The Official Hog Blog
Thursday, December 28, 2006
The end of the year is a game of catch-up. Catch- up with all those promises I still haven't fulfilled.
Catch- up with all of the bills I havent paid.
Catch- up with the work that hadn't gotten finished. & when I have the time,
Check- up with friends.
Then, the beginning of the year gives us this immense potential.
The new year can also bring about hope
& if its an illusion, or my outlook gets delusional,
may it be that way. See, Its like that fresh jar of peanut butter to dig into.
Or a crystal clear lake to dive into on a hot summer night.
It might be an empty road, some tapes & a full tank of gas,
or the train, when it was affordable.
"As much as things change, things stay the same," I say to myself, as the smell of green tea swirls around my nose & the mug in my hand warms my face from the winter's damp breeze. This is the same mug I held in my hand three years ago. I remember the day I cut my self on it's chipped lip. I asked you if its handmade, & my mouth turned crimson as I bled & laughed about it. nope. you said with a smile. I got that at the pottery barn.
Since that day, we've drank our teas, coffees & whiskeys in the same mugs.
The shirts I wear haven't changed a stitch.
Except for maybe more holes in them.
I still can't seem to pronounce f-u-n-e-r-i-a-l.
& a jig saw carves its way around traps
I've laid inside my heart that keeps me from ever saying it.
Friday, June 16, 2006
Its been a long week, and to those detractors who try to bring me down I have one thing to say: go to hell!
Tuesday, June 06, 2006
As we approached June 6, 2006, the many connections to this satanic numeral became clearer to me. How many omens have we seen? What invitations do we accept, or deny? There were prophesies foretold by such dignified seers, but none will heed the warning. None will take hold of the flame, to brighten these dark days. Some say that we are in the midst of a new hell, and a familar demon is waiting with bated breath. Some say that the number of the beast is the illusion, smoke and mirrors to avert our attention while a terrible plot unfolds. Some say that the date is the beginning of the end. Others have foretold that the BEAST will be revealed through the number. The beast shall have a human name that, when calculated through the ancient codes, will equal that of six hundred and sixty-six.
Still others say that we shall be visited by aliens, who will be referred to as our space-brothers, or brothers from another planet. How will we know?
Will the trumpets sound?
Monday, June 05, 2006
As we approached June 6, 2006, the many connections to this satanic numeral became clearer to me. How many omens have we seen? What invitations do we accept, or deny? There were prophesies foretold by such dignified seers, but none will heed the warning. None will take hold of the flame, to brighten these dark days. Some say that we are in the midst of a new hell, and a familar demon is waiting with bated breath. Some say that the number of the beast is the illusion, smoke and mirrors to avert our attention while a terrible plot unfolds. Some say that the date is the beginning of the end. Others have foretold that the BEAST will be revealed through the number. The beast shall have a human name that, when calculated through the ancient codes, will equal that of six hundred and sixty-six.
Still others say that we shall be visited by aliens, who will be referred to as our space-brothers, or brothers from another planet. How will we know?
Will the trumpets sound?
Sunday, June 04, 2006
This will never be a music blog, altho I like to talk about music now and again. I just don't have the time and knowledge to put together a music blog. So, instead of posting actual MP3's, I will direct you to the sites where I've been finding new stuff.
I can't get this Gnarls Barkley Song, CRAZY, out of my head. Recently I found a website that has a MP3 of Ray LaMontagne do a bang up cover of the song.
here - false45th
also found a cool site that collects mp3's and lets you listen to them for free. Kind of like a radio station from music blogs. You can't download anything, but a pop-up will let you stream music.
here - The Hype Machine
enjoy.
Tuesday, May 30, 2006
Oh the things that I could do.....
Monday, May 29, 2006
Friday, May 26, 2006
As a fanatic for collectable records, the reports that vinyl is selling more and more these days is encouraging. I've been wondering how long it would take for this sort of resurgence. Hooray!
Thursday, May 18, 2006
Not Ready to Give Up the Ghost
A new ghost has settled into my home. His baudy jokes and barroom joviality are haunting me. His laughter is that of a pirate's, with a Har Har Har. His accent is like WC Fields. He checks out the dames and he drinks plenty of scotch. Pointing to the bed, he'll remind you that's a great place to pork yer old lady. He's prone to calling the shots as he sees 'em, even when they aint the best of words. He's ready to shoot his gun, both barrels blazing. He'll lift you up just to bring you right back down. He's already in my heart, and he's trying to tear me apart.
