Traven books in print. Not in the US anyhow.

When I think of the worthless fucks whose books are read reverently by graduate students and writers workshop idiots I really seriously want to break things and curse.

The next time you meet a graduate student who admits to having read W.S. Maugham, beat him up, take his money and use it to buy a copy of "The White Rose". You'll have to track down a used copy but it will be worth every cent you steal and every drop of blood that graduate student sheds.

Sometimes I think that art is just some crap I use to pass the time but GOD DAMN IT I would gladly trade the whole of John Updike, William Faulkner and Ayn fukkin' Rand- I would happily see their memory wiped from the face of the earth- in exchange for a world where B. Traven is given the respect that he deserves.

The modern world is a heaven for cowards, punks and snitches. It is a world ruled by vampires.

A personal request.

2010-02-04T17:53:00.000-08:00

Kass is a regular reader here and at Mick Farren's Doc 40 blog. Just at the moment (s)he's carrying the weight of the world. (Her) daughter has cancer and (s)he's helping her cope. She's scheduled for brain surgery next week. (S)he has asked for prayers and good thoughts.

I don't know if prayers are magical. I don't know if prayers can help someone far away. I know that praying helps me. When I pray for someone else it makes me a better man. I know I bring some of that with me when I get up from my prayers.

Every day I go out in the world, knowing that I am less than perfect. The best I can hope for is that maybe I can do more good than harm. When I pray I figure I'm improving my chances of doing something right. Maybe that has a ripple effect. Maybe the small good that I am able to bring to the world can send out a wave of tiny acts of kindness that will reach someone far away.

If I have a ministry I figure it's pretty tiny. I'm also pretty sure it's about acts not words.

Keep Kass and (her) daughter in your thoughts and prayers.

Update!! Kass is a SHE. Keep Kass and HER daughter in your thoughts and prayers.

Listen Lord, A Prayer- James Weldon Johnson, Margaret Waike (Buy)

further proof that ukuleles inspire coolness and coolness attracts ukuleles

2010-02-02T15:07:00.000-08:00

From The Wellington International Ukulele Orchestra's website. Orchestra member Gemma Gracewood's biography:

"If the WIUO was the solar system, Gemma would be the sun, bathing everyone in life-giving rays of goodness.

If the WIUO was the Titanic, Gemma would be the propeller, driving us to collide deliciously with the icebergs of international acclaim, and leaving us to drown in the freezing waters of musical ecstasy.

If the WIUO was a sacrificial goat, Gemma would be its beating heart, held aloft, spraying blood before being placed in a ceremonial bowl and eaten raw by delirious ukulele supplicants.

Gemma likes the colour green. She adores its green-ness, its vertiginous appleness, how it coos like dove and laughs like a young cloud in calorific distress. Think of feijoas... plump and facile. They sweat and mould in the harsh Brazilian sun, crying tears like sugar - waiting for the grace of a jewel. Gemma likes feijoas, and she handles them like they were her children.

When the Nano-Machines get here, when the noosphere reaches its 'tipping point', when we have learnt the 7 billion names of god, when Omega-minus meets its transcendental function, Gemma will be there waiting for us. And she'll say, "Hey guys, I've met some real crazy dudes from Andromeda who are keen to sit in on our next gig!"

New Zealand- another place I'd rather be living. At least I'm not pregnant.

One's On The Way- Loretta Lynn (Buy)

Real Class

2010-02-01T15:57:00.000-08:00

Ami Worthen of Mad Tea Party presents a musical tribute to her Pohaku ukulele.

Peter Hurney, of Pohaku Ukuleles is a hell of a classy guy. He just sent me both versions of the Pohaku calendar for 2010. As in previous years there is a spicy bleu risque calendar (tits) and a bikini version. Both are backed with a magnetic strip for convenient mounting on your refrigerator or toolbox. I won't be posting any of the calendar pictures but you could buy a ukulele from Peter and get your free calendars in the bargain. If you can't afford one of Peter's ukuleles just get ahold of a ukulele and play it.

It's Cold Outside- Mad Tea Party (Buy)

It's Cold Outside- The Choir (Buy)

Whadaya Want- Mad Tea Party (Buy)

A reply to our friend, @eloh

2010-02-01T15:16:00.000-08:00

I have maintained my link to the The Iowa Writer's Workshop Is Totally Corrupt Blog because, dammit, someone has to point out that the Iowa writer's workshop is totally corrupt. I know that they haven't posted anything since 2006. Maybe they were silenced by minions of the Iowa Writers Workshop.

I really don't like the Iowa Writers Workshop. People go into it writing things like, "A tall, thin, blonde man walked across a recently mowed field".

They come out of it writing things like, "A long, lean figure navigated a barren stubble of stiff, sun bleached winter wheat. His eyes spoke of windswept distances and aching loneliness. His hair was the color of wild oats on a forgotten hillside."

Bite me.

The work of exposing expensive writer's workshops must go on. Fuck 'em. Go write something.

Growin' A Beard- The Morrells (Buy it if you can find it. Check the prices on this one.)

"Put some hair on it."

Busking on the frozen tundra.

2010-02-01T10:38:00.000-08:00

It's either inspired creative parenting or child abuse. Ross K of Gazetteer fame has been dragging his kids out in public places and busking on ukulele and guitar. I think it's great.

I really like this video because it also introduces us to The Hammer, Mr Beer N. Hockey's famous dog. There's even reason to believe that some of those grown up knees belong to Beer and Sonia. Plus I dig that crazy harmonica.

Ross and his kids kind of remind me of Dr. Michael Homan and his kids. Dr. Homan is a friend of a friend of a friend. Four years ago he helped his, then ten year old, daughter, Kalypso, make a documentary about why she loves New Orleans and how she felt about Hurrican Katrina. It's one of my favorite YouTube videos. Kalypso and her dad are both great bloggers.

I was really pleased to see Beer and The Gazetteer get together. I hope to meet some of my readers someday.

