The well is dry, so I thought I post some old crap.

(UPDATE: The links now work. I am a bad person.)

Here is some old crap that I think is pretty good. You may like some of it, too, as it is less hacky than the newer garbage.

Enjoy, Blog Friend!

Nude Women vs. Naked Ladies

Notes towards the rehabilitation of the seventh grade definition of the word GAY.

Enjoying a relaxing stroll, before the love making.

Facts about Lemmy I know in my heart are true, but cannot prove.

Old-Chinese-Lady-Robics

Scars and Anomalies

PBS doesn't want my money.

Races hated by my mother, who is now dead.

An Advertising Brief

25 Fun Facts About Teen Dream Meatloaf !!!!

A shattering read.

A confidential Memorandum

Robert Plant

And of course, the Adventures of a Nude Fat Man Eating Cookie Dough.

Confessions of a Nude Fat Man Eating Cookie Dough

Nude Fat Man Eating Cookie Dough II: Limo Trouble

Nude Fat Man Eating Cookie Dough III: Mother cleans up

Nude Fat Man Eating Cookie Dough IV: The Fat Man Shrugs

Nude Fat Man Eating Cookie Dough V: My Enemies

Nude Fat Man Eating Cookie Dough VI: Astride Destiny!!!!

Recent Alarming Keyword Activity.

Things have gotten desperate out there. Here are the most recent ACTUAL search keywords that have led people to your Bastard of A and C.

if my daddy new i was fucking a nigger

body hair gay nude

kqed sticker

salems lot soundtrack lyrics

hitler tottenkopf rings

the affect of cocaine on weasels

old chinese lady get fucked

i have a zits below my eye

white hair grows on earlobe

bastard history fight club

huckleberry finn curse god

labia majora photo sex fuck (this lonely feller came from the Islamic Republic of Iran)

Things I don't do well.

This was inspired by an English person.

Shave. I consistently miss a good inch long swath under my chin. It might be because I shave in the shower, but I am not here to make excuses. I owe you the unvarnished truth, dear reader.

Sing. I’m a master of inventing melodies that might start more on less on the same note of the song I’m attempting to sing, but then wildly gambol to far off places.

Speak. I have a weasally nasally, reedy speaking voice with a whistling “s”. Excruciating really. I've been told I do not sound sincere, ever.

Converse. I’m a little bit introverted, so ordinary conversation usually bores the hell out of me. I can’t follow small talk, I fake laugh inappropriately loud, I forget words, invent others and swear too much.

Go to the doctor. I’m afraid to find out I have some embarrassing malady, like shingles or anal warts. Of course, with anal warts, I’m sure I could self-diagnose that, uh, condition.

Coordinate clothes. I think I’m being not trendy and insouciant (a word I fucking LOVE, ever since I heard Moby use it on some crappy VH1 show and sound like a dick) and Wittgensteinian and stuff, but I think I look like an asshole a lot of times.

Converse with my daughter. She’s five. She draws for hours, and I’m bummed that we don’t talk as much as we did when she was four. She’s a great artist, of course. But dang, we used to talk all deep and shit.

Discouraging my son’s butt picking. In the past, I was on that guy if his hand went below his waist. Now he’s got to be fairly AUTO-SPELUNKING before I can even be bothered. That’s no good.

Not eat cookies and almonds. I eat cookies like the sassy fat bastard I am. I also eat almonds like a fiend, even though they sit in my stomach like an abandoned ten-speed. Got to cut that crap out.

Sleep. I sleep like a goddamn asshole. I’m just not good at it. I snore, so maybe I have sleep apnea. Great, I’m dying. Of course, co-sleeping, a fiendish plot by hippy nihilists to destroy humanity, kicks my goddamn ass. It doesn’t help that I live in $700,000 two bedroom shack.

Practice Stylistic Diversity. I write for a living, and I am resistant to change my writing for the assignment. I’d rather write overblown and weird than terse and concise. I get petulant when I have to be serious. I’m a baby.

Yard work. I hate it. I hate…leaves. I hate weeds. I hate the hot dusty August sun causing me to sweat. The thing is I admire people who can happily garden. It’s useful, productive hobby, unlike my major hobby: blathering useless information to my wife who tolerates me.

Have pigment. While not an albino, I am a pale and can get egg plantish after only a few hours in the sun. I can tan after a week or so in the sun, but it only lasts a day before I start sloughing vast sheets of flesh. I actually can remember the DAY that I had a good tan. It was spring vacation when I was about sixteen. I stayed in Santa Cruz for a week and went to the beach everyday. That Friday night, I looked like betelnut. By Saturday morning, I had begun aggressively molting.

Eat green things. Salads are a chore. Celery is mind numbing. I like tacos, Chicken Korma, lamb chops, lobster in bourbon sauce, milk shakes, Chicken in spicy garlic sauce, you know, good deadly foods. I would rather be shot in the face and live than have to suffer through a large sprouty salad.

Appear sane. I am actually a sort of pleasant person. Or I try to be. But I have this habit when I’m deep in thought of going into scowl, of the scary Japanese temple guardian variety. Really frightening. Isn’t a good thing for the morning train.

Hotels Am mildly creeped out by hotels, especially nice ones. I'm at a loss at what I'm supposed to do in a hotel room, which stinks because I invariably can't sleep. The disconnect of a hotel room sort of looking like a home yet being sterile and sans books gives me the heebie-jeebies. Houses without books do the same thing.

Not fretting about money, earthquakes, and the end of the civilization. Three things I’ve been worrying about lately. Money, because I have kids and a mortgage and I need a raise and my wife has gone freelance and such is the mark that our civilization makes on middle class goons like myself. If this were the Aztec empire, I’d be worrying about if I sacrificed enough Chiquaquas to the Dreaded Corn Lord. Earthquakes and the end of civilization come simply because I have an overactive imagination and can enter long periods of pessimism and low grade Weltschmerz.

But,I do laugh a lot, which is good. And I make my wife laugh. And my kids are affectionate and gratifyingly wise-assy. So that’s good.

Rad Malayasian blog

Mike, my main man in Malayasia, author of the English language blog Where the Hell is Everybody?,
and the Malay language blog Semusim Di Neraka (which is mostly about me and how rad I am. That's how I read it anyway.) links to a very interesting blog/zine called
Ricecooker. Good short bits on the Malayasian metal/punk/radness scene, as well as an Attila the Stockbroker video.

Radness achieved? I say yes.

Insane Conversations With My Mother: Lenten Edition

My mother was while she was alive could be always depending on Waiting for Godot-like conversation. Maddening, insane conversations.

One lent, I made the mistake of asking her why fish was okay, while meat is verbotten (Russian Orthodox do the full forty days in full lenten fast. None of this Fridays only bullshit). It was an idle question, probably to avoid some other topic.

Her response:
Well, fish are fish.

Me: Right. So they have meat.

She: Weeelll.... they're different.