I've heard him the most when guests arrive. He joins in on conversations and I'll answer him, hoping that each word syncs up with whatever anyone else is talking about. Its not too bad, in fact, most of my friends think nothing of what I say.
He sits right down and asks for a beer.
Give it to me in that icy cold stein, hog!
he calls out as I tip toe into the kitchen, pretending not to hear him. I make casual conversation with my guests, as the ghost looks at me incredulously.
HOG! I was talking with you, my man!
he shouts at me, and only I can hear him. I have to smile as he does this, so as to not give away his intrusions. I'm right here in front of you! Don't you hear me?
Oh, why wont you let me be? When will you join the souls who have gone before you? Must you continue to haunt me?
Again, he laughs and points his fingers out to me.
This too shall pass, he reminds me, for nothing shall not.
Monday, May 15, 2006
Marty Nine doesn't talk much out loud or otherwise. He grunts and snorts, instead of making coherent sentences. A quick nod, shrug, or a turn of the head serves the purpose most every day of the week. His single testicled dog, Muddy, is his only companionship in this world, which doesnt count the many hours Nine will spend reading or looking at pornography.
Wednesday, May 03, 2006
i wake up before 5am,
shower if I need to and make a large cup of mud.
yes, its a sissy drink. its a soy latte, but its a strong one.
while the water boils and turns into espresso, i dont have much time that early in the morning, so i work three things at one time. pull my clothes on, check the time, brush my teeth and look at the news all in the span of ten minutes. by 505 am, the coffee is ready and i can ease down in front of the computer to play a couple of hands of online poker while i wake up. afterwards i get together a sandwich for lunch. today it was a salami sammich with lettuce, tomatoes, onions, provolone and mustard. i try to do it in a quiet way so as to not wake anyone else in the building. i remember how precious those early morning sleepytime hours are. i respect that. usually, a guy on the first floor is already up, hacking and coughing. he's a old guy who has been smoking for longer than i been living, and he sounds like he's gonna die soon. around 520am, i slip into the bedroom and kiss my girl on the cheek, tell her i love her and say g'bye before pulling my big, clunky work boots over my feet and head out into the dark world.
my truck is usually nearby, so i dont have to walk far. i turn on the radio to an npr station and warm up the engine, still sipping my coffee. [bad news on the radio, and later i find out that the same news is repeated on commercial stations, even on the republican talk radio stations. makes me believe we all get the same bad news in the same fashion.] the drive to work is 38 minutes long, and as soon as i get to the warehouse, i tie my boots up, having left them untied up to that point, and look around for the days work orders to be put together and delivered. once the orders are together i head out on the highway. by that time, the sun has risen and the coffee has taken effect. i finally feel awake.
Sunday, April 30, 2006
amidst greatness
shrinking away from laughter
the bottle grew heavy in his hand
it was sometime after noon,
yet before the early eve,
that the eyes began to drop/ head nodding off
mind blurring
waiting around to die
-- a song from a long time ago --
ambles through his mind and
a tear slides down his cheek
there are plenty of things
to do in my time
besides wating around to die
Sunday, April 23, 2006
Tuesday, April 18, 2006
gas prices are up and my weekly wages stay the same. man, it cost me fitty dollars to fill up my tank, so i think i got to stop driving and start using public transpo. i'm beginning to think i need to go back to school to get a job to be able to buy this fuel. i can learn some new skills. i am in need of updating my skills. i guess being a drummer will get you nowhere in the world these days. i deliver parts to make a living today, but driving a truck for a living feels like going down with a sinking ship. put 'truck driver' on yer resume one time, you'll see how many job offers come along. not many, bub. and deejay? fuggeddaboutit. the only people that hire deejays are folks who dont want to pay the deejays. or the fee they are willing to agree upon is only enough for me to consider scratching my balls and hocking a loogey at their shoes.
damn, my back hurts today.
i could go back to school, get me a mba or some shi-t like that. i could start in on the html. who knows? mebbe i could learn some new skill involving disabandonment issues, start prescribing various under the counter drugs from the local pharmacy. do my eight and hit the gate, drop some ham on the table and feast. i just need to find the right program to get into, apply for some federal aid, maybe i can even have a grant or scholarship or some sh-t like that.