Will drive buses for food.

2010-01-27T20:44:00.001-08:00

Soon I might be competing for dinner with this adorable kitty.

I signed the papers. I got The Numbers. I am officially retiring on March 1st. I will be taking a whopping 60% pay cut. Funny thing is, I don't feel the least bit nervous. I got my first bus driving job when I was 19 years old. I drove around Detroit in the middle of the night with a newfangled tape recorder that played these little cassettes. I listened to Mott the Hoople and the New York Dolls. Now look at me listening to Hawaiian music on my iPod.

I'm already out looking for my next job. The good part is, if I don't like it I can tell 'em to fuck off.

Rockin' Chair Money- Hank Williams (Buy)

Old Age Pension Check- Roy Acuff (Buy)

Just for old time's sake, imagine you're on the Southwest side of Detroit, driving the Baker bus and listening to this through a three inch speaker on a tape player that's chained to the base of your seat. You never, ever left anything laying around in Detroit. It didn't matter if you were right there. If you had something and someone could pick it up and take off with it, someone would.

All The Young Dudes- Mott The Hoople (Buy)

2010-01-27T11:11:00.000-08:00

God, I feel like such a jerk. I actually googled iPad. Like I've just got to know all of the details. I can be talked into anything.

rat pack ukulele

2010-01-26T20:28:00.001-08:00

"Come fly with me."

Did Frank Sinatra do a version of "All of Me"? If he did I'm working up a regular little Sinatra song book for the ukulele. It's not something I'm doing on purpose. Sinatra songs just present themselves. A few weeks ago I was fooling with some fumbling attempts at jazz chords when I realized I was playing the chords to "The Lady Is A Tramp." A while later I was noodling around with the C scale and figured out the melody to "Someone To Watch Over Me". Just today I got sent a file of sheet music for "All of Me".

My parents listened to that Rat Pack stuff when I was growing up. A lot of it really makes me feel creepy. I cannot stand to listen to the Rat Pack Christmas Album. It makes my skin crawl. I feel like I'm growing a new relationship with those old standards. Now I can even listen to Sinatra.

My parents listened to WNEW in New York. We always listened to the William B. Williams "Make Believe Ballroom Time" show. Williams always announced Sinatra with the words, "The chairman of the board. Mr. Francis Albert Sinatra..."

I never thought I'd post a Sinatra song here.

Someone To Watch Over Me- Frank Sinatra (Buy)

City of dogs

2010-01-24T11:35:00.000-08:00

I watched the movie 'City of God'. Then I watched a documentary about Brazil. Then my friend, Toxic Tom called me up to ask what I was doing. I told him about the movies and he said, "Oh, yeah. Just like back in Cleveland."

Tom knows what he is talking about.

Breaktime

2010-01-14T14:55:00.001-08:00

I'm turning off the computers for a week. See you next Friday.

2010-01-09T09:17:00.000-08:00

I can't find a replacement halogen bulb for my reading light. I finally decided it would probably be less trouble to buy a new lamp. I went to K MART in Santa Rosa. They have got lots of cheap, Chinese made crap.

There was hardly anyone in the store. They had giant drums of orange things that were supposed to be some kind of food. They had tons of decorative throw pillows. There were lots of empty shelves. So much cheap crap. It looked a poor person's apartment after a burglary.

The section with lamps and light bulbs was mostly empty. The did not have the kind of light bulb I need and they had about six really, really ugly table lamps. I couldn't bring myself to buy one. It was nice to see the place failing.

I was reading yesterday that someone asked Allen Ginsberg what exactly was going on. It was the sixties and some people were macrameing their nose hairs and some young people had admitted to having had sex. Some other people were being "turbulent" about the mass slaughter in Viet Nam or else they were being "turbulent" about being treated like shit, which didn't use to be something you could be "turbulent" about. You are not allowed to be "turbulent" about that again, but for a little while some people were "turbulent" anyhow.

So you can see why some one would be concerned and ask Allen Ginsberg, leading American poet, what was going on.

Supposedly Ginsberg said, "A lot of people are lonely. It is very strange... being in a body."

That makes a lot of sense to me.

Fight Fire- Southern Culture On The Skids (Buy)

2010-01-09T08:32:00.000-08:00

I went back to Alameda to see my Dad yesterday. He was in a cranky mood. He wanted me to take him out for pizza. When he found out I didn't have time he started pouting. He complained a lot about how life sucked since his girlfriend, Ellory, died. I really liked Ellory. How she got stuck with my Dad I'll never understand. When Ellory was alive my father used to complain about how life sucked since my Mom died. Sometimes Ellory would interrupt him to ask him if he'd ever had any good times with her. He lit a cigar, stank up the room and sulked. He never once said anything good about Ellory when I was around.

The unexamined life ain't worth livin' friends.

I finally got the old man to put on his oxygen thing. He perked up a little bit but he still wanted me to know that he didn't like some of the groceries that I'd brought him and he wasn't going downstairs because all of those people were old and he didn't like any of them. A lady from the staff called and asked him if he was OK because he didn't come down for lunch. He yelled at her to leave him alone. What a guy.

I couldn't get out of there fast enough. I jumped on a bus and made it back to SF for an acupuncture appointment. Acupuncture really seems to be helping my breathing, plus it is strangely psychedelic. After all of the pins go in I feel wonderfully relaxed. I usually fall asleep in the chair. Yesterday I fell asleep and had psychedelic dreams. I woke up with a bunch of needles sticking out of my face and thought, "Jesus. This is realy fun!" I mean it was all fun. The needles were fun. The acupuncturist, Jennifer, was fun. The other people in the room were fun. The chair was fun. The traffic noise from the street was fun. So much fun.

This is my all time favorite sad song.