Me: Why?

She: Fish are fish.

Me: But they have meat.

She: Well, it's fish meat...not animal meat.

Me: Fish are animals.

She: No.

Me: Are they vegetables?

She: No. They're fish.

Me: So there's fish, animals, and vegetables.

She: Yes.

(I get up and get a dictionary. Yeah, I should have let it lie, but... jesus, c'mon.)

Me: FISH. Any of numerous cold-blooded aquatic vertebrates of the superclass Pisces, characteristically having fins, gills, and a streamlined body. (Or some such thing)

Number two: The flesh of such animals used as food. Animals. They're animals, ma.

She, clenching her teeth: Well, aren't you clever.

Am rocking a new link.

In my insanely tasteful and eclectic links section, I am now rocking The Panopticist. Well designed. I enjoy the colors. It's funny, too. I say go.

The 12 steps to reversing the 12 steps.

1. Your phoney-baloney piety is driving everyone apeshit. Lay off. And stop calling your sullen little ex-junky friends. They’re depressing as cancer. They're holding you back. Remember, you are a winner!

2. Ruben’s Dream fails to place in the 4th at Aquaduct. Once again, God lets you down. Like that enabler you are, you give him another chance. Sucker.

3. Tell the past to take a hike. Because since you’ve missing entire weekends from your past, what’s the point in trying to remember it?

4. Stand up for yourself and start pointing fingers. Makes the fools pay.

5. Make a list of all people that seem to hold a grudge against you, then let ‘em go. Sour grapes can ruin good wine. Or gin. Or Robitussen.

6. Amplify your personality, your charm, your party quotient. Know that if people can’t love you when you’re fun, then they certainly aren’t going lend you money later.

7. Play to your strengths. Eat a steak. Buy a car. Put it all down on Ruben’s Dream to place in the 4th at Aquaduct. Start flying your freak flag, superstar. People respect character.

8. Tell self-aggrandizing tales to strangers in bars. Leave long winded messages on your sponsor’s voicemail, detailing your weekend freebasing in Kate Moss’s pool cabana. Remind the miserable stiff what it’s like to LIVE. It's the best thing you could for him.

9. Jot down a few of your strengths, even imaginary ones. Especially the imaginary ones. Hang ‘em up on your bathroom mirror, and give yourself a sassy wink every morning, at least on the mornings when your eye isn’t a pulpy mottled mess.

10. Start taking back your will from a distant and impersonal Semitic tribal deity and turn your life over to the care of a woman called Bubbles you met outside a bail bonds office. Turn you life over to her care in fifteen minutes increments.

11. You pry your head lose from the dried vomit and blood that glues it down on the cool tile of the Mexican drunk tank, and croak “There is no God.” Once again the Federales beat you with their truncheons. Let ‘em. Because you've found your center and they can never take that away.

12. Everything is running smooth as silk and you are powerful and good looking and charming as hell and getting laid tons. There is nothing you can’t accomplish without your friends Jack Daniels and Johnny Walker. Congratulations! You are back and ready to animalize!

Selected Walks

“But” I said laughing, “I do amphiony everyday. We are only speaking of a walk…”

“ Mr. Jourdain!” exclaimed the Baron D’Ormesan “Well said! You practice amphiony without knowing it!”

From “The False Amphion” Guillaume Apollinaire

The Walk: Clement Street, San Francisco

Hoped- for outcome: A Sense of Futility

Time Commitment: as long as it takes

Start walking at the end of Clement Street and go west, towards the ocean. Pass the Irish bars, the Russian restaurants, the weird neither here nor there store fronts and anemic Vietnamese nail parlors. You haven’t made this walk in a while, if ever, so you are piqued by a wave of fake nostalgia for the old ethnic neighborhood that have disappeared, which you never have seen, because you are still young, and they haven’t existed for years. Fight back

Go into the heavily Chinese blocks and look for the right grocery/butcher/produce stand, a scary one with barrels of fish out front. It is a nice day, a little blustery, and you take a outdoor seat at a crappy hipster café across the street. And you wait.

The frogs escape the barrel. The man, swearing, puts them back in. Everyone involved will die someday. The frogs more likely sooner. Fucking hell, that’s some deep shit.

**

The Walk: The Unnamed Fire Trail, Berkeley

Hoped-for outcome: Uncertainty, tinged with regret

Time Commitment: 45 minutes

On a bright Spring morning, you pack a bowling ball in your day pack. You drive up past the football stadium and swimming pool, up into the oak forest. The ad hoc parking lot is fullish, but you find a space.

You heave your pack onto your back and start walking. You are serious, merely nodding to folks as they pass by with their dogs. The heavy pack gives your long strides purpose.

Finally, you reach the Fucking Hill, a path about 150 yards long that climbs in a straight line at hideous 8 degrees. You suck up the pain and when you reach the top, you silently unload your pack – and let the ball go. You just walk away, not looking back, even as people scream behind you.

Damn, you’re cold.

**

The Walk: The Embarcadero, across from the Ferry Building, in San Francisco.

Hoped-for outcome: Internalized admiration

Time Commitment: 10 minutes

You are in some sort of Business wear. You have a blue tooth Spock-thing in your ear, you are carrying a BlackBerry, a smart phone, a Titanium laptop in a leather PC carrying-thing, Armani frames on your homo-ish glasses. You got a sixty dollar haircut yesterday and you had your slacks made by a Hong Kong tailor who sets up shop at one of the hotels by the airport for a couple weeks every year.

You are going to eat sushi at the Ferry Building.

As you make your way toward the Ferry Building, you pass by some skuzzy kids doing sweet-ass tricks on their skateboards. They are secretly your heroes, but you keep walking, pretending that eating crappy sushi is better than doing sweet-ass tricks on a skateboard in the middle of the day when normal people are at work.

**

The Walk: Inspiration Point Trail, Berkeley-Richmond

Hope-for outcome: You feel like you are in an endless shitty adventure game

Time Commitment: Two hours

You are wearing a sword. You walk and continue walking. There is a big hill. The wind blows. There is no treasure. Climbing the long trail to the crest of a hill, a jogger passes. You keep your sword sheathed. Where are the fucking monsters, already? This map blows.

Hawks ride the thermals. You wish you could kill them. But all you have is this sword and you haven’t found any flying boots. Fuck.

Two pudgy middle aged women wearing comfortable shoes, with running shells tied around their waists are power-walking toward you. Should you behead one?

You don’t, because sometimes there are severe penalties for killing non-combatants, and this certainly feels like one of those shitty games where the designer build in some lame-ass morality to cover-up their obvious lack of imagination. Still, the head of the one with the frosted-Princess Diana hairdo would look good at the end of your pike.

Damn. Another afternoon, wasted, walking in the shitty outdoors and the shitty sunshine. You run home to your Xbox.

Who’s idea was this shitty map?