Thursday, April 06, 2006
everyday people looking for their place in the sun
Sun sets later and the rain has quit, young men with their peach fuzz chins and strawberried elbows glide by a window on long-boards, young women with their bobby pinned hair strut by and glance from the side of their eyes with every intention of catching your eyes, old men on the corner beg for sparechange and rearrange their baggy clothes to find no money in pockets that have holes stare absently at the teevee inside the bar that won't let them in, street cars screech and halt to pick up 6 or 7 passengers who fumble with change meant strictly for the fare and they complain about the price hike. The cobbler is still working at the window, tapping against heels and watching the beach bum struggle with an apple and his knapsack, fumbling against losing either as he crosses the street, passing neatly dressed students who are taking a break , having a pint and catching the last few innings of opening day baseball. The radio is loud and classic rock is on. Intrepid bicyclists roll their right pant leg up, light cigarettes and jet into traffic, weaving through traffic, freewheelin' and flippantly flying along the avenue. baby girl held by her poppa adjusts her too-big sunglasses, obviously her mommas, and the sun shines bright on her cherubic face.
Friday, March 31, 2006
It may have been the weed, or might have been the weather, but the blues had become an obsession for me. It must have been raining for a week straight, and all I could listen to was Albert King, Muddy Waters, and Jimmy Reed with a howl in his voice like he had a nail in his foot. BB King 7 inch records, heard at 45 rpms for two dollar and fitty. Flip side got a crackle in it, but it do, man... it do.
Found me a copy of the Pacific Gas and Electric Company Blues band. You know the one? Couple them cats left to form Canned Heat back in 1968. I got me the album called 'Get It On.' On Bright Orange Records, with a label that look like the fruit. Lead singer, Charlie Allen, had used to be the drummer, but sang like a ole blues cat and the rest the band tole him to get out and sing and stopall that drum-work. He can sing, too. He sounds like Sammy Cooke at one point and another he's got a Janis Joplin jones. Doing the moanin' and groanin' and carryin' on she do. This band was from San Francisco back in the summer of love. They cover this Booker T and the MG's tune called The Hunter. You got to hear it. It punches through with a steady, forward shuffle and trucks and trucks and the dude up front is begging you that there aint no place to hide. He the hunter, meng.
Mingus on the other day.
He hollers Eat That chicken!_________________________Eat that CHicken!
The entire band barrels
along as ragtag as Sun RA,
____________________________the father of boisterosity.
Thats the blues aint it?
I mean, it aint guitar and drums,
has a lot of brass and strange changes,
but its the blues somehow? Aint it? It gotta be.
Tuesday, March 28, 2006
"I want you to get out there and smash that ball, Jacky," said Coach Casey, "Smash it into the stratosphere, you hear me?"
"I'm gonna get a home run today, coach," replied Jack, "for my dad."
Jack was smaller than the rest of the kids on his team, and the coach kept him off the field for the most part, but he was quick to dive for the line drives and he showed a lot of spunk at second base. Jack was willing to put himself in harm's way to win the game, and Coach Casey liked that. When the starting second baseman, Scott Polley, was put out of the game from a bouncing ball to the face, Jack had his rare chance to show his stuff. After a couple of good innings, and a few good saves, Jack was ready to get his turn at bat.
He wanted to hit the ball cuz he loved to play. Dad told him to hit it like he hated the ball, but Jack knew that to be a ball player you had to love the ball, not to hate it. Jack loved baseball, and he knew that the only way that ball was gonna get hit was as if he loved it. He wanted that ball to fly high as the sun, up and over the second baseman, up and over the right fielder, up and over the chain link fence, possibly so high that he could smash a window out of the factory building behind the diamond.
Now there was a good goal. Aim for the same factory building that his dad came home from every night, cranky and smelling of gear lubes. The same factory that took Jack's dad away from the family on weekends during February when the christmas bills needed to be paid. The same factory that took uncle Bob's legs before Jacky was even born. That was a good place to aim a home run at, with it's wall of opaque windows, and its tall brick outline.