Who Will The Next Fool Be?- Charlie Rich (Buy)

2010-01-08T23:27:00.000-08:00

I got lost in the fog yesterday afternoon. I missed a turn on a back road up in the hills and found myself in the world famous Sonoma valley. The sun was setting, but the fog was so thick I couldn't figure out which way was west. I drove and drove for an hour. I never came to a town. I passed Fifth Street three times and Eighth Street twice. I drove over little bridges with signs that said "Sonoma Creek" at least ten times. I was trying to get to downtown Petaluma. Eventually I found myself driving East, away from downtown. The thing was that I had started out east of downtown and I had never driven through downtown, but there was downtown, behind me.

Eventually, I got turned around and drove around downtown for a real long time and finally found a place to park. California is supposed to have a twelve percent unemployment rate. I think the whole twelve percent spends its time driving around Petaluma, looking for parking places. Petaluma is a beautiful little town. The craziest people in the world live there and I do not mean that in a good way.

I wanted to go to the music store in Petaluma. It is a really classy old store, so packed full of stringed instruments that it is hard to walk around. I heard they had a five thousand dollar Martin ukulele. Sure enough, there it was. Five thousand dollars in a glass case next to a gazillion dollar one of a kind Martin guitar. They weren't going anywhere.

I have a two hundred and sixty dollar Republic metal bodied resonator ukulele. I have always wanted to try one of those fifteen hundred/ two thousand dollar National Resophonic metal bodied ukuleles. There was one of them sitting right there. All I had to do was pick it up and play it. I did. It really didn't sound as good as my little Republic. I liked that music store but I didn't need to spend any money there. I walked out smiling.

I was really going to a meeting of the Petalukes ukulele club. The meeting was held in the Moose Lodge. I got there early and a Moosette tried to convince me that it would be to my advantage to become a Moose. I know she was a Moosette because the Men's and Lady's room doors said, "Moose" and Moosette." A couple of minutes later a couple of guys came in carrying ukulele cases. They saved me from the Moosette. I liked them right away.

Thirty five people ended up showing up for the meeting. Chairs were pulled into a big circle. Music stands were set up. Big notebooks of photocopied sheet music were unpacked along with a whole bunch of ukuleles from brand new cheapo ukes to classy old well loved ones. After a round of introductions and a disclaimer from one woman, "I'm not the 'leader' of the group. The group doesn't have any leaders", we started a wonderfully chaotic sing along. Sometimes the whole group was playing together and most of us were singing. Sometimes half the group was playing and singing at one speed while the other half was half a verse behind them. We weren't singing rounds or anything, we just weren't singing the same thing. Sometimes part of the group had sheet music in one key while the rest of us had it in another.

The group was mostly pretty old, but it was California and they were mostly pretty old hippies so we sang "Ripple" by the Grateful Dead and "Yellow Submarine" by some other band. We tried to do a medley of "God Bless America" and "This Land Is Your Land" but only one guy knew all of the chords and he kept shouting out the changes to us. We sang a couple of Everly Brothers songs. There were several really good players, a bunch of sort of competent strummers and a few people who could barely understand what was going on. It was a big goddam mess and lots and lots of fun. I got to make tons of mistakes without looking dumb. Every once in a while it even worked and sounded pretty good. I showed one guy a couple of tricks to get through some of the harder parts. A couple of people taught me things. One woman told me, "We can only agree to play in one key and that's 'Anar-key'. " I was smiling and smiling.

I did not get lost on the way home. I listened to Shonen Knife and The Monroe Brothers. I kept smiling and smiling. Every once in a while I said to myself, "Jesus. That was really fun."

Fine Artiste Blues- R. Crumb and his Cheap Suit Serenaders- Buy

2010-01-02T08:31:00.000-08:00

I don't have a top ten of 2009 list. I don't have anything to say about the decade in review. I spent New Year's day cleaning my house. It was time well spent. I've been camping out here. It is nice to move back into my own house.

This song is 41 years old. I was 15 when it came out. It was "heavy". Play it loud. Like you're fifteen.

Fast Life Rider- Johnny Winter (Buy)

I'll admit, I haven't been working very hard at this thing.

2009-12-29T22:43:00.000-08:00

After a week off work I no longer feel sick and exhausted. I just feel really, really tired. This is progress.

Happy Kwanzaa

2009-12-28T18:20:00.001-08:00

I missed solstice and it's two days into Kwanzaa, but I don't want to let it pass unremarked. A couple of people have told me recently that Kwanzaa was "just made up". I hate to break it to you kids, so was every other holiday. I can see nothing but good coming from the values and principles of Kwanzaa. You can learn more about them here and here.

Damn, I hope that didn't come across as patronizing, seriously.

Life is funny

2009-12-24T13:55:00.000-08:00

San Francisco City Hall, all lit up for Christmas

Let's save our cynicism for better times. A very Merry Christmas to all

Mele Kalikimaka- Asylum Street Spankers (Buy)

Here's a Christmas elf, San Fran style.

Both pictures were stolen from this fine photographer.

Christmas Lights

2009-12-24T07:43:00.000-08:00

My friend, Andrew, took this picture of me last week. I won't be driving for Christmas and this, hopefully, has been my last Christmas season at the wheel. I've worked many Christmases. It will be sweet to gather 'round the uketide Elvis tree. Some sadists from the friends o' Bill volunteered to sponsor a 4AM Christmas meeting, so I will be practicing the secret handshake at an unnatural hour, but I intend to go back to sleep shortly afterwards. Here's a few suggestions for those of you who are going out caroling.

From the City of Lakes, where ice surfing has yet to catch on, Minnesota's greatest surf band sends Santa a Christmas wish.

Real Live Doll- The Trashmen (Buy)

From Brooklyn, the borough where hepness reigns, Binky Griptite wishes us a soulful Christmas.

Stoned Soul Christmas- Binky Griptite (Buy)

Some of you are facing a seriously sucky Christmas without job, money or prospects. I've been homeless for Christmas and it sucked. Still, if you are free and not in a war zone you're having a better Christmas than some. John Prine shares a Christmas message from a man in thrall.