The Mob Rules -- An Appreciation

The Song: The Mob Rules (

The Band: Black Sabbath w/Ronnie James Dio

The Album: The Mob Rules (1981)

I AM RONNIE JAMES DIO. I am a sawed-off guinea runt from New Hampshire with poodle hair, and by rights I should installing car stereos in Perth Amboy.

But through some strange calculus, I have been made lead singer of BLACK MOTHERFUCKING SABBATH. I have Geezer Butler and the mighty Tony Iommi at my call. I also somehow ended up with Carmen Appice from Vanilla Fudge's BROTHER on drums, but hey, you can't have everything.

I was Ritchie Blackmore's bitch in Rainbow, and I will be subjecting the world to middling synthesizer Dungeons and Dragons metal by mid-decade, so this is my Lawnmower Man moment. I AM GOD HERE. And for the next three minutes and fourteen seconds I am going to claw at the sunlight and gulp the sweet air like an escaped Man in an Iron Mask.

So sit back and share this fleeting moment when I totally give myself over to my moment of shrieking like Shiva over Iommi's detuned Panzer assault.

Be there when I claw my way to the top of the douchebag pyramid and catch a glimpse of the Sun.

Please like me.

Hallogallo -- An Appreciation

The Song: Hallogallo

The Band: Neu!

Album: Neu!(1971)

This song is ONLY ONE GODDAMN CHORD FOR TEN MINUTES over a obsessive 4/4 pulse. But this chord, this chord is special. This chord is fwacka-fwacka-fwacka'd up and down like taffy. And not the cheap shitty grocery store taffy, but the good kind you buy from little shrunken apple Port-o-gee men down at the Shore. Only you're not an apple-cheeked New England tyke in Madras boardshorts, you are a haggard German speed freak in a beige linen suit, with pale blue saucer eyes and a TottenKopf bone structure.

Anyway, this is a funky Stone Cold Jam, with the emphasis on Cold. Cold as chrome. Cold as the Bavarian wind rushing in to the crumpled frame of the old Citreon you just abandoned wrapped around a birch, but you are so spun you've decided to walk to Dusseldorf, which is 35 KM away. That doesn't matter though, because Hallogallo is karoming through your frying skull, giving you the counterpoint to face down the asphalt until you reach the outer city ring.

Lux Aeterna: An Appreciation.

The "Song": Lux Aeterna (Gyorgi Lygeti)

The Band (or composer in this case): Gyorgi Lygeti

The Album: "2001: A Space Odyssey" OST (1970)

So you really think you are a whole lot of something, what with your camera watches and your High Def pants. You're out there, making PowerPoints, using "vis-a-vis" incorrectly. Well, it's time to knock that shit off, sunshine and blow some of the cobwebs out yo' thick skull.

The song goes sort of like this:
eeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeee
eeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeee
eeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeee

FOR TWELVE GODDAMN MINUTES. This isn't some half assed goddamn Death Cab for Cutie horseshit. This is Stanley Fucking Kubrick joining forces with Mad Scientist Composer Gyorgi Lygeti, telling you that life is brutal and mysterious and while you're watching Hill Street Blues on Lifetime, Monoliths and Star Babies are deciding the fate of fucking everything and reality will bend your bones with its sublime weirdness.

You asshole.

And upon listening to this, there are only two sane possible responses, which are:

A) You realise that nothing means anything, and you find yourself feeling a Derrida-ish sense of release from culture, morality, ethics, anything. You take all your clothes off and go shoplifting.

B) The tiny hairs on the nape of your neck spring out like planks, and you start running around in circles, screaming "Woo-woo! Woo-woo!" like Daffy Duck. You realise we are merely gerbil pellets to the Great and Horrid Cthulhu. You take all your clothes off and go shoplifting.

So I'll see you at the 7-11. I'll be the nude one over by the panty hose.

(I wrote briefly about Lygeti in an ancient blog entry here.)

A Whole Lotta Rosie -- an appreciation.

The Song: A Whole Lotta Rosie (AC/DC)

The Band: AC/DC

The Album: Let There Be Rock (1977)

In the 1970s, Australia was a blessed nation. And it was for no other reason than they sidestepped the Summer of Love completely, and went to straight from Ozzie and Harriet to Altamont, the bootleg-horse-tranquilizers-and-zip-gun-duels-over-kilo-bags-of-stems-and-seeds-
up-against-the-wall-motherfucka-hippy appeared sui generis from the red clay, without the leavening of love beads and Nehru jackets. Fucking right on!

There was also in the 1970s a brief window when everybody at a rock show – performers, the audience, the management, the security – dressed like roadies. Everybody looked like roadies. And everybody had sex like roadies.

And this song is a celebration of dirty roadie sex, only the roadie is actually the weasel faced dead lead singer of AC/DC, Bonn Scott. (He of the Voice, the Voice of a man whose daytime occupation is fapping to the lingere section of an old Sears catalogues, while his nights are given over to the loving arms of a couple bottles of Robistussen.)

Dirty Roadie Sex is about availability, with quantity and quality being the same thing. Everybody had roadie sex. Jenna Jameson speculum acrobatics would just lead to giggling and Tantric Sting sex was the province of poofters and eggheads. No, roadie sex is doing what comes naturally. If you have to think about it, it ain’t worth doing. Sure there is a certain enthusiasm for baroque improvisation (introducing mud sharks into the festivities for example) but that's just the fries that come with the shake, so to speak.

Everybody got in the act, gimps, lepers, tardos. It didn’t matter. Beauty was what you offered, not what you looked like. Rosie herself is an uproariously upholstered gal, “42-39-56/You could say she got a lot.”Aye, you could say that, Bonn. And you can be sure those are imperial measurements, chappie. No pansy metric horse squat here. Fiona Apple, get thee behind me! And eat sammich for once!

Before I start sounding like Camille Paglia, let’s get down on the song, because this is why I called you all here this late, stormy night. Bonn Scott is of course in full priapiatic glory, roaring his devotion to the Venus of Walungurru. Meanwhile, Angus must have absorbed a lot of Phillip Glass, ‘cause he goes for a strident dirt bag minimalism. The entire song is one goddamn fierce call and response riff at a machine like groin thrusting cadence, perfect for a love song of sensitivity like this one.

The Rose of Ocean Blvd.

Consuela. She of the burning eyes.

She was my maid, or she was until I let my towel slip.Then she became me, and I her. True I had let my towel slip in front of the room service guy, a guy they had sent up to fix my networking cable, and a family of six in the elevator, but Consuela, she of the almost procine sensuality, was the only one who had lived under the Arbors of Sensuality long enough to understand my cues. Truly, my halitotis worked as a musk, a musk calibated to reach and move only her.

She became my hotel wife, these three heady days. After paying a not-insignificant fee/dowry to the hotel manager, we entered a very specific sort of cohabitation. There is a word for it, a word I cannot repeat, for Consuela (she of the elephantine buttocks) heard it, it would break her heart would shatter, much like if ball peen hammer hit a sparrow made of marizpan, and discretion is my byword, if only for legal reasons.