Dragging his bat with him to home plate, a trick he'd seen Lou Whittaker perform during the Tigers run for the world series, Jack shook the jitters from his shoulders as he squared himself up against the pitcher.
"You aint gonna hit this one pipsqueak," sneered the catcher, a red headed kid from Onsted that nobody liked.
Jack ignored him and stared down the pitcher, his eyes also on the factory building he so wanted to smash down.
Friday, March 10, 2006
Breakfast
He put the coffee
In the cup
He put the milk
In the cup of coffee
He put the sugar
In the cafe au lait
With the coffee spoon
He stirred
He drank the cafe au lait
And he set down the cup
Without a word to me
He lit
A cigarette
He made smoke rings
With the smoke
He put the ashes
In the ash-tray
Without a word to me
Without a look at me
He got up
He put
His hat upon his head
He put his raincoat on
Because it was raining
And he left
In the rain
Without a word
Without a look at me
And I - I took
My head in my hand
And I cried
[this poem was written by Jacques Prevert.
as a friend of his found it
in one of his notebooks,
it reminds me of Ned]
Monday, March 06, 2006
Tonight there is talk of Shufflefuck and I wait
impatiently to match up with
SF Shufflefuck contingent, to show those mothers that all this
California foolishness won't fool an old Chicago salt who plays his shufflefuck
dirty and rough like a bull in a ring and
if you really want to see a bullfight,
take a cape and sword away from the matador and
that's the kind of fight I like—
straight up, no hitches, no bullshit, no games—
I take my own hits and I dish them out quick and plentiful,
toss a puck down the lane and I will take the greatest of pleasure knocking that bitch down into the pit of the damned,
my puck glides sure and confident, strong and steadfast.
Down they go, clustering up like a band of rock-headed brutes full of animosity and xenophobic rage, knowing no kindness nor guilt,
filled with bad breeding and bad breath, pucks that come on like stiff pricks, they arrive like a SF fog, quick and heavy, and I
thought I'd make those intentions, indications and reports known to all interested persons who might endeavor to tangle with,
challenge or otherwise impede the rise and ultimate conquering
of the coveted SF Shufflefuck Cup and I shall,
after the eventual and inevitable usurpation of said cup,
I shall return to the city of Wind bolstered on high by the powerful gusts in a throne of gold, holding the cup in hand, filled with the sweetest of wind and attended by rosy faced children naked in their innocence, winged and laughing, ringlets of their hair bouncing in the wind, their chubby fingers reaching for the cup and dipping in the wind, the clouds rolling in, turning gray, and as I gulp the Adam's apple working up and down as I drain the cup and as one of the little creatures reaches again to fill the cup and somewhere behind over Lake Michigan a peal of lightening, rolling thunder and Neo on high, sipping and laughing now with mischievous rambunction, spilling wine with wasteful carelessness, the elevated throne rising higher and higher, empty wine bottles tossed away into the sky and raining down toward the streets, laughter all around with thunder and crashes of waves and the laughter begins to take on the tones of Laughing Sal, erratic, insidious, no longer jovial, no longer light or naive, seeming to suggest a hint of evil, a hint of horror, and suddenly a round of coughing, Neo doubled up, wine streaming from the corner of his mouth, the child cherubim dispersing and abandoning him in fear, the throne veering off over the great lake where below the waters have grown dark and moiled, rain begins to fall and the chalice drops from his hand as he slumps back, his arm over the rest and his hand limp and stained with wine, and now the throne divested of it's angelic motivations beginning to plummet toward the waters where a frothy maelstrom begins swirling in its rage opening up like a whale's mouth and the throne caught in the whirlwind, twisting downward and is swallowed up by the upward reaching outward edges of the storm which engulfs Neo, throne, the velvet capes and scepter with it's golden embellishments and intricate carvings, in one vicious chomp and then retreating back into the water and the seas begin to calm, the sky's crimson rage fading to tranquil blue and life returns again to its silent idiocy as the cup rolls on the waves and arrives on the shores among dead alewives and cigarette filters, seaweed and
driftwood.
