Bah! A pox on thee! A fortnight of Fetid Breath!

For thine cruel misbehavances, poor performances and dishonorous utterances; I curse thee thusly:

1. Thine skins shalt chaffe, very near to the balls.
2. Thine hair shalt winde tightly into a large machine.
3. Thine bowels shalt leak in public.
4. Two score and a half sewer rats shalt besiege thine pantaloons.
5. Thine love dreams shalt feature naught but thee, thine mother and thine father.
6. Aye! The work of thine life shalt whither, and thou shalt earn thine wage as a Gong Farmer (emptyin' latrines barehanded), a Barnyard Whore (fellatin' livestock for antibiotics) or a Street Idiot (pronouncin' thine cerebral lackings to the Publick At Large.)
7. Thou shalt lust for hideous animals, and thou shalt abide that lust.
8. Thine perspirances shalt offend thee most of all.
9. During meals, thou shalt mistake thine tongue for a meatball at each and every bite.
10. Finally, thou shalt, night and day, until the end of your days, know the flavor of a hobo's anus on thine lips.

Good luck to you, cursed scab. May your wretched life be long and fruitless.

Woe... What is it good for?

Absolutely nuthin...

Say it again...

There are bad days, and then there are bad weeks. I'm living both simultaneously.

No details because they suck. Just know that I'm not in a good mood at the moment: approximately 7 p.m., March 6, 2006. If you were to see me now, ask me how I'm feeling, I'd say to you, "Not so good." I wouldn't elaborate, and then I'd wander away to be alone with my not-so-good thoughts.

If you were to follow me and pester me with questions like, "Is there anything I can do?" I'd probably say no.

I'd say no because if I did start talking about it, I'd go insane with anger, frustration, disappointment and other such sourpuss emotions. You'd probably leave at that point, feeling like your good-natured ways would better serve someone else -- like maybe a retard or a recent quadriplegic.

At times like these, everything sucks, and everyone sucks... Nothing personal.

Boo. Hoo.

President Bush bogarts local kind bud in Golden, Colorado

President Bush: "Man, that is good shit..."

National Bioenergy Center director Mike Pacheco (giggling): "Common, dude... Give me the bong..."

When animal husbandry goes terribly wrong

It's hard to say what PETA should do about this -- punish or praise?

This photo is so icky, I really didn't want to post it. But then what would such censorship say about my insatiable journalistic integrity? Besides, I don't have much else to write these days...


The worst part is I know the sexual deviant in this photo (that meaty hand belongs to a friend of mine. I've never met that slutty cat.) Find the details here. If you do seek them, just understand that you are a sick f*ck and should be imprisoned by angry Turks for your shameful curiosity.

And also remember this: it was an act of mercy.

Yuck.

The Incident with a Cellphone in the Library...

'Twas a chilly day, the wind gusting off the Rocky Mountains like a frozen aluminum baseball bat swung forcefully into the genitals. But thick glass squelched the icy howling, the bitter chill a faint memory for those of us encamped in near-silent government documents section of the Denver Public Library (third floor, northwest corner.)

We poured over our books and weighty documents. You could taste the concentration.

And then he came, sat, and shuffled his personal items. Finally, he placed a call on his cellphone, using the phone's speaker function. He wore a fedora hat indoors...

[Hello? a tinny voice said.]

"Where are you?"

[Broadway and Alameda.]

We'll I'll be done soon, maybe you can pick me up at the library?

[Yeah, I'll pick you up at the library. Should we go to Wild Oats?"]

Yes, I think that would be best.

It went on like that, but not for long. It wasn't a loud conversation, nor was it particularly soft. The man with the fedora spoke calmly, as if he were sitting at his office desk, making a routine phone call to a colleague. Perfectly normal conversation.

One that provoked a dangerous amount of hostility.

The fedora man later gathered his items, stood, streched, and glanced over his surroundings -- only to meet my derisive glare, a glare as ICY AS THE MOUNTAIN WIND BLOWS!