I worked during the day, and Consuela (she of the bleeding gums) would be waiting with my pipe, my fez and my medical truss. She would then soak her long hair in warm salt water and swab me, taking special care around my ulcerated fat rolls.

We would order room service, and chat, me pacing the room, her locked in the closet. (She of the eyebrows obsessively plucked out -- a nervous condition that in our three days together I could not cure.)

Today when I rose (I had passed out halfway into my second bottle of cough syrup), all traces of her were gone. I wept quietly.

I noticed she had failed to provide fresh towels before her flight. She owns my soul, but I will not be leaving a tip.

Good bye Santa Monica. Good Bye Consuela (she of the pear shaped goiter.)

How I am lacking and my attempts to rectify.

As pointed out recently, blogs that do not feature "The 'copy+paste' of deep and meaningful lyrics" are in fact not worthy of the name blog, as they have failed to meet even basic criteria of the genre.

So, as I am remiss, I seek to rectify with Cut and Pasted Lyrics that sum up the causes of my weltschmerz nicely.

"PAPER IN MY SHOE"

♪I GOT A PAPER IN MY SHOE,

♪I GOT A PAPER IN MY SHOE.

♪OH, WHAT YOUR MAMA DON`T KNOW

♪AND WHAT YOUR PAP DON`T LIKE.

♪OH, WHAT YOUR MAMA DON`T KNOW

♪AND WHAT YOUR PAP DON`T LIKE.

♪I GOT A PAPER IN MY SHOE.


(Thanks to Close But No Cigar for the rip-off. Funny blog, that one.)

Taking Dumps In LA

Today I’m down in Los Angeles, where I’ll be for a couple days editing a commercial.

(I might be in Santa Monica. I’m not sure.)

Production services operate in a buyer’s market. The various editorial and music houses are sleepy cocoons designed for maximum comfort for ad agency douchebags like myself. Snacks, food, soda and beer are always at the offing. Masseuses are called in. X-Box consoles litter the low slung coffee tables. Muted colors.

Lunches are served at a group table and everyone is ever so joshing and friendly, likes it’s the best Youth Group meeting ever!!!! The people are all super friendly, they positively gleam and laugh at your jokes, even if you are an unpleasant fat man with halitosis. They chatter among themselves and there are always like five people just hanging with no apparent jobs other than to be toothy and slender. It’s like a cosmetics counter for dopy pasty guys.

They really want to make you feel at home. Which is a problem when you want to take a dump (particularly a trumpety moist one)

The bathrooms are usually temples of coziness, with magazines, cool tiles, scented shit, and fluffy towels. They are only lacking in some genetically modified hamster octopus hybrid that will gentle massage your colon until it descends and deposit its loamy contents without a wink of effort on your part. All fine and great if you are applying a beauty mark. But I’m usually looking to facilitate an entirely different process.

So, today, I’m in one of these womb toilets. All that separates me from the outer hallway is a fogged glass door, one that shows a good half an inch of daylight at the bottom. And I just know I am going to sound like Sousaphone solo in there, never mind the smell. And all these enormously friendly cute LA broads are tee-heeing in the hallway outside, petting the Golden Retriever or some such fucking LA thing. (Seriously, what the hell do they do for a job?)

It’s like taking a dump at a dinner party. I hate that, especially because I am technically at work and so should not feel panicky when taking a dump. Give me the front section of the paper and the anonymity of a stall and I’m in heaven.

And I can’t hold it because I’m going to be here like six more hours. So I Toilet Paper mute as best as I can, I do breathing exercises, I sing softly to myself, I don’t force ANYTHING just in case a high pressure sulphur front is waiting to burst out with a roar. So I’m in there a good fifteen minutes, doing a job that should take all of five, and come out smelling like some new age crap lilac air freshener, LIKE THAT IS GOING TO TRICK ANYBODY.

In fact it maybe worse than a regular old poo smell, because at least poo is honest and hardworking. And now I am a man that had a smelly dump AND I smell like lilacs. It is the poo-equivalent of a boob job: everyone KNOWS I wasn’t romping in Lilacs, just like they know the cantilevered D-Cups of the 65 year old at the bar came out of a caulking gun.

I hate LA.

A Cultural History of Crotch Kicking in World Literature.

The Book of Job c. 11th Century BC
Satan smote Job with a dreadful disease, probably the leprosy, and Job, seated in ashes, scraps off the corruption with a potsherd. His wife incited him to "curse God, and die" but Job answered "Shall we receive good at the hand of God, and shall we not receive evil?" At which point Satan appears wearing tap shoes and giving Job a full goat stand to the sackage.

The Iliad of Homer c. 8th-7th Century BC
The Trojans employ a giant Megasakos to taunt the assembled Greek forces by slinging his large testicles (Homer writes that “His testes appear as if they were goats. Not goat testes, but actual fucking goats. He had big nuts.”) over the walls of the City, all the while bellowing “BIG SACK ATTACK”. This cause Achilles to sulk even more that usual, driving Patroclus to avenge his boyfriend by shooting an iron rod heated in a camp fire from a bow, slamming the giant in his nads.

The Canterbury Tales Geoffrey Chaucer c. 14th century
In the Fletcher’s Tale, the Fletchter is “bunged en thye tainte ageyn and ageyn” by an angry fishwife.

Journey to the West Wu Cheng'en. c. 1590
In this classic picaresque novel depicting the Monkey King’s adventures in the west, the Monkey King is confronts the Ogre of Seven Glands, who guards the Misty Lodestar Cave of Forgetting and Truth. The Ogre demands to know the Seven Sutras of the Free Balling Buddha. The Monkey King responds: “I’m not sure, but I think number three involves AN IRON GRAPPLING HOOK TO THE KNACKERS.” Ka-pow. Right in the various glands.

An Enquiry Concerning Human Understanding David Hume 1748
In this classic metatext on the nature of philosophy, the Scottish philosopher Hume writes:

“By the term impression, then, I mean all our more lively perceptions, when we hear, or see, or feel, or love, or hate, or desire, or will. Like if I kicked you repeatedly in your danglies. That, motherfucker, is a fucking impression.”

Lady Windermere’s Fan Oscar Wilde 1882
In Act II, Lord Augustus Lorton (aka "Tuppy"), a friend of Lord Windermere's, enters and pulls him aside to inquire about Mrs. Erlynne, with whom he is friendly. Lord Windermere, a gentleman, takes a fireplace poker and rams it full on into Tuppy’s scrotal tissues. At that point Lord Windermere utters the classic line: “I am no expert of Mrs. Erlynne’s doings. At least, not as much as you might be on the sensations of a ripped ball sac.”