- Ned Foskey
Sunday, March 05, 2006
From the Train
A couch sits among trees, dark leaves, fallen logs rotting,
a young boy stands on gravel and cinders holding a stick in his hand watching the train as it passes, through an underpass and a dune appears, a boy on a 3-wheeler approaching the top amid a cloud of sand, then a building and high brick walls crowned with barbed wire, a penitentiary, and again past trees, the junkyards with twisted rusty metal, ghosts floating in an abandoned steel mill, dark inside, the windows shattered, figures spray-painted on the decrepit walls, clusters of crabgrass, the black soil, old painted advertisements on a faded billboard, a solitary pile of concrete bricks stacked in the woods, sand and leaves, a treated wooden post half buried in the sand and grown over with coarse weeds, a jumble of ragged tires, a country lane, a stable and horses, a barn roof tilting and half gone, torn at the corners like a broken skeleton, a boy digging in the gravel, a dirt two-track leading nowhere, a rusted car laying prostrate on its side, an embankment built into the land and the bricks black with mold and white with crusty bubbling lime deposits, an old ruined tavern set on a tiny forgotten marina, the dock sinking back into the sea, another underpass reveals a pile of soaked clothing, and past where the land dips and rolls, a stream passes through, a metal corrugated silo and little houses with yards filled with tarp-covered cars, a hawk follows the air current over a razed farmland, steel powerline carriers stand in formation like giant stick men in a military review, shredded canvas tacked to a storage barn blowing in the wind, old pick-up sinking in the mud, a plastic cooler trapped in a pricker bramble, a mallard stands alone on a slick rock in the middle of a tiny lake, fruit groves in hibernation, through the screen of trees a shack stands on the scum, a river down below, the waters dark brown, sticks and leaves struggling and swirling, an unfinished house above, rotting planks nearby in the pines, a rusted bedspring snagged and impaled further back in the tangle of woods, a wheat field spreads out golden and silent, then great oaks and a mobile home, trash strewn all about, a junkyard behind with a wounded mechanical crane, its neck bent and the cockpit window cracked at one edge, a river rapids emptying into a pond covered with green algae, grass sprouting out on the shores like splinters, a patchwork of storage barn held up by wooden poles and steel girders, an irrigation ditch cutting across the land like a suture, dark low hills in the far distance, punctured and dented drums laying about where a pair of train tracks suddenly end, a grotto where a plastic lawn chair sits alone in a cluster of trees, the black lines between the corn rush along with the train as it passes, past a poor hamlet, under a regional highway, blueberry bushes rolling up and down the ground, a sandy path rises and drops out of sight, an old nag meandering over the mud chomping on grass, an apple grove where a fieldstone fireplace stands, choked with weeds, and below a blackberry patch and further a swamp lays in murky dim-lit obscurity.
- Ned Foskey
Saturday, March 04, 2006
Ned Foskey versus Charles Bukowski
by Ned Foskey
I was in a small, low-ceilinged warehouse, dim-lit, dark in the rafters and many black steel support posts all about. There were many people either sitting on the clean concrete floors or mulling around slowly, waiting for something to happen. Charles Bukowski was there with a couple of his pals and they'd been playfully baiting me with light insults. This continued for a while until Bukowski's insults started getting nasty and ultimately he challenged me to a fight. I resisted until one of words hit home with me and I got up and followed behind him a couple strides to a nearby area where the sun shone through the windows set in the ceiling. Ten yards further I could see that the warehouse building ended with a glass greenhouse extension and the blue sky could be seen through the windows. As Bukowski and I moved to this brighter open area, I said, "I can't fight that well but I know how to take a punch." I said this partly joking, but also satirically, remembering that I'd read Bukowski saying this in one of his poems or stories. He turned without saying anything and squared himself up with me. "Listen," I said more earnestly, "I don't want to fight with you," as I squared myself up with him, and then, without notice, unloaded a balled fist straight to his face. He stumbled back and came forward and we exchanged a couple punches. Mine was the last and it sent him down to the ground. He fell over as I grabbed a folding metal chair and bashed his head as he tried to get up again. With that, the fight was over and I dropped the chair and I looked around me. All around the group of people had circled around us to watch the fight and I realized that this was a youth group that was gathering in the warehouse and that Bukowski and I were to be leaders of the group. I leaned down to Bukowski, still slumped part on the floor and part on a dirty brick wall, and quietly said to him, "This isn't a good example for the kids here to be fighting…and that's what we're here for--the kids--isn't it?" In his eyes, he seemed to agree with me, but he made no motion to express his agreement or dissent. I stood up and broke through the circle of watchers and walked back into the darker area and sat down on a secluded couch embroidered with golden fabric. Suddenly a beautiful girl with dark hair who I'd never seen before walked up to the couch and sat down on the arm rest right next to where I was sitting. She looked down at me and gently touched my swollen brow. "Did you fall down," she asked quietly. I looked away and then back at her in slight confusion. She smiled, bringing her face closer, and said, "I was just kidding." I was immediately attracted to her beauty and thought to myself, "Is she one of the kids or an older girl?"