He froze for a full sixty seconds when his eyes met my mine. This part is true -- a minute, maybe more. It was, to my recollection, the weirdest thing I'd ever done. To stare at a complete stranger for such a long time, the feat itself is unusual. Both of us were frozen in place and neither was willing to give even one inch. Sixty seconds, non merde! "What a strange thing I'm doing," I thought as I glared, frozen in my chair, like some paralyzed John Wayne wearing a stoic blue baseball cap emblazoned with the words "40-year-old Virgin."

Finally, the fedora man broke the trance.

"Read any good books lately?"

"I'm trying to," said I.

"I hope I'm not disturbing you."

"Your cell phone conversation disturbed me."

"It was a brief conversation," said he.

"There are plenty of places in this library where you could have made your call and not disturbed anyone. This is the quietest place in the library. You don't need to use your cell phone here."

(This classic Jedi mind trick failed to put the man into a hypnotic state, one that would have enabled me to make him jump from a balcony -- Ed.)

"People use their cell phones in this library all the time," he said. "I find it disturbing, which is why people come here, I guess."

"Yes, it is."

And then the fedora man disappeared amid the stacks. Lucky for him. I was a dangerous man at the moment. He could have been killed.

God help the next man who gets crosswise with me while wearing a fedora hat.

Osama bin Laden: a government PR tool?

Could it be true?

Al Jazeera doubts Osama bin Laden's latest audio tape is authentic, suggesting the only scientific analysis of the tapes comes from the CIA.

Well, so what if they're fake? And isn't Al Jazeera a terrorist-loving rag-head newspaper anyway?

Yes, it is. But it still raises an interesting point, because these audio tapes seem to whip up our fury for war-making and distract us from the real horrors that war creates.

Also, the tapes seem to give politicians opportunity to say things like, "We don't negotiate with terrorists... you have to destroy them. It's the only way to deal with them."

These jokers gotta be in heaven. Under normal circumstances, a public official could never get away with openly uttering such sentiments. Got to seize the moment when it comes, I suppose.

Wouldn't be the first time I suspected Osama bin Laden was a fake. Now, I'm not going to say it -- how this idea resembles a certain book in which certain agents openly modified certain media accounts to report things like we've always been at war with Oceana. We've never been at war with Eurasia.

But come on! Why, why, why does it seem so appropriate?

Don't laugh -- it could be true. Be honest, do any of you really know a thing about this bin Laden guy, anyway? I mean other than what the president or CIA told you? For all we know, he could have died during one of those missile strikes in the 1990s.

Well, I'll be damned

Learned a new word today -- had to look it up in ye ol' dick-tionary.

The word is bourse.

Know what it means? I'll give you a minute to think about it...

Okay, time's up. A bourse is an exchange, or specifically a European stock exchange.

Thank you, smarty-pants New York Times for using an obscure Middle French word rather than some other, common, less-sophisticated word that would make a lot more sense to us here in the dumb old U.S. of A. Like I have the time to research your erudite locutions in my wordbook, sirs. I'm a busy dude, man!

(Alright, fine. Before you get uppity with me, I'll just say it now: maybe I'm not as busy as I pretend to be.)

That's "Mister" Dad, to you...

Poor, dead rabbit.
In case you didn't know it: The lady is pregnant, and according to modern books and websites, that means I am too (but physically, I'm not even the slightest bit pregnant. I feel great.)

If you're reading this big news for the first time on this website, we're very sorry. It's not that we don't like you, we just like others more than you. And please don't think you aren't important -- we just haven't gotten around to you yet. There are simply too many really important people in our lives who demand our immediate attention -- ambassadors, diplomats, heads of state, wartime generals, retired admirals and the like.

And now, to the point: I've spent the past weeks searching for the perfect words to describe my feelings on the matter, but I've come to the conclusion I'm not ready to do that on the internet. Instead, I've compiled a list of terms to help me respectfully address the Lady during the many trying moments she's likely to experience in the coming months:

The Lady is a:

genetalian (that's a medical term for a pregnant woman) who is primagravida (pregnant with her first child).

She is still a nullagravida (woman who has never given birth) or gravida 0 (same thing), but not for long.

She will one day be a gravida 1 (medical term for a woman who has given birth to one child).

She is also still:
nulliparous (never had a child), or she is a nullipara or a para 0, but again, not for long.