The Adventures of Huckleberry Finn Mark Twain 1885
Huck admits to Jim that Jim “has an uncommon level head, for a nigger.” Jim then delivers a haymaker to Huck’s tender regions. Huck: “I was merely… OH GOD…BwwwwWWWWWWAAAARRRGGGH!” Huck vomit. Jim chuckles: “You got an uncommon sensitivity round yo’ gonads, you cracker piece of shit.”

Erblicken Sie! Das Golem hat ein shvantz des Eisens! (Behold! The Golem has an Iron Cock!) Anonymous. c.1905
In a play popular among the Yiddish speaking immigrants of New York, The Golem uses his Mystical Crotch of Iron to shield a Ukrainian Jewish settlement from maurauding Cossaks.

Ulysses James Joyce 1922
Stately Buck Mulligan gets it in the Yarbles repeatedly while shaving. He gets kicked by a Scotsman, a Welshman, and an Englishman. Despite his injuries, he then has sex with an Irish prostitute, who is also a Jew.

Lolita Vladimir Nabokov 1955
“Between the age limits of nine and fourteen there occur maidens who have an ability to render the crotch of their admirers a pulped and bloody blancmange, as I learned recently upon entering a local ice cream parlor.”

Tender Crotch: A Modern Myth of Getting It Good in the Breadbasket Carl Jung 1958
Jung traces the archetype of the Crotch Pummeler to crastration anxiety. He also wrote in his diary he once kicked a postal worker in the crotch, just to “get an erection”. Fucking sick Nazi sadist prick.

Bastard Swine Krotch Kommandos of Loathing Hunter S. Thompson 1972
In Crawdaddy issue from 1972, HST is beaten the jewels by Bull Fruits and Nazi Swine Flattop Road Cops. What most people assume is a Ralph Steadman calligraphic treatment of the article’s title is HST’s actually weiner offal.

Star Wars: Episode V The Empire Strikes Back D. Irvin Kershner 1980
Darth Vader, Dark Lord of the Sith, clamps down hard of Admiral Piett’s nut bag and tugs. And I don’t mean Jedi shit either, I mean old school ungloved hand to nut sack tugging. Later, he does kick him in the oyster bed telepathically.

Glenngarry Glen Ross David Mamet 1992
The entire third act consists of two real estate men kicking each other in the Netherlands and calling each other “fuckin' faggot cunt.” Great stuff.

Snakes On a Plane.

The trailer is out. Words fail me.

George W. Bush. Man of Contrasts.

In a recent Pew Research Poll, respondents were asked to describe Pres. Bush in one word. The top five responses were:

1. Incompetent
2. Out Of Touch
3. Good
4. Idiot
5. Liar

I have managed, through self-hypnosis and boredom at work, to recreate the longer list here, to whit:

6. Moist
7. Jejune
8. Nougat-filled
9. Solid-state
10. Prolapsed
12. Bovine
13. Porcine
14. Glistening
15. Eldritch
16. Cantilevered
17. Occulted
18. Radiant
19. Bouncy
20. Flaccid
21. Turgid
22. Multi-orgasmic
23. Romanian
24. Lovecraftian
25. Doughy
26. Peachy
27. Pus-a-rrific
28. Retardo
29. Upholstered
30. Puckered

My last new cds for a long, long time.

We are bad parents. Ruby did not get into the kindergartens of our choice, public or private. This because we are bad people, quite horrible really, and the school admissions people picked up on it.

Maybe I should have taken the toothpick out of my mouth during the interview. Maybe Paula should have not snapped her garters. Maybe I should have not snapped her garters, or mine, during the interview with the kind principal of the desirable and well respected Catholic school, the one with the sane tuition that is not five minutes from our house. (We applied late, you see. My daughter is a fucking GENIUS and I don't appreciate you thinking otherwise.)

Perhaps carving “A N G U” (there was no room for the S) into my right hand the night before WAS NOT THE FUCKING WAY TO GO. Maybe enthusing over shooting rats with a .22 down at the corporation yard was a STUPID GAMBIT. Maybe pointing at the photo of JP II and laughing DID NOT BREAK THE ICE AS INTENDED. Farting, as it turns out, was right out. So was wafting it comically.

So, instead Ruby got into a very good school, a great school in fact, but it’s not close to our house and more expensive. But we don’t have to pretend to like God, and there is a Philly Cheese Steak shop right down the street. So it’s not a loss. (Just so you understand: I am not a total yuppie asshole. I own a shitty car that has a “Tennis is My Racket” license plate frame. The public schools where I live stink on ice.)

The LOSS here is that, in order to save money, I am going on strict CD lent for a long, long time. But I’m in a good place. I have what I need for my purposes. I could use a couple zydeco CDs, just for flavor, but those I can wait for.

Excessive music consumption (CDs and MP3 purchases) is pretty much my only vice, beside poisoning neighborhood dogs and being an obese person with bad hygiene.

In anticipation, over the past month I went a little crazy. It was my Mardi Gras before the long deprivation. So sue me.

These are my final CDs (all bought used, just so you don’t think I’m taking food out of my children’s mouths):
Tegan & Sara “So Jealous” (Good, but I can understand if you hated it. Those girls can whine.)

Hafler Trio (“A Eg Ad Halda Afram?” and “Being a Firefighter Isn’t Just About Squirting Water” Two EPs of droning. I like it, but then I sort of like pointless things. )

Adam Green “Gemstones” (Ahhh, feh. Funny, surreal folk songs. I always think I’ll like this kind of stuff, but just end up being irritated and angry. (See also: Architecture in Helsinki and Br. Danielson. Ho-hum.)

Anthony and the Johnsons “I am a bird now” (ROCKS. Make me feel sad for gay men. My sister once had a moth fly in her ear. Her keening at the fluttering sensation of the moth against the tiny hairs in her ear has the same quality as Anthony’s. Which is good.)

Japancakes “If I Could See Dallas” (More droning, although melodic and sunny. Lots of pedal steel and sitar. Nice.)

Os Mutantes “Everything is Possible” (The best purchase by far. Brazil weirdo psychedelic from the sixties. But really well made, with good musicianship.)

Elliot Smith “Figure 8” (I figured I needed some Elliot Smith. Now I have some.)

Sigur Ros “Takk…” (Nice packaging.)

Popul Vuh “Nostferatu: Original Soundtrack” (Very creepy. I shouldn’t have played it for the Principal.)

Clap Your Hands and Say Yeah. (Ahh, sure. Good. I dunno. What do I know? I CAN NEVER BUY A CD AGAIN AS LONG AS I LIVE.)

Arctic Monkeys “A long title I can’t be bothered to remember.” (I was unsure about this as it has had the shit written out of it in the British music press, who thought Oasis was good. But this is the real deal.)

Gravenhurst. “Fuck the title. Who cares. No one is reading this anyway.” (Aggressively dull sub-spaceman 3 stuff. Couple of goodish tunes.)

Stuff I’m waiting on:

David Lindley “El Rayo-X” (Hippy music I can tolerate.)