Ned came to visit San Francisco in the winter of 2002.
My bandmates and I asked him to write up a little something to read
during our set at the Hotel Utah. Early in the morning, he and I went to
North Beach, where we sat in the North End Caffe, drank gallons of coffee,
sat with our notebooks and wrote as the hustle and bustle of the city passed us by.
That weekend, he read the following as our band played behind him.
Cliff House
San Francisco 02.22.02
Somewhere on a once fashionable coastline now choked with smog and
strewn with cigarette filters and dented cans, a boy walks up a crumbling stone staircase reaching up
to a decaying hotel built high on a rocky cliff
where Adirondack chairs lay broken and rotting on the terrace
where a bird’s carcass lay suspended in the dark briny stew of the swimming pool,
where the rusting metal skeletons break through the hotel’s cracked walls
and where a door streaked with dirt and time stands ajar,
the lock pried open and inside the rooms of the old penny arcade exposed,
empty save the dusty crates, the damp rubble scattered on the wooden planks and a
ripped canvas tarp nailed to the wall
the boy kneels spotting a crumpled slip of paper yellowed by the years and
delicately draws it from the trash and broken glass
and under the dingy blue light reads the heading which bares the name of
a long forgotten bohemian fortuneteller and below a fragment from the smeared horoscope reading
“makes you easy game for imposters,”
He rises first startled as a punching bag bell clangs
and then amazed as the oil lamps spark and flame
and a player piano strikes up a ragtime waltz,
a bowler hat and cane take shape on a walnut hook,
the life-sized Drunken Sailor in a glass case doubling over with resounding laughter that fills the rooms
already heavy with the smells of cotton candy and caramel corn,
and the shadowy outlines of the peep shows, the shooting galleries and the Chinese pinball games appear
as if struggling to materialize once again out of the distant past
outside under now cloudless skies potted palm trees luxuriously drooping over the whitewashed walls and
a ghostly man with a waxed mustache and wearing a swimming suit with shoulder straps puffs out his chest,
sucking in his stomach and putting his fists to his hips as a photographer disappears
under the camera drape and the flash powder exploding in the pan
The boy turning back as the punching bag bell rings again and the moment passes,
the oil lamps dimming and the piano notes dissolving into the musty air,
the arcade games bleeding back into another time with grainy disintegration
and the crates appearing again stacked in the dark corners
now there was only the strip of fortune, yellowed, damp and obscure
the boy standing at the shattered railing of the terrace looking down on the dreary sea and sky
and vaguely hoping to lift some curse as he releases the paper,
watching as it catches in the current and carries over the retaining wall and into the rocks below
lost now among beer bottles and Styrofoam cups,
gazing down now on the dusky beach where a man sits alone in front of a little fire bending and sputtering in the wind
and the boy strains to hear somewhere below the din of the crashing surf the haunted laughter of the Drunken Sailor still hovering in the cold misty air
- Ned Foskey
Friday, March 03, 2006
Once, as a child, before a trip to the lake, I collected a sturdy black ant, and a gurthy red one. I placed them in a used pill bottle filled three quarters to the top w/ water. I watched them all the way there, and pledged that the winner would go free. I watched and watched. They swam and paddled and fought, and plunged momentarily. when we pulled into the sandy parking lot, one had died. I immediately got out of the car and liberated the other. He was red. I've always loved the red ants.