Christmas In Prison- John Prine (Buy)

And finally, from Bloomington, Indiana, the city where every Christmas is merry, The Walking Ruins wish you a Happy Hardcore New Year.

Happy Hardcore New Year- The Walking Ruins (Buy)

Go be merry.

Holiday adventures

2009-12-22T21:52:00.001-08:00

This image was swiped from the unspeakably cool Invisible Edge

I go away for a few days and when I come back I find out that people have been reading this thing. I've been running around in the three dimensional world.

First, I am in the first week of the seven week pre-retirement vacation. I also just got notice that the large orange bridge, highway and transportation district has approved my paperwork and I am now recognized as a mildly disabled proletarian hero and Stakhnovist of the first order. Just yesterday I was a bum who never bothered to show up for work. It is a damn good thing that I am a recognized gimp because my car is starting to act like it wants money. My car has never wanted a small amount of money. I do not have a large amount of money. My car might be the cause of some terrible health problems before I finally manage to retire. It is good to be able to take off work with only a mild amount of anxiety over job loss.

I am still more than a little sleep deprived. The old timers who have departed for the other shore (retirement) send back messages. One of them told me that it takes about two weeks to realize how tired you really are and another two months to get caught up on your sleep. Yesterday, I got up at an ungodly hour to take a bus to SF a train to Oakland a bus to the island city of Alameda, a cab to South Berkeley a car to Ashby Avenue in Berkeley, a train back to SF and rides in various cars around SF. I tried to fit in a ferry but the scheduling wouldn't work out.

Along the way, I visited my dad in his new assisted living community. It was a nice enough place. The old man was sitting there, unshaved and wearing a dirty sweatshirt. He was sitting at a table with another old gent, quite talkative and 92 years old. Also at the table was a woman who didn't say a word for many minutes. Then she stood up and announced, "It's OK. I'm 95 years old." She grabbed her walker and wandered off. Dad is only 84, but he doesn't seem particularly happy about it. For much of the visit he sat silent and stared into the middle distance. Then he'd get a little smile on his face and say something to me, then he'd go back into his little world. Pretty much the way he's always been, only more so. I'd have to say it was a successful visit.

Then I made a mad dash across Alameda and Oakland to the Berkeley home of Peter Hurney and Pohaku Ukuleles. Peter has just finished several ukuleles. I wanted to try out the new concert sized instruments. I'm looking to buy myself a retirement present. If you've come here from a google search I'd be happy to give you a review of any of the ukuleles that I played. They were all beautifully made and sounded great, but my big, big favorite was a concert sized resonator. First of all, I like the resonator sound. Second I like the sheer "gizmoness" of resonator instruments. The little concert sized resonator was LOUD as hell and pretty as anything. A visit with Peter is a real treat because his ukes are the coolest, but Peter is a cool guy himself. He really likes what he does and can talk about it with great eloquence. He showed me a bunch of nifty graphs explaining the tonal qualities of various woods. He has also just finished putting up an exhibit on California ukulele and guitar makers. He did it in conjunction with the Oakland Museum. The exhibit is on display at the Oakland airport terminal. You can read about it here.

I'll end it there for now. I'm too tired to be writing even though yesterday didn't end until after two AM. The trouble is that today's mad dash started at seven AM.

Here's a favorite Christmas song. Other than the title, it doesn't seem to have anything to do with Christmas.

Archie, the Red Nose Reindeer- Tappa, or if you like, Tapper Zukie (buy)

And remember kids, the axial tilt and the eliptical orbit are the reason for the season.

Let's put the X back in Xmas

2009-12-12T11:33:00.000-08:00

Bob Dylan sings a Christmas song that doesn't make me wanna puke. Not bad for a Jewish guy. Speaking of which, Happy Hanukkah to all.

I can't say enough good about the selection of Christmas songs at Big Rock Candy Mountain. I'm just crazy about the world weary sound of Behind the Wheel For Christmas by the Saddle Tramps. "Dashin' through the snow with 40 tons of hay/ Gotta feed some hungry reindeer at a strip mall in LA."

It's Beginning To Look A Lot Like Xmas

2009-12-06T11:58:00.000-08:00

Jesus at the last supper- As reenacted on the planet Whammo.

People got nothin' better to do than complain about holidays? It's time to remind each other that we're not doing it right. Does Christmas, as we know it in these straitened times, blow? Well, fuck yes, but it's probably the best we can do- for the moment anyhow.

In the meantime I find myself buried under culture war alerts. Raging Xtians claim that they are under attack as the "Holiday" marketing scheme seems to be beating out the "Christmas" marketing scheme in the hearts of bean counters down at corporate headquarters. Truly, when even the marketing experts have lost faith in Jesus as an indicator of consumption patterns our nation, indeed our world, is doomed, doomed.

Across town at socially sanctioned beatnik world headquarters, pagan fanatics and pious areligionists point out the fact that there were solstice festivals of light that predate the alleged birth of Christ. Besides which what were shepherds doing out tending those flocks anyway, what with lambing coming up around New Years and all? Christmas it seems is not only ahistorical it's also a total rip off from the beautiful pagan tradition of worshipping trees and sacrificing children to statues.

Somewhere in the middle "normal" people like to point out that Christmas is dreary. I've got to say that it is California cold as hell where I live. It's nowhere near say, Minnesota cold, but in Minnesota people have insulated houses and central heat. Here in Cali when it's twenty nine degrees outside it's about forty in your living room. I'm rapidly running out of propane while my inadequate furnace competes with my uninsulated walls. Outside it's foggy and gloomy and they're predicting a week of cold ass rain. Dreary.

Well yes, it is indeed dreary and once again it is my Holiday duty to point out that gloom and drear are the reason for the fuckin' season. It's cold and dark out there. Put up some fucking lights. Eat some food. Drink if you like. Do it with friends and family. Stave off the coming darkness by spreading a little cheer.