The KLF “Chill Out” (Good one. KLF once burnt 1,000,000 pounds on live TV or something. And this CD is actually good.)

NRBQ “Stay With We” (I’m pretty sure this might be dull bar rock. All I know is people rave about NRBQ. Not that that indicates quality. It’s sort of the Meters syndrome. There are people in this world who LOVE the Meters. Usually folks that have lived in New Orleans and have seen them live. I kind of don’t get the Meters. I don’t hate them. But they might be too mathematically funky for my simple, uncomplicated mind.)

Beegees “1st” (Back when they were still Australian.)


Fuck. That’s a lot of CDs. I’m a bad father.

An unholy place

This calls for wisdom: let him who has understanding reckon the number of the beast, for it is a human number, its number is six hundred and sixty-six.

Time Travel Addendum

In the blog entry immediately prior to this one, I have written an eerily realistic alternative history of my life, if I could somehow transport my 36ish old brain to my 1983, 14-year old body. I have thought about the implications a bit more during my ride into work this morning. My important conclusions can be found below.

How one, using inflation, makes money on time travel.

I call it negative money laundering. In 2035, when it cost $75 to buy a cup of coffee, you take out, say, $200,000 in cash. You exchange NEW BILLS for OLD BILLS, and put ‘em in a laundry sack. (Note: this will cause suspicion. But I think legal problems can be avoided. To whit:

If the brand of time travel you’re rocking in the Slaughter House Five variety, that is you can skip back and forth along the time line of your own life, you can choose to avoid jail pretty easily by not showing up for that era of your life. Again, you are a time traveling motherfucker, and are above petty moral cause and effect. NICE!

Or:

You’re in a multiverse scenario, where whenever you drop out of a particular time continuum, the universe splinters to baby universes to allow the cause and effect of your actions to continue naturally. In this case, the not portable you, the one stuck in the flow of time is your pasty. And you know what? FUCK THAT DUDE. It’s not your fault he’s a sucker trapped on an inexorable hell ride to some punk ass omega point.

Again, day to day ethics and morality…out the window. No more: “Daddy ate the last pudding cup” HORSESHIT. (And daddy gets to eat the last pudding cup because the motherfucker paid for the last pudding cup, sweetie.)

Although, if you met your multiverse doppelganger, and had sex with him or her, would that be considered incest? Or masturbation? The mind reels!)

Take the laundry sack two years into the past, exchange the newer bills for older bills, go back two years, etc. Next thing you know, your 14, it’s 1984, and you are sitting on 200 grand of 80s money. You buy a condo in Malibu. Easy as pie.

Things I would buy
The Screaming Blue Messiah’s amazing first album, Gun Shy, is criminally out of print. A CD in good condition goes for something like $250.00. I pop into Tower Records, buy that shit for $9.00 and you can all kiss my ass in the present.


For the next item, I’d have to risk going back to 1981, when I was all of eleven. Being this physical age with a 36ish mind might drive one insane. I’d pick up a first edition paperback of Cameron Crowe’s Fast Times at Ridgemont High, the book the film was based on. Actually, I think you can pick it up for around $50. So I could get it in this domain of space time. It’ll just set me back a finski.

Time-machine strategies for personal growth and wealth acquisition.

I am 36ish. I have middling career in an idiotic industry. However, being clever, I have hatched a flawless plan using a time machine. IF ONLY I HAD A GODDAMN TIME MACHINE.

HIGH SCHOOL
Set the time machine to 1983. Am now a 36ish year old mind/soul in a 14-year old’s coltish and shrimpy body.

First things first – Buy some normal clothes. Jeans and some oxford shirts. Nothing crazy. I do keep the checkerboard sweater vest, as it is kind of retro, though no one knows it. Forego topsiders and cargo pants. Do not long for Ray-Bans.

Get a haircut, with hair off the ears, or perhaps let it grow long. Just not the length it is now. Although, layoff the conditioner. I don’t need it.

Now that I realize that high school is a pleasant way to pass the hours between nine and three, I apply myself. I do not fidget. I do my homework, which is a cinch.

I try to not to sprinkle no many 36 year oldism (doing book reports on Don DeLillo, speaking knowledgably about the effects of cocaine, or about certain aspects of the female anatomy. Although, do not appear to have too much of an informed prospective of the career prospects of the Thompson Twins or Bananarama.) in my dealings with my fellow students, my teachers and my family.

I also am a hit with the ladies, as I am now conscience of the limited charm of wearing the same sweater everyday or jeans bleached in a random pattern. I will not attempt to blow in girls’ ears when slow dancing. I will talk more and share my love of fart jokes with a close and trusted circle of friends.

I will not be a goon, and will work diligently in moving Kim out of friendship mode and into a higher level of being mode. (Of course, I am actually 36, so maybe this is creepy. Okay, so it’s a lot creepy.)

I will not pursue a certain E, as she was, in retrospect, a skank. When Chrisse gives me a ride in her VW, I will endeavor to speak. Not that it would lead anywhere, but merely as a matter of pride.

Taking my money from my department-store vacuuming (where my boss was literally retarded. Maybe I try to hook up some better jobs) and sandwich making jobs, I invest in Microsoft, Oracle, Sun Microsystems, Apple, and IBM. Not Commodore.

I will take acid with Sean and Christian. I will smoke a lot less pot. Or maybe not. Maybe my 36ish mind will be able to handle it.

COLLEGE

With my now 40 year old mind making hash of the piddling obligations of High School, colleges and universities are pounding my door down.

This is where I wander into realms that might be considered illegal, or at least morally wiffy.

For, during college (Harvard?), I cynically crib the text of Chuck Palahniuk’s first four published novels from copies smuggled into the time machine. There maybe some time paradox here that will make the universe blow up, but that doesn’t concern me now, as living bi-temporally has released me from the petty bourgeoisie concerns of morality. I am beyond good and evil. But a motherfucker still needs to eat.

I do manage to plagiarize Michel Houellebecq’s excellent essay on H.P. Lovecraft -- Against the World, Against Life -- for a 100-level English class, causing a stir within the Academe.

I get “Fight Club” published a full ten years before it is actually published “back home”.

Why Chuck Palahniuk? Not because I necessarily think he’s amazing (I liked “Fight Club” okay), I just think you can always find a publisher for that sort of thing, and there’ll always be a group of pained hipsters hungry for middle-brow hooey. Like me. There is also the need for a writing style that isn’t too complicated and deep, so when I’m interviewed by Elle, I can fake it.

Flush from the profits from “Fight Club” I drop out of Harvard. A film version is made in 1994, staring Billy Zane. It does poorly.

POST-COLLEGE

For the next three years I publish one Palahniuk/Mills novel a year. A diesel mechanic from Eugene Oregon goes missing. People know him as Chuck.

When people ask me when the next the book is coming out, I tell them they’re all wet, ‘cause novels is a dead sucker scene. I punch Joyce Carol Oates in the neck.