Today,I can only smell oatmeal. Everywhere I go it smells like oatmeal. Its maddening. In the beginning I found it pleasant. I'd always loved the smell. Made me think of home. But now - I walk through the industrial district and all I smell is oatmeal. No sulphur burning my nasal passages. No phosphorous burning my lungs. nuthin', just oatmeal.
consequently, I've taken a dislike to quakers, but can you blame me?
-Ned Foskey
Thursday, March 02, 2006
A Handbook for Writers
by Ned Foskey
A hobby for the leisure class. Sit down, relax, imagine as a child does, something exciting and wonderful. Stroke silks as you do. Pass the day in a trance, or impassioned wildly, or in an athletic frenzy listening to Dizzy Gillespie, your shirt soaking in sweat and swilling rivers of coffee. Become eccentric; a personality. Grow your whiskers long. A goatee perhaps. Try wearing black, thick-rimmed spectacles. Or . . . bring back the monocle. Speak seldom in public and with drama when you do. Dress in grand style, if a bit threadbare; or see if the shabby look goes well with your face and body type. Swagger subtly when you walk—just enough to seem to mean it but not enough to seem to want it too badly. Have a black-and-white portrait taken of yourself looking off dreamily into the far distance as if seeing into the future with clarity and insight. Do things that other people hear about but never see. Take up drinking as a second job. Quit your first job. Try to avoid washing for a couple of days although the idea disgusts you. Force yourself on yourself. Be unreasonable. Rant occasionally without warning and stomp your foot uncontrollably. Insult Henry James loudly, saying that he was a pompous turd and a chronic masturbator. Act as if you're surrounded by fools without alienating them. Believe everything they've been saying about you once you've acted so as to make them say it all. And, finally, try to write a line or two between drinking espresso, smoking cigarettes and keeping your image together so that you'll have something to show them when they ask, "What do you write about all day?"
Tuesday, February 28, 2006
Wednesday, February 22, 2006
HAIKU WEDNESDAY
Arrive untimely,
we shall get to where we go.
All together now.
Monday, February 20, 2006
Cool Shit!!!
Read about Dokken
What the f--k?!!?!?
Learn about Ray Barretto from O-Dub, your soul guide.
Drink whiskey
Cathy and Michelle were the bitchiest girls in school. Its not like they bitched about everything, but were bitchy about everything. Neither of them had a boyfriend, and we liked to say that they were "hot to trot." Of course, no self-respecting young teenager wanted to deal with them. Nobody wanted to hear their precocious sneers, their continuous sighs of disapproval as if the world would never get it. Like they were waiting for the entire world to be cool. To be anything but boring, which it was. Always. Never Enough.
"Like, God, when is it going to possibly live up to all of my expectations?" they'd think. But, the whole world would never live up to their expectations.
I had a crush on Michelle, with black hair and a widow's peak. Very young to have gray hairs, but I thought it was sexy. On Valentine's day, all the kids bought bulk holiday cards with smurfs, or fraggles, or farm animals, or whatever the local A&P was selling out front. We'd swap them with each other, and it meant nothing to most the kids. But to some of us, the notes we'd scrawl had lovely intentions. Love notes that could lead to romance and soon after, maybe a little kiss. And kisses could only lead to more romance, possibly even falling in love. So, to me, these valentines day cards were practically proposals. because I was head over heels for Michelle......
No matter how bitchy she was.
"Here Michelle," I mumbled. Too shy to raise my face to look at her, I jabbed my hand out blindly.
"Oh, That would be nice, if you were my valentine," she said and turned and walked away.
Later that year, I asked her out, and she turned me down.
She said,
"Um, Like, are you kidding me? If I even mentioned you in my blog or on MySpace, people would think I am such a slacker. I'm trying to get as many friends as possible, and you would not help."
To make it even worse, this time when she turned and walked away, she first said "N---a please."