Pesonally, as a Christian, I find the season a useful metaphor for considering the arrival of Christ in the world. That's why I put up the sparkly black Elvis tree, listen to the Christmas tunes and give a few cards and or parcels to select (usually young) loved ones. I like being with bunches of friends and eating rich food too. Not good for the diabetes, but good all the same.

If the Jesus thing doesn't work for you celebrate whatever of the many solstice based holidays you chose. Just try not to be a poot butt would you? Times are hard enough without anyone spreading miserabilism, OK?

Frosty The Snowman- Man Or Astroman (Buy)

For my brother across the waves, Comrade Ib and for anyone seeking religious salvation, consider a trip to Whiskey Heaven.

Whiskey Heaven- Fats Domino (Buy)

thought for the day

2009-11-29T19:32:00.001-08:00

Eugene V. Debs is visited in the Federal Penitentiary by his running mate, Seymour Stedman. From the Indiana State Library's photo collection

Obama is not a socialist. I am a socialist.

Christmas With The Devil

2009-11-29T17:00:00.001-08:00

Devil Dick from The Devil's Music blog asked me to help him to understand the Holy Modal Rounders. I promised him a couple of downloads and, finally, here they are. Technical difficulties don'tchaknow. Merry Christmas Devil Dick. I'll be putting up my sparkly, black Elvis tree in a week or two.

Half A MInd- Holy Modal Rounders (Buy)

Dame Fortune- Holy Modal Rounders (Buy)

Here's a special holiday bonus. I've heard some of the New Weird America bands. Mostly, they don't work for me. Drakkar Sauna from Lawrence, Kansas comes closest to capturing the Rounders feel.

A Bird In The Hand Is Worth Two Bush Administrations- Drakkar Sauna (Buy)

Christmas cheer.

2009-11-29T08:11:00.001-08:00

A pack o' Luckies, a pint of Old Overholt and a pearl handled derringer for Christmas.

Big Rock Candy Mountain, an excellent music blog, will be posting tons of Christmas songs from now until December 25th.

I dislike Christmas music so intensely that I have become obsessed with finding bearable Christmas songs. What began as the Phil Spector Christmas album has expanded into an almost twenty four hour long playlist of Christmas tunes that don't drive me nuts. I'll try and post one occasionally. I suppose this means that I like Christmas music.

Christmas In Vietnam- Johnny and Jon (Buy)

C'mon Santa- Mach Bell and his Elves (Buy)

2009-11-28T09:40:00.001-08:00

How I've been spending my time.

2009-11-28T09:27:00.000-08:00

Trying to breath, very difficult, and convincing the large orange bridge that they shouldn't fire me because I am in the process of retiring. Worst comes to worst I will have to invoke my 'disabled' status (diabetes, asthma, PTSD) and start talking about lawsuits. I don't think it will come to that. All of this, especially the breathing part, makes it hard to get around to posting. My Doctor, Doctor Vacation, is on vacation, again. He has been on vacation for most of the time that my dubious health plan has assigned him as my doctor. Makes it hard to document that I am receiving ongoing treatment for long term medical problems. Actually, I am not receiving treatment. I am listening to recorded messages on a phone tree. This will all be over soon.

I had a terrific Thanksgiving with my oldest friend, Bob, and his family and friends. Lovely people and I hardly ever had to leave the room to spew snot.

Why I Sometimes Spend Time With My Family

2009-11-15T11:49:00.000-08:00

In The Pride of the Marines John Garfield played a Marine Corps vet who returned home blind. Here he endures a heartbreaking Christmas tree tragedy. I can't help it. Every time I think of certain mishaps, I laugh. In addition to knocked over Christmas trees, I laugh at the thought of dropped wedding cakes.

My father is a Newfie. Born in Newfoundland, Canada, in 1926. In Newfoundland it snows eight months out of the year. When my father was born, most people on the island did not have electricity. If families were unable to put enough food by to last the winter they might very well starve. When my father was a babe in arms, his mother took him to Brooklyn, New York. He grew up in Brooklyn before Brooklyn became stylish. Long before Brooklyn became stylish. He was raised in a three room tenement apartment with no hot water, no bath tub and a communal toilet that was shared with the other apartments on the floor. My grandmother lived there until I was in my teens. My aunt, uncle and cousins lived downstairs. It was a very New York arrangement.

My grandfather was an alcoholic New York City Ironworker. He was one of the men who built the New York skyline, when he could get work. If he could get work he had a tendency to drink up his paycheck and leave his wife and six kids at home. My father's people were Ironworkers, Teamsters, maids, longshoremen and cooks. They were the salt of the earth, which is another way of saying they were poor.

In 1943 my father graduated from Boy's High and joined the Marines. He was sent to California and from there to the South Pacific, the Solomon Islands and war. He served with the First Marine Division and rose to the rank of Sergeant. It is probably for the best that he did not have to participate in any of the horrendous amphibious assaults, but he heard plenty of shots fired in anger and endured regular bombardments. Even though he was discharged from the Marines in 1946, my father stayed a Marine sergeant for the rest of his life. Once a Marine, always a Marine. Semper Fi.

In 1949 my parents met and got married. The newspaper article announcing their wedding was headlined, "Miss McCarl to wed Marine sergeant.

One of my father's prized possesion was a book, "The Old Breed- A History of the First Marine Division in World War II". When I was a kid I was fascinated by that book. I spent untold hours studying the photographs and looking at drawings and paintings by Marine Corps artists. In addition to a detailed and very readable history of the First Marines the book served as a sort of high school yearbook of World War Two. Every Marine who won the Medal of Honor had his picture and a paragraph or two describing what he did to earn the US Military's highest honor. Most of them won the medal for falling on a Japanese hand grenade, absorbing the impact of it's explosion and saving the lives of his comrades. At the end of the book is fourteen pages of small type: a list of every member of the First Marines who died in World War Two.

As a boy, I was terribly proud of my father. He had a Globe and Anchor tattooed on his shoulder with the dates he served and the words "Semper Fidelis". Sometimes he would let me wear bits of his old uniform, his hat, or one of his campaign ribbons. When I played war I never played Army. I made my friends play Marines.