I got me a Rock and Roll band. (At Harvard, I learn to play guitar and manage to find a crew of four competent and cute musicians that do EXACTLY as I say.) My band? Well, we’re called THE ARCTIC MONKEYS. (This is like 1993.)

It the start of the long grunge winter, but we rise above with our slashing guitars and biting lyrics. People go nuts. I get richer. (Even more richer when I crank out the screenplay for a totally sweet-ass film called “Dumb and Dumber”. Nice!)

I retire to Martinique, where I run for Prime Minister. I win, and promptly free the slaves, or whatever. Then I invent the hypertext markup language, and the Hyper Text Transfer Protocol.

Thus I start the global networking revolution, allowing people to share files remotely. This new informail network is called the Wow Wow Wow. A computer scientist at CERN goes missing.

I come back to the states, tan and fabulous, date and bed most women I meet.

Bored and sickened by my hideous Dorian Gray existence, I take a job at an ad agency, where I meet a woman named Paula, whom I am mysteriously attracted to. We marry, have two kids, Ruby and Owen, and have a giant fucking RANCH in Marin County. We quit our jobs in and retire to the ranch, where I write the score for what was Henry Brant’s Pulitzer Prize winning composition Ice Field, that is until I did a Palahniuk on him.

I am now 36, with the mind of a 72 year old. Which isn’t far off from my current condition.

The Zombies of Western Europe. Metal Edition.

Eddie Van Halen, A Dutch Zombie


Eddie, A British Zombie


Lemmy, Humanity's only hope against zombies. Let's hope he hasn't been getting into the sherry.

My contribution to the dialogue

I try not to post too much about politics, because there are plenty of folks out there that do it full time and pay a lot closer attention to things than I do.

My own politics is sort of some sort of half assed libertarianism, occulted by my suspicion that we are in a slow decline in all indicators, and have been for a while, and will continue to do so because people are thoughtless shallow dicks who barely understand their own ideologies or motivations. Hello, my name is Morrissey.

And when I do post about politics, it tends to be pointlessly obscure.

But today I came across a list, by no means comprehensive, of all the fuck-ups and horseshit and malignancies that swine fucking colon faced texan (the small t is sic) is responsible for.

Breathtaking:

Abu Ghraib
Harriet Myers
The WMD’s
Stem Cell Research
The Gay Marriage Amendment
The New Orleans Levees
Lack of Body Armor
The Iraq Exit Strategy
The winning-the-peace Plan
Iraqi Hearts and Minds
Halliburton’s Missing $9 billion
The Insurgency
Guantanimo Bay
Tax Cuts for the Rich
The Social Security Privitization
Ahmed Chilabi
Abstinence Funding
Pat Tillman
Jessica Lynch
The Downing Street Memos
The Fake Town Hall Meetings
The Fake Troop Q&A’s
The Fake Reporters
Jeff Gannon
Jack Abramoff
Paul Wolfowitz
John Bolton
Brownie
Dick Cheney’s Rifle
France, Russia, China, Germany (co-signed by the 95% World Community)
The Dubai Port Deal
Michael Chertoff
The Deficit
The Alabama National Guard
The September 11th Preparedness
The September 11th Response
The Gulf Coast
Terry Schiavo
Free Speech Zones
The Purple Heart Band-aids
Rafael Palmeiro
The Swift Boat Veterans
Tom Delay
Science Policy as set by 24 year old J-school drop-outs
Global Warming
The English Language

I apologize for everything. Pray for us. I'm putting my money on Japan these days, as they seem to be the only ones having any fun any more.

More alarming keywords

uzbekistan night hookers
robert plant's grandkids
titler hitler
vile russian
greg mills theater
massive forearms
russian hookers in berlin
great russian hooker
british lovemaking blog (This one sounds nice.)
sex film

Heard in and around a Frank Gehry-designed office building

1. "When you reach the pudenda, turn left."


2. "Okay, you're going to want to find the labia majora. Once you hit the labia minora, well, that's the copier room. You've gone too far. So, think majora."

3. "Lunchroom? By the polyps."

4. "I booked the Gaping Maw for 2:30. Bring your notes."

5. "Smedly just got the corner Carbuncle. Lucky prick."

6. "Aaaah! Aaaah! Run! Run, everybody! Run! It's...oh, hell, it's just the supply closet."

7. "His office looks like an asshole. Suits him, really."

8. "Hi, uh, building services? Could you send up some rubber gloves? Um, I dropped my keys in a puckered sphincter."

9. "Oooooo...you are a dirty credenza, yes, you are. A big, lovely, bouncy credenza...yes...YES!"

10. "Iä! Iä! Shub-Niggurath! The Black Goat of the Woods with a Thousand Young! ARISE! Okay, you should be able to print now."

Some brief memorable conversations.

Conversation #1

Walking home, I come across Brian walking the other way. Brian is 6'9". He's carrying a copy of Grapes of Wrath.

We greet each other, and I walk with him a bit.

B: "I've decided something. I'm going to pronounce Steinbeck Steenbeck from now on."

me: "Do you call Hemingway anything special, like Ernie or something."

Brian puts his hand on my chest, we stop walking. He turns me towards him, resting his two hands on my shoulders. He looks down at me.

B: "No. I call him... Papa."


Conversation #2

At E and C's house. E=wife. C=A Hub who is not me.

Am sitting on the couch with G, we are stoned and flipping channels. We linger on Sex in the City. Kristin Davis (Charlotte) is natter on about something.

E is a comfy chair eating nuts.

E: "Is that the girl from Boogie Nights?"

C: "No, looks sort of like her though."

E: "No...I think that's her."

Me: "The woman in Boogie Nights is taller, and has big boobs. That lady is flat chested." (Like I said, we were stoned.)

E: "Well, they could do stuff with CGI."

Me:"You mean remove her bosom."

E: "Yep."

C:"For every episode."

E: "Yep."

E eats a nut.

E: "With CGI."

A troubling thing

I saw a hot buddhist nun. It's not unusual to see Buddhist nuns being all serene and compassionate, walking their way through Berkeley.

But it is unusual to see a hot one. This gal was smoking. The bald thing just made her that much molten.

I am a troubled person.

Folks in the near and middle east are hungry for sex films.

Based on recent keyword activity to this site anyway.

Recently I've had visitors from Saudi Arabia, Tunisia, Iran, Turkey all looking for one thing: SEX FILMS.

What they are getting is this, which I imagine is causing not a little frustration.

Sorry chaps.

You wish you had my taste in music. You WISH.

Never mind my previous post, you mewling puke. I have EXTREMELY GOOD TASTE IN MUSIC.

Here are some AMAZING FUCKING CDs that I have deemed worthy. I have withheld some titles – hell, DOZENS of titles -- so you may enjoy the list without experience life threatening DIARRHEA brought on by too much mind raping AESTHETIC RICHNESS.