She is also:

Great (archaic)
with child
Up the duff (UK slang)
up the spout (UK slang)
up the flue (UK slang)
up a pole (UK slang)
knocked up
banged up (aussie slang)
in a family way
gone (one month)
PG
preggars
cheggars (UK)
prenada (Spanish, not slang)
embarazada (Spanish, not slang)
en estado (Spanish, not slang)
esperando (Spanish, not slang)
about to find pups (this is just stupid)
in a fix
lady-in-waiting

She has:

a bun in the oven
"split the condom" (whatever)
"drunk from the well"

She is not:
A twat, twit, twirp or twerp (apparently technical terms for egg-laden goldfish)

While researching this, I stumbled into this enormous list of colorful phrases depicting menstruation (in various languages), and couldn't stop laughing. Euphemisms of note: Leak Week, Moonblood, A snatchbox decorated with red roses, and Takin' classes at 'Bama. That last is a reference to the Crimson Tide, of course.

But my favorite happens to be one of the dumbest: I'm on my pyramid -- a reference to the banks of the Nile overflowing and running red, I guess...

Lawyers you hope you'll never need

If this guy happens to be your attorney, you're in trouble.

He's Reid Weingarten, defender of America's executive thieves.

He just helped Enron chief accountant Richard Causey cut a sweet deal that entails ratting on his former collegues, spending seven years in jail and paying the government a $1.25 million fine. Hard to say how good a deal that is when you consider that the maximum penalty for securities fraud is 10 years in prison and a fine of $1 million followed by three years of probation. (And why is the government getting so freaking rich off this, I want to know?)

Weingarten's other big-name client, former WorldCom CEO Bernard Ebbers, must be as pleased as Causey: Weingarten's efforts landed him a 25-year prison sentence for orchestrating an $11 billion accounting fraud that toppled the telecommunications firm three years ago.

Sweet.

I can only hope these two guys were facing the guillotine or something before Weingarten stepped in, otherwise they didn't get their money's worth.

Keep up the good work, Reid.

W.T. Fuck?

Those Aussies really know how to party.

Are they beating the shit out of that guy with beer?

That's a party foul.

... Tried to contact my "Brudda from Anudda Hemisphere" to get the inside story, but he didn't respond. That makes me nervous. Being a foreigner himself, he's either dead from repeated beer bottle blows to the head, or -- just as likely since he's a white guy -- he's out there swinging his hockey stick into the unprotected flesh of some poor Syrian who decided to go surfing on the wrong fuckin' day...

... I suppose he could also be watching the T.V. in his underwear -- that's certainly possible, too.

And that prime minister John Howard really knows his damage control. I watched him last night, playin' like P. George Bush responding to the tough questions (shell shock!):

"Right! 'is 'er's whot Sydney's all about, right? Sheilas lyin' 'round ina sun wit' li'l clothes, see?"










Of course, he's rarely invited to parties that end with riot police and masterful baton play (ouch):

What a buzzkill... The cop's got the thousand-yard stare. Doesn't look like he's having fun.

... probably broke his night stick.

Pryor dies, and I shit you not: I subconsciously knew it was gonna happen!

Richard Pryor, 65, dies of a heart attack at 9 a.m. Mountain Standard Time -- just nine hours after me and the lady rent and watch the Richard Pryor: Live DVD! (The show was recorded in 1979).

Evidence supporting my conclusion that me and the lady can see into the future:

a) We never rent stand-up comedy.

b) As the brilliant comedian's body cooled to room temperature, me and the lady laughed like babies at his moving-and-speaking image, an image recorded 24 years earlier.

c) Not two months ago, me and the lady watched a documentary about Pryor.

d) During that viewing, we both said, "Is Richard Pryor still alive?" at the exact same instant! (or the at least me and the lady agree that it happened that way.)

e) Neither of us knew the answer.

The evidence speaks for itself; we can predict the deaths of comedians. I'm crappin' you negative...

-- The Editor, H. Strange Winterhalter

My God, death row doth make a man grow large!

Does this look like a guy who should be put to death?

Hard to say.

It's Stanley Tookie Williams, convicted murderer and the co-founder of the Crips street gang. He was also nominated for the Nobel Peace prize, although that's not quite as difficult as it sounds.

He's scheduled to die by lethal injection Dec. 13 unless he's granted pardon by Governor Arnold Swartz.... Schwarts... Swortsennjager... (fuck it, I can't spell his last name at the moment.)

[Thunderclap and flash of lightning] "Thy nightmares hath come true. Poison shalt course through thy veins until thou art dead!"

Anyway, here's what Williams says about the birth of the Crips in 1969:

"... we started out—at least my intent was to, in a sense, address all of the so-called neighboring gangs in the area and to... cleanse the neighborhood of all these, you know, marauding gangs. But I was totally wrong. And eventually, we morphed into the monster we were addressing."

[Thuderclap and the flash of lightning] "Gangs begat gangs until one day the mother-of-all gangs was begotten, and then: decades of street violence; and then: the Lord sayeth unto his men, 'Thou shalt pop caps in the asses of thine enemies! Thou shall strike blows in the names of security, honor and turf!'"

Williams and his supporters say he has made significant progress in reforming his gangbanging ways. He has apologized for starting the Crips in the first place. He has turned to peaceful, non-violent activity and has also written children's books that encourage readers to avoid gangs and violence.

But is that enough? Has he cut off an ear, burned apologies into his flesh, or otherwise flagellated his demonic body? Simply put, Has he atoned?

I don't know if Williams should be granted clemency. My gut feeling is "why not?", but it's not because I think Williams is the world's greatest redeemer. I just don't give a damn about capital punishment. I suppose I'd feel differently if someone I loved was murdered, but at the moment that's not the case.

[Thunderclap and lightning] "Thou shalt drive by the abodes of thine enemy, and thou shalt unleash a storm of lead into thine enemy's hearth. And thine enemy shalt be thee."

Writing about prostitutes

I'm talking about pornography, and this is how it works:
You watch, read, examine.
During the next few minutes, you grow increasingly insane with lust.
The madness overwhelms you, and you must beat off.
And that, my boy, is the moment when pornography loses its grip on your soul.
That, my boy, is the only way to beat titties and ass.

Poetry by Hugo Strange Winterhalter

The Tally of Good continues: Fighting negativity with the help of lists

Been a while since I've revisited my list of lovelies.
So here they are, the things I love:

1) Viva Burrito
2) Clean sheets
3) My house, my lady (and the sea... Yarr!)
4) The guitar.
5) Words
6) This book I'm reading, and the book I just finished
7) Art Bell, and freak jobs
8) Breaking the law
9) Revolutions
10) Having a job (for a time being, at least)

I picked a bad week to quit sniffing glue

Looks like it's gonna be a long week of bitching, 'cuz I keep running into things that piss me off.

...like people who never answer their phones, instead allowing a machine do the answering for them. Would you just pick up the goddamned phone? I don't really want to talk to you either, but we have business to communicate and it would be nice if we could just get it over with. And who, exactly, do you think you are that you must screen all your calls? Donald Fucking Trump?

It's gonna be a shrill, torturous, bombastic bitch-a-thon... No peace, sparse joy, and rare fits of bitter laughter.

Fine. If that's the way it's gotta be, then I guess I just roll with it and dish this crap out to everyone I meet...

This brain is a telescope to the future.

Video games. I'm saying it again -- video games are the next dominant art form.

Even the New York Times said so.

Even universities are coming around to the idea.

Those people who mock and doubt my words -- they only have themselves to blame on day I come to deliver this message: You were told, by me, that this would be so.

Hugo gets a job

Now what the hell do you think about that?

Rock & Roll ain't cheap these days

Seems Fender (or maybe just The Man) has recently hiked list prices on their guitars by about $200 -- particularly the American Standard series Telecasters and Stratocasters. They run almost $1,000 at places like Guitar Center and Musician's Friend -- two notorious low-ballers in the retail musical instrument market. I paid a pubic-hair more than $700 for mine a few years ago.

It sounds like a good plan because musicians are known for having tons of disposable cash...

...that should come off like sarcasm because that's the way it was intended.

Anyway, hard-working rookie musicians can still rock out; they just have to downgrade a little bit to something like the Fender "Li'l Hendrix" series, which comes with four guitar picks, a guitar strap imprinted with musical notation of few measures from Beethoven's "Ode to Joy", and a flamboyant plastic-fabric cape "like the rockstars wear."