Wednesday, February 08, 2006
After his divorce, Marty Nine got a dog. It was a beagle and was very cute, with its brown and black spots and its tiny little paws. It would hop up on Marty whenever he returned from work, and it would hide if it made a boo boo and pooped inside the house. Marty never liked the dog. To be frank, he didn’t like animals at all. Initially, getting a dog was supposed to give Marty a sense of camaraderie in what seemed to be an incredibly mundane, lonely life filled with days locked into a computer programmer’s job, and evenings in front of the television, or frequently at bars and strip clubs. Ultimately, though, the dog became a nuisance. Its constant need for adoration, or attention drove Marty crazy.
The dog would eventually suffer under Marty’s nastiness, but nothing physically abusive. He named it Pencil Pusher, mirroring his day job to some degree, and Shortened that to Pee Pee, or Pencil. Pencil was subjected to all sorts of cruelty under Marty, the least of which was Nine’s penchant for pouring whiskey into Pencil’s dog bowl along with his water. When Pencil got drunk, Marty would sit and laugh, with his own whiskey in hand, as the puppy wobbled across the floor, ran into the walls chasing its tail or just lay there, unable to move.
Pencil had only one testicle, adding insult to Marty’s dislike for the dog. How had he overlooked the fact that his puppy had only one nut? What kind of unkind existence is that? How do the other dogs look at Pencil, when they come around and give a sniff? Inside, Marty wondered if he could take the dog to a specialist and either add another testicle, or give his dog a complete overhaul, maybe turn him into a female dog.
On weekends, Marty hoped to meet women with the aid of his cute, single-nut puppy. He took Pencil to the park and watched joggers run past while Pencil playfully chased the other dogs. Marty never approached the pretty women he’d see passing by as he sat staring lifelessly from a bench, casually sipping from his “to-go” cup of coffee. He simply stared ahead, wondering when this dog might become the chick magnet he’d imagined it to be.
Monday, January 16, 2006
I have not forgotten you, tho your scent has changed. I miss your unknowable questioning. The train rides are silent and the el does not sound like joy as sun ra has said. We disagree about things that should be the obvious. I want to touch you and I cant even tell you that. Why should it be so different? I have seen your smile, and I know that smirk means more than that you’d like a hug. I’m no fool.
Breakin’ my heart, you are. I’m certain there are other men like me who woo you, hope to even get a returned phone call. You must have many on your dance card. Your slim frame, slinking to the beat, funky music wrapping itself in your moves and the floor shaking around me as my sweaty palms are wiped against my pants. I hope you don’t discount me as a suitor. I could be calm and collective if only I could stop thinking about whether or not I was gonna trip and fall as I talk with you in my clumsiness.
Oh lord you dropped that bomb on me, don’t let em, don’t let em, drop it, drop it, drop it, drop it, be-bop it on me. You done me in, baby, yeah you did.
Sunday, January 15, 2006
I may be a cretin for enjoying this, but when late night snaps occur and I know by morning I'll be disposing of a dead mouse, I get some sick happiness inside. The last three weeks, I've placed mouse traps in every corner of the apartment. Each one with a bit of peanut butter, or incredibly stinky cheese. Each one to entice these little creatures from their cubby holes, trip the trap and die quickly.
As I laid sleeping soundly, the familiar snap of the trap silently echoed through the kitchen.
"Ah ha," I whispered in the night, "tomorrow will be a good day."
Friday, January 06, 2006
There is no perfect trap. There are some great designs that will snap a mouse neck in two without blood, nor excess amounts of mouse hair. I've found, tho, that after a day or so the mice find ways to outsmart just about any trap. Jumping over the trap, or picking at the bait, allowing the peanut butter to be picked at and not eaten aggressively so as to not trip the trap. Somehow, that mouse can outwit a simple machine, a spring, to be exact, and foil my plans to kill it.
I view this mouse as an intruder and will find it dead or go mad seeking it's demise. I've already stayed awake more hours than I wish to count devising new, fiendish methods of mouse murder. A hammer would smash it's tiny brain from even thinking about entering my kitchen. A poison would drop him like a led zeppelin in the summertime. If I, perchance, caught a glimpse of him, I would pounce immediately, grabbing a wooden spoon from the mantle and beat it senseless, until I had nothing but a bloodied mess of what once was a mouse.
With everything that man has created in this world, including the computer, the nuclear bomb, the common electric fan...
with all that we have, there is still a struggle to keep mice away from our refridgerators like some cartoon by Fritz Lang.