My father hung on to his copy of "The Old Breed". As an adult every time I went to visit my parents I would take it down from the shelf and look it over. When he moved to California this year, I looked around his new apartment and asked him if I could look at the book. When I put it back on the shelf I told him, "Look, Dad, you don't owe me anything. You did right by me and I'm grateful. I just hope someday that you'll pass that book on to me. When I was a kid, I was so proud of you. You were my hero. " He didn't say anything back.

A couple of weeks ago I was back visiting him. He mentioned something about his property and who would be getting what.

"Give it to Heather. She's a good daughter. You'd be dead without her. You know the only thing I want from you is that book."

He was quiet for a minute, then he said "Take it with you today."

I put my hand on his arm and told him, "That means a lot to me."

He looked away and said, "Means a lot to me too."

I am hurt and angry when my father continues not to recognize me; when he can't seem to hear me; when he fails to show the slightest curiosity about the man I've become. Still, I weep to see him old and frail. Like so many things in my life, he's not much, but he's all I've got.

Stars and Stripes Forever- Jake Shimabukuro (Buy)

Jake Shimabukuro is a Japanese-American. He is considered, along with James Hill, to be one of the two great masters of the ukulele. The ukulele in it's present form is a truly American instrument, like the Sousaphone and the banjo.

Old and In The Way

2009-11-15T09:04:00.001-08:00

I rented two punk rock movies from Netflix. This is not a movie review. I don't remember the names of the movies.

The first one was a sort of biography, told in reminiscences, of Joe Strummer. It was pretty good. Joe Strummer wasn't necessarily a nice man. He wanted to be an artist and a star, sometimes one more than the other. He really did suffer for his art though. He wanted to have integrity. He wanted to be a creator. He was constantly looking for new ways to be Joe Strummer. It was kind of inspiring.

The second one was a biography of the Ramones. They were a hell of a band. Some of the performance footage is mind blowing. Also, there's a picture of my friend, Kim, talking to Joey Ramone in Arturo Vega's apartment. I liked that. The rest of the movie is old guys complaining. I found it depressing and dull.

Of course, nowadays I'd rather listen to The Handsome Family.

LInger, Let Me Linger- The Handsome Family (Buy)

Why I Do Not Waste A Lot Of Time On My Family

2009-11-13T20:46:00.000-08:00

I called up my father to try and explain my health problems and my decision to retire. He kept interrupting me to tell me that he was fine. Finally I managed to speak my piece.
My father: "So, you sound great. You feel great. That's all I need to know."

Me: "No, Dad, listen. I've been sick off and on for a year now. I've been having a lot of trouble with infections. I've been having real bad problems with asthma and I'm having trouble controlling my diabetes. That's what i've been trying to tell you."

My Father: "The doctor says I've been doing as well as can be expected for my age. I guess that's all you can hope for. I'm glad you're doing good too."

Me: No, Dad, listen. Like I said, I've already started the paperwork. I'm going to retire in April."

My Father: "OK, well, that sounds great. Did you figure out how to get over here yet?"

Me: "Yeah Dad. There's a bus straight from the train station. It drops me off at your front door."

My Father: "Well, I just wanted to say. Don't come by here tomorrow. I'm busy. The rest of the week should be OK."

Me: "OK Dad, I'll see what I can do. I just wanted you to know that this is pretty serious. I can't keep working seventy hours a week. I'm going to have to take care of myself so I'm retiring. "

My Father: "Retiring? How the heck are you gonna retire? You don't have any money."

Me: "Dad, I have a pension. I have savings. My medical insurance is paid for the rest of my life. I'm not too worried about that."

My Father: "You have savings? When did you get smart? You were never smart. "

Me:" Jesus, Dad, I've worked for the bridge for 22 years. What do you think I've been doing all these years?"

My Father: "Don't let them talk you into buying one of those big stretch limousines and working out at the airport!"

Me: "What?"

My Father: "That's how they get you. They make it sound like you'll make a lot of money but it's not true. They end up taking all of your money."

Me: "Hey, Dad, I've been in this business since I was a teenager. I know all about all of those owner/operator scams."

My Father: "OK, well, I'll let you go. Everything here is OK. You sound great. I'll talk to you."

Me, Yeah, OK. Bye Dad"

You might think that the communications problems have something to do with his age and hearing problems. This was a better than average conversation with my father. He's been like this my whole life.

Family Bible- Commander Cody and his Lost Planet Airmen (Buy)

Still Not Blogging About My Cat

2009-11-11T21:02:00.001-08:00

Now this is a bus crash. People weep about their creased fenders. Babies, nothing but babies.

I'm still not blogging about my cat, but I might as well be. Nothing but personal blah blah to be found here. Tentative date for retirement has been set for April 5, 2010. Makin' me jittery. Paperwork should be arriving next week.

Gettin' The Corners- The Now Time Delegation (Buy)

Don't waste it on dogs!

2009-11-05T16:39:00.000-08:00

I can't tell if these poems were supposed to be funny. They're certainly funny as read. Anybody who has ever written poetry has written some bad poetry. Don't take it hard Suzanne.

What the hell just happened to the font?

2009-11-05T10:10:00.000-08:00

We are living in a Police State

Post Halloween Post

2009-11-01T09:58:00.000-08:00

A tiny witch in San Francisco's Cole Valley. Photo stolen from SFist.

There's two kinds of incredibly stupid discussions of Halloween going around, both coming from grown ups. First there's the incredibly stupid claim that Halloween is a Satanic holiday that should be boycotted by all gosh fearing Xtians. If you're reading this blog you don't need to hear my opinion on that one. An even more tiresome incredibly stupid discussion is coming from GROWNUPS who in some way disapprove of Halloween because it is just not fun enough for them. "Halloween in The Castro was ruined by straight teenage tourists." or "I'm so wild and free that every day is Halloween for me. I leave October 31st to the amateurs who've ruined it for us real free spirits."