Feast your eyes, lube your ears and you may learn something.

One more thing: you disgust me.

The Tubes – The Tubes
Their first album will change your gender by ripping out the gonads you currently have and switching with the gonads of the opposite sex. YES, I KNOW. You remember them from the MTV you watched slacked jawed waiting for Headbangers Ball. Well, fuck you. Because that’s when the Tubes sucked. THIS IS WHEN THEY WERE GOOD. SO FUCK OFF.

NEXT CD!

Lightning Bolt – Ride the Skies
Lyrics are a crutch for stupid people. THIS IS JUST FUCKING HASHISH, the HASHISH OF ROCK. It is incredibly violent music that mature people of taste will recognize as life affirming. There are lyrics, but they’re beyond language. So fuck off.

NEXT

DEVO – Q: Are we not men? A: We are DEVO!
You like DEVO, but you like them for completely the WRONG FUCKING REASONS. Listen again, dillweed – LISTEN WITH AN OPEN FUCKING MIND and YOU MIGHT SEE HOW GOOD DEVO IS FOR THE RIGHT REASONS THIS TIME. (I hate you.)

The Fall – The Wonderful and Frightening World of the Fall
Nevermind. This one would be like showing a chicken a card trick. I don’t have the words. You won’t get it. Sorry. Let’s move on.

Thomas Brinkman – Klick. But the title doesn’t matter because you won’t get it. So sad.
Oh my god. Clicketty clicketty clicketty click it goes. Just like that. Awesome.

Wasted everyone’s time with that one. Let’s move on to an EASY one.

The Kink – The Kinks Kronicles
It’s a best of compilation that’s not a best of compilation. It is in fact better. Filtered through my sharpened, almost procine senses, anyway. You might not pick up on how good it is. Or if you do, you really only think you do, like you’ve only reached the end of your limited palette, whereas I have about 90 more clicks to go.

Maybe I need to stoop a little bit farther, like a million light years farther, so we can even begin to be in the neighborhood of a working Venn diagram that shows overlap between my taste and whatever you call the thing you have.

The Wedding Present – Watusi
Actually, Sea Monster is better, but that might give you blodclots. This is closer to your blinkered concept of perfection.

Now, this is where I kill your mind.

MILES FUCKING DAVIS – On the Corner
Jazz people HATE THIS CD. It’s awesome. I can barely fathom its brilliance and I’m a transcendent son of a bitch. You might not actually be able to hear it. You’d buy it, bring it home, put it in and YOU WILL NOT HEAR IT. Your brain may not allow you to.

Again, a waste of time. Sorry.

I don’t know what to say.

Some deeply dull CDs, owned by me, a chump.

Porcupine Tree – Signify
An English prog band – from the nineties. Fuck. I’m so stupid for this utterly toothless sub-Marillion piece of shit.

Robert Fripp – Exposure
Holy Christ. This hurts my feelings and makes me a bad person, all at the same time. I should take my eyes out with a staple remover for owning this.

Various Artists -- What Is Hip?: Remix Project, Vol. 1
I cannot blame myself totally here. I got this for free. It’s shitty DJ remixes of 70s AM radio. They (DJs as a class of humans) manage to make the eponymous song sound like a dirge. Assholes.

Leon Russell – Retrospective
Leon Russell is one of those 70s country rock people that we are supposed to love. ZZ Top is easy to love. This CD is not.

Mission of Burma – VS
Maybe I’m missing the point with this one. It barely catches my attention…I just drift and can’t…hey look! A hummingbird!

Radio Birdman -- The Essential Radio Birdman (1974-1978)
Whoa...WHOA….WHOA! It that a motherfucking SAXOPHONE? Is this Roxy Music? No. It is not. Fucking boring. And I LIKE Australians.

Eno, Moebius, Roedelius -- After the Heat
Eno twiddles knob while two Krautrock douchebag softly queef into some very expensive mics. And I suffer like the dick I am.

Elvis Costello and the Brodsky Quartet – The Juliet Letters
Fuck OFF with this BULLSHIT. My god. It’s like CATS.

Aerogramme -- Sleep & Release
Huh? Who? What? I woke up with this piece of shit in my CD player one day. I then went back to sleep. The Chinese have a term for this sort of thing: Pee Yuu.

Death Ambient -- Death Ambient
Fred Frith! Oh, fuck OFF. God, I am such a CHUMP. This was from an embarrassing John Zorn phase. Please hate me. I deserve it.

Any CD I own that Bill Laswell has touched in anyway, besides Praxis.
The cat sucks the life out of anything he touches. Boring DICK! And I’m a dick for playing along. Sorry I let everyone down. Again.

My friend Tracey dies everyday.

This is how she does it.

I work with a bunch of assholes.

Walking past the departmental conference table. There is a box of Girl Scout cookies! TAKE ONE the sign says!! Jesus fucking shit!!

So I waddle over, and it's a box of goddamn LOW-FAT LEMON REFRESHERS.

Yeah, fuck you, too.

Bunch of chigger-fucking nazi pricks.

Sad Toots

Toots calls up a Maytal: "Hey, heard you're having people tonight. Why didn't you call I and I?"

To which the Maytal responds: "Dude. It's a Maytals thing, man. We're attending to business. Maytals business, dig?"

So Toots spends a night alone in his room, listening to the carrying on of the Maytals across the compound. Maybe the Wailers are there. And the I-Threes. He tries reading "Valley of the Dolls", but ends up just watching the group scene outside by the swimming pool through the louvres of the jalousie window in his bathroom. (He actually has to squat on the toilet seat to do so. And he's left the light on. Pathetic.)

He goes into the kitchen and finds an old sugar bowl. He puts on a clean shirt, grabs the sugar bowl and heads across the Toots (northside of the pool) and the Maytals (southside of the pool) compound.

He approaches Nathaniel "Jerry" Mathias, background singer and least rigidly doctrinaire of the Maytals.

Toots: "Hey Jerry. Sport me some sugar, would you? I'm making some snickerdoodles."

Mathias: "Toots, man. I would but, uh, we're kind of in the middle of a party, yo."

Toots: "Oh gosh. I, uh, guess I could go to the store later." His eyes brighten...
"Hey, did I tell you I got an NHL table hockey game? You want to come back to my bungalow and play? It's got Gordy Howe!"

Mathias: "Hey, man. Maybe tomorrow, Toots. You know, I've got all this, uh, Maytals stuff to do."

Toots: "Yeah. Whatever. The Maytals ARE GAY!" He throws the sugar bowl spasticly and runs off across the patio, fighting back the tears.

Mathias: "Toots! Wait, come back! Tooooots!"

Toots runs back to his bungalow, his chest now heaving. He slams the door behind him.

"I know, I'll start a NEW band, a new band called Toots and the Toots! Ahhhh, that's stupid!" He throws himself on his bed and cries into his pillow.