One hundred prevarications per minute: White House press room transcripts

Stumbled into this website the other day, read these, and then passed out with disbelief and shame.

I almost wish these jerks would just get it over with and order us all to report to the lead mines for duty. When did endless lying, obfuscation and prevarication become standard of communication in this open society of ours? Do these people really think word games like this actually help this country?

Tell me it's not true that every foul cliche in the English language fits our great American leaders: Lying, thieving, killing, conspiring, law-breaking, self-serving motherfuckers... Every last one.

Fuck them!

Let's revolt. Send these cold, embittered men and women to some grey desolate, deserted North Dakota crossroad farm town so they can spend their dying days in banishment arguing about whose method was most effective at crushing the American spirit.

Goddamned motherfuckers!

American torture

You just can't declare someone an eternal enemy and expect the sentiment to withstand the test of time. I certainly can't, even though I try. For example, I'm a card-carrying disbeliever, especially of christians and most if not all organized religion.

But, when it comes to torture -- specifically the cruel, inhumane, degrading, U.S.-sanctioned kind for which our vice president apparently yearns -- some christians come off looking pretty good. Some, like these military catholics, think that even if torture were a necessary and effective tool for combating terrorists, nazis, fascist space aliens, abortion-loving homosexuals or drug-crazed, pistol-packing Canadians, it's still absolutely, morally wrong.

That's according to James H. Toner, Department of Leadership and Ethics, Air War College, Maxwell AFB, Ala.

There's even a bible quote in there (not that I would've ever recogonized it without the biblical reference system of letters, colons and numbers in parentheses.)

Now, Mr. Toner may not be head of the department or anything -- hell, he might just be the Air War College janitor for all I know, but he seems like a bright enough guy. If he thinks torture is wrong, I think I'll just have to support him on that one.

Way to go, military Catholics! Pray for me if you like, and next time you repent before god, maybe you could toss in a couple of my sins, too. It would lighten up my load considerably.

By the way, what kind of person do you have to be to defend the position that certain branches of the American government should be exempt from the rules that govern torture?

Does Cheney even refer to himself as a human anymore? Has he been the subject of some top-secret medical procedure that allows humans to live and work without their hearts? What in the hell does that man do when the sun goes down?

Anybody know?

Has anybody checked?

Democrats: 4-ever losers

Subhead: How the Democrats will never win because they're slow and they can't think beyond what they want to eat for dinner.

Sub-subhead: You fuckers lost another opportunity to derail the ultra-conservative cabal that has been driving this country to its knees for the last five years.

So, you thought keeping quiet as ultra-religious conservatives bitch-slapped President Bush into submission after he nominated Harriet Miers to the Supreme Court was good idea? Well, now we have an even more egregious nominee, and we also have Republican unity that all but ensures he'll make it to the big dance. The Republican centrists who were the only reason Democrats can still even consider the word "fillibuster" are being coaxed back into the right-wing fold.

Goodbye swing vote, hello Scalito and the New World Spanish Inquisition.

I'm sure there is a blood-thirsty, pitbull of a Democrat out there somewhere who's thinking the same thing I am: Why didn't the Democrats jump on the opportunity to support Bush and his half-baked nomination of Miers.

What? Are you fucking mad?

No, I'm not. Listen: We knew Miers was probably a freak, but we also knew -- or at least suspected -- she was a woman. So, had she been approved by the Senate, Roe v. Wade might not have been such a problem as it likely will be with this new guy, Samuel Alito. That's observation number one.

We didn't know what she thought about things like affirmative action, sex discrimination and the display of nativity scenes in public buildings, but we certainly know what Alito thinks about them; and his thoughts ain't exactly progressive are they? So we traded a big Harriet question mark for a known, card-carrying, right-wing freak. That's observation number two.

But here's where it gets tricky (or to be accurate, would have gotten tricky had a few Democrats been thinking outside the box instead of constantly reacting in opposition to every fucking stupid, pointless utterance that comes from our White House idiot box or the Republican party):

Say the Democrats actually had the temerity to back Miers