Oh POOP, Halloween is for kids and kids unfailingly do a great job of celebrating Halloween. I saw a ton of incredibly cool costumes last night. All of them being worn by kids. Halloween addresses all kinds of kid issues about fantasy and fear and being someone else and kids, for the most part, get it just fine. Costumed grownups pouting about Halloween are about as attractive as grownups who cry at Christmas because they never got a pony. Let kids have some fun for a change without your cranky grownup ass getting in the way.

Diablo Con Antifaz (Devil In Disguise)- Baldemar Huerta as Freddy Fender (Buy)

I couldn't improve on this one

2009-11-01T08:37:00.000-08:00

The Calling of Saint Matthew by Michelangelo Merisi da Caravaggio, Contarelli Chapel, San Luigi dei Francesi, Rome. (1599-1600)

I haven't had a lot of luck explaining the Jesus thing. It usually comes down to a discussion as to whether or not I really believe some story from The Bible. That, or there's the shoulder shrug and "Whatever works for you."

It's OK. I'm not much for preaching I'd rather let my actions be my message. Still, just because I like the story, I wish I could get across what it was that happened to me. I wasn't a bad person that got turned into a good person. I don't think I'm better than you. If anything I felt guilty and unworthy of the loving kindness I was being shown.

I have always been a dork and a friend to dorks. In gym class the biggest whitest jocks would be appointed captains and told to pick their teams. After the real players got picked the captains would argue over who was going to get stuck with me and my dork friends. Some of us were 'brainiacs', kids who were so scared of our own bodies that we retreated into our heads and got good grades. Most of us weren't good at much of anything. Not even dodgeball.

When the door opened and the light shone on me I felt like I had just been picked for the team. My first response was, "You've got the wrong guy. I'm not good at that kind of thing. I'm not good at much of anything."

Daisy Deadhead of Daisy's Dead Air is someone I actually, briefly met almost thirty years ago. I don't remember her, but we were in the same places at the same times, protesting the Republican convention in Detroit and getting stuck in the middle of a gigantic fist fight at a Rock Against Racism show. From what she's said about those events, I'm certain that we met.

Nowadays she's an unrepentant feminist, radical, resident of South Carolina and faithful Catholic with little or no respect for the church hierarchy. She just posted something about Carvaggio's painting and All Saint's Day. It's as good a sermon as I could wish to preach, if I was the preaching type. Read it here.

How He Delivered Me- Juanita Johnson, The Gospel Tones (Buy)
I highly recommend buying the Smithsonian Folkways compilation, "Every Tone A Testimony".

Trick or Treat

2009-10-30T22:21:00.000-07:00

There were many sides to Porter Wagoner, but in public he liked to show his manic side.

The Poetry Is For Assholes world headquarters and trailer is not all that large. My bedroom door looks into a short hallway/laundry room where the back door is located. So the other night I'm dozing with the bedside light on. All is quiet except for the occasional muffled noise from one of the horses. About 11:00 PM I noticed that the horses seemed to be making some extra noises. I was about to turn out the light and go to sleep in earnest when I realized that one of the horses seemed to be walking up my back steps.

I barely got out the words, "What's going on? Who's there?" when someone tried to open the door and then shouted,

"Sonoma County Sheriff! Come out with your hands up!"

Now the county sheriffs have quite a history of killing unarmed people. Usually it goes like this: Crazy person's family calls 911, tells the operator their loved one is acting crazy please send help. By help they usually mean an ambulance and some sort of crazy people intervention specialist. What they get instead is a couple of county sheriffs with their guns drawn. The sheriffs tell the crazy person to stop acting crazy. The crazy person replies, "Booga booga booga!" The sheriffs shoot the crazy person twice in the chest and once in the head. End of psychiatric intervention. After an investigation the sheriff's department announces that the crazy person had a history of mental illness. The local paper repeats that statement as if to say, "He/she had a history of saying 'Booga booga booga!' to policemen. What else could the deputies have done?"

All of this flashed though my mind as I leapt from my bed, threw open the door and stuck my hands, then my head, then the whole of my person out the back door.

There I stood in the flashlights glare. A heavily tattooed fat man wearing nothing but a pair of boxer shorts decorated with hula dancers. I was looking at two deputies, one male and one female, both with their weapons drawn. Being a proud American, I know my rights and I know they ain't shit when the guns leave the holsters. I timidly inquired, "What's going on deputies? How can I help you?"

"Gwen in the main house called 911 and said she heard someone back here. She says there's not supposed to be anyone in this trailer."

"Gwen?" Says I, "There's no Gwen living here."

"What are you doing here?" asked the male sheriff. "How long have you been here?"

"I've lived here five years. Are you sure you're at the right address?"

It came out that they were busting down doors and doing major police work at the wrong address. Nonetheless, crime must not be tolerated. The male cop told me to stand bare foot in some gravel while he went though my house. Once again I considered my rights as an American and weighed them against the abject terror and loathing I experience around authority figure with guns. I insisted on my constitutional right to footwear and went back in the house to put on shoes. I stood on the gravel while the male cop walked into my house and shone his flashlight around on my dirty dishes and unfolded laundry. Hey, the laundry is clean. I just haven't folded it.

Meanwhile the female cop and I stood and eyeballed one another at close range. She had the decency to look slightly embarrassed. When the male cop came out he was still flicking his flashlight around in crime stoppers mode but all guns were holstered.

Now, you'd think at this point an apology would be in order. Maybe some thanks for my cooperation? What I got was a warning. "You need to keep that back door locked. You don't know who might try and come in while you're asleep." I pointed out that in five years he was the only person who had ever tried to come in while I was asleep. "Yeah well just be careful from now on."

The deputies wandered off into the darkness waving their flashlights around and mumbling. "That gal that called us here is a real wingnut. I suppose we have to go over there and figure out what's bothering her too."

That was the second time a cop pointed a gun at me without provocation and then warned me to be more careful. I suppose he could have shot me a couple of times, just to, you know, back up the warning. If I were Black they might have done just that.

I didn't go to work today. I'm too sick. My doctor finally agreed to sign all of the necessary papers to prove that I am under his care with a mildlly debilitating medical problem. This will protect me from being fired for at least the next year. I tell you, even with a reduced pension I'm giving some serious thought to retirement. I'm sick all the time. I can't take care of myself and I hate my job. Maybe I'm just tired.

When he wasn't wired to the teeth Porter Wagoner was often depressed and ill. Here's a strangely sincere tribute to one of his favorite loony bins.

Committed to Parkview- Porter Wagoner (Buy)

The Bobble is all you need.

2009-10-25T08:57:00.000-07:00

I've never been much for using The Bible as a road map. It's full of questionable advice and dubious examples. It's OK for fathers and daughters to have sex so long as they're in a cave and daddy's drunk? Oh, don't forget to blame it on the kids. They got daddy drunk and took advantage of him. That's the horrible conclusion to Lot's escape from Sodom. You can be sure he didn't engage in no sodomy either.

Then there's the bestial crime against nature. An act so unnatural that to commit is to condemn oneself to the fiery pit for all eternity. I am of course referring to eating shellfish.

Adultery is a terrible sin. If a man takes another man's wife in adulterous lust he is condemned in the eyes of god. There's a loophole though. If the adulterer kills the woman's husband and then marries the woman it's OK with god. It worked for David and Bathsheba and it can work for you. You'll notice the woman has no agency in this matter. She was one dude's chattel then she becomes another dude's chattel. Love is a many splendored thing.

OK, so The Bible is a catalogue of bad behavior. It's also full of those moments when we have to bow our heads before The Great Mysteries of life. "Truly, The Lord was in this place and I did not know it!" Sometimes it's worth your while to miss a night's sleep. One of The Great Mysteries is the comfort of simple faith. By the grace of God, sometimes we know that we are loved, that our lives have meaning and that in due time more will be revealed.

That's a hard feeling to put into words. Mostly it comes out as pure fucking corn- cheese in a spray can. When we try to express it we say dumb stuff like, "I'm using my Bible for a road map." The thing is that the spirit of those sentiments really is true even if the letter does "Killeth"

Even hipsters can see it. Danny Barnes and the kids from Porter Hall Tennessee are hipsters but they ain't too dumb to know a good thing when they see it.

My friend Laura is concerned that I am overwrought. Me too. She suggests meditation music. Meditiation music makes me tense and irritable. I listen to this kind of stuff. It helps.

I'm Using My Bible For A Road Map- Porter Hall Tennessee (Buy)

I'm Using My Bible For A Road Map- The Bad Livers (Buy)

I'm going to try and lay off the internet for a few days.

2009-10-23T19:55:00.000-07:00

Total sleep time so far this week is 20 hours. I had an asthma attack Tuesday that kept me awake all night. Had to go to work. Now until mid December, if I am late or absent I lose my job. I made inquiries about retiring right now. There's not enough money there. If I thought I could get another job, I'd do it but just lately a lot of people would do a lot of things if they could get another job.

I suppose I should consider myself fortunate that I am only in the kind of trouble that goes away in a few weeks. I know people who have never missed a day's work. I will never be one of them.

Sometimes Good Guys Don't Wear White- The Standells (Buy)

Sometimes Good Guys Don't Wear White- Hypstrz (Buy)

Today's musical selection is for Billy Foster in Los Angeles.

Extra big bonus another Hypstrz track. Hypstrz were America's only punk rock oldies band. Here they are covering another Standells classic.

Riot On Sunset Strip- Hypstrz (Buy)

2009-10-16T16:05:00.000-07:00

Then again... maybe not. Who can resist the glamour and excitement of buses?
Photo from The Invisible Edge.

Poetry Is For Assholes: A journal of the arts

thought for the day

Nazz Nomad and the Ecstasy of the Squares

Living on the beach.

Restless

More to come

Just wondering

I'm crazy now but I won't be crazy long.

The secret world of compulsive writers.

I'll probably regret this.

Shit happens.

This happened to me.

Who knew?

What I hate and why I hate it so much.

Not quite dead poets

In which I offer criticism of a major American poet.

Poetry is also for dogs

More posts at other people's blogs

Oh hell, Happy new year.

Further inspiration from Tim

Where I stand on the anarchy question

Go Gay Hippies!

Then there's this

I'm a fair weather newbie fan, so fucking what?

Posted elsewhere

Why I write

Detroit in the '70's

He's In A Hurry (To Get Home To My Wife)

World of Dispensation

Breakeroo! Still Keeping It To Once A Month.

Oops, I missed a month

Fuck yes, I'm from New Jersey

Farm livin' is the life for me.

The smell

Hello, hello! Greetings and welcome

RIP

Good Old Boys, Or, Why I Live Here

April is poetry month

The Confederacy can kiss my Yankee ass

Wildwood Flower

By the way

summer is coming.

Come to Jesus

You want covers? I got covers for you.

this is it.

From Kass

For Ib, brother and comrade

Malcolm

Good news from the culture wars.

No one knows how white men suffer

The Wonders of Science

the plan as it currently stands

I'll admit to being in a bad mood

I follow the games

Rumor control

A post script

the modern world sucks

A personal request.

further proof that ukuleles inspire coolness and coolness attracts ukuleles

Real Class

A reply to our friend, @eloh

Busking on the frozen tundra.

Will drive buses for food.

rat pack ukulele

City of dogs

Breaktime

Happy Kwanzaa

Life is funny

Christmas Lights

Holiday adventures

Let's put the X back in Xmas

It's Beginning To Look A Lot Like Xmas

thought for the day

Christmas With The Devil

Christmas cheer.

How I've been spending my time.

Why I Sometimes Spend Time With My Family

Old and In The Way

Why I Do Not Waste A Lot Of Time On My Family

Still Not Blogging About My Cat