The Official Hog Blog
Sunday, November 24, 2002
I was sure I lived across the street from a prevert. You know.. someone who you know is perverted beforeyou even meet the guy . It was to be sure this cat was a freak. The girls down the block caught him offering drugs for sex.
There are street kids down the block from my crib, and these kids are all on heroin. Sure, some of them like to share speed, but for most... its heroin.
Scene as follows witnessed by aformentioned girls down the block:
so you got the stuff. yeah man i got it. well, where its at? its at my place. i aint goin to yer place. i tole you man, if you want the stuff what you'd have to do. man. and street kids go off to a building's shelter, where the posters cover the post no bills graffiti and its hard to tell which ios the advert until the rains wet the mans appetite and he shouts at them that he can find plenty of other kids to shoot up with tonite, until the kids agree only if the two can fix, sharing one's worth of junk. safety in numbers the way i see it, and these kids are smarter than the weirdo freakish drugs for sex guy.
The girls down the block may be embellishing this story, but it gets pretty seedy in the city, enough so's that I want to believe and stay indoors with my beer bottle and jazz, wishing that somewhere...
I knew to find the opium dens i've dreamed of, the underground absinthe cave, where the green liquids nearly deafen the sounds of life so much that people stop to check your pulse and wonder why the soul can become so dark. Wonder where we go when the sun is still out, yet we glossy eyed stumble from park bench to the grassy knoll to nap.
There is a man who sits on his haunches at the embarcardero center. business folks with ties and briefcases, lattes and agendas, credit cards and accounts to attend to... this cat on his haunces all day long shouts obscenities and absurdities, he said to me that i was the second coming of Cat Stevens, he told my girlfriend there was no need to worry, for the rapture will sweep us both up and into outer space where the aliens will serve jalapeno dip.
Wednesday, November 20, 2002
Could this be Bill?
Tuesday, November 19, 2002
Life isnt strange. Things in california are beautiful and people are as unhappy here as they could be anywhere. I guess the Great American past times havent been able to keep up with the great depressions of our times and lives. Records of it are found in the annals of desotos and the big red machines. Extremely innaresting, you ask me. I could be rippin it up with Ted like we was best friends, his personality is funny. I can keep up with the folks in the fast lane. Yes yes yes. The drought broke and the palace was the stuff of flying pigs. Much to be done, and I'm sure there are fewer copies and pipes involved by this time today, so maybe we can catch up with each other and I'll just flip it over on ya when we fake it in front of the children. Its really about that anyhow, innit? We dont want to shock anyone, escpecially the children, because we do it for them. We do it for the kids, really. The kids are alright after all, and who said that? The view from here is right down the street aways and we know that there aint no stage at the next gig, so's we had to get some day job.
Two cats that I know are gonna finish the job for me. One guys take on it is that he knows my man, Bill. Bill always adds that element of danger when you get him involved, so I gotta be careful with said 'cat' whom we will refer to as Jorge Montana. Montana says he can finish this gig without having to re-rig his works. He is willing to do this, like brutus and not fuck with his schemin'. You dig?
He is gonna play it straight, man.
Listen Man.... this shit is unprecedented, especially when you add young Bill, the dangerous element bespoke of..... I need the gig done, finis, rock n roll man. I need this shit to be gone and outta my sight. You dig? And I dont need no one to get me involved with it, yeah? Just keep my name out of it.
Sunday, November 10, 2002
Rip it Tippy. I found some of what Ole Neo had to say as innaresting, y'dig? I even wept at his reading of the fifth of Balvenie. It was awe inspiring. It was denominational. Hell, I'd even put him up for and award of some kind or a ribbon to be wrapped around his neck like a kerchief, or a babushka. He never smelled any good at that time, but his instincts told him otherwise. That by not bathing his creative muse was being stimulated. Something about the accumulation of scents, and the variety from day to day. None of us could tell which smell from the next, or how bad they compared to one another. Nope, we all resoundingly agreed that Ole Neo and his room in the run-down flophouse on Sybil were of the same scent and badly so. It was like someone's feet in there. Or a can of rotten vegetables, or even an open and ruined stash of fruits that had been in the sun too long than left out in the rain, and over-ripeness.
His writing, tho, was monstrous. It fused our psychedelic experiments with mushrooms and acid with that of the every day life. It had piieces of Ann Arbor's campus. The cube that spins around as big as a building and the Law quad with faces in the foundation and hermits wiothin its halls. The ice cream stores that we'd sneak into and steal away quarts, the basement being our refuge when the trips got too strong, we'd hide amidst the 'to go' cups.
Ole Neo travels lightly, even when he has weeks to stay away. He'd visited San Francisco back awhiles. We stayed up in the North End Caffe, and watched pretty girls go by when, in February, we had an off-chance bright and sunny day. He would recall the days we made fun of the professional students and the busy library that buzzed silently, like the television when its on, but has no picture. He asked me about the cordoroy novella, a project in pieces. A book, its cover was made out of cordoroy material, that began with empty pages, only to be fiulled with entries from anyone and everyone we could get to write in it. It was a documentation of what we felt was real. a depiction of the every day occurrences during that period in our lives, but done so in a way that poked fun at the mundane existence that is. It poked fun and even pulled excitement from mundanity.
I found that novella and the following is a piece written by Ole Neo. The date is uncertain:
bold as love.
Mulch Member ( Since 1892) Schlitt Blatt Ham. (Framhamington. The Republic of Westport)
Demise of Western arrogance. The Disintegration of the mental kapitol; though inherent to our warped minds. An ethno centric prentension abolished, made obsolete, untenable. The tired and rickety Superstructure collapses. Who though t it would happen during our time?
The factories of Archogonia churn out the products of our demise. The zombies in the streets walk without a conscience, assigned to their posts. A civilzation is crushed by the heels of Doc Martens. A culture vomits itself like death choking on its vile diet of gummi worms, 'polo clothing,' romance novels and worthless labour. The aptitude for thought is stifling, the jokes of mental activity is squeezed out of the bitter liquid of humans. the elixir is formed and is the intoxicant of the industrial barons. THey drink to the stupidity of their slaves, laughing savagely at the indecent achievement, quaffing the brain brew indignantly. The greasy solution rolls down Rolf's chin and stains Armani suit. He scoffs as he rips the jacket off and crams it into a garbage canister. the canister shuts itself up, mechanically, and a low, deadened explosion is felt for a few feet surrounding it. No one averts their eyes or tries to avoid the situation. This is disposal.
Rolf's Acquaintance for the evening is startled, and a little afraid, but she's good at hiding her real emotions; perhaps there is little to hide. "Care for a gulp, Rebecca?" he inquires, " It's really quite invigorating. Ther thoughts move so much faster. They're clear and distinct and I've never forgotten a thought I've had while under the influence." He chokes down another high-ball glass full of the pulpy, incandescent substance. His eyes, oh, his eyes. They seemed to have turned gray for just one moment. Entirely gray. Pupils gone, no whites, just gray. He came out of, his face contorts and his teeth show as if he were gnawing his way out of some invisible bag, as if he had to scream to escape. Like a satiated cannibal and that of a necrophiliac engaged in a graveyard tryst. She wanted to run. He wanted her to beg him for her life. But maybe he'd come out of it. Maybe he'd spare her. Maybe she should start guzzling the brain brew to catch up to him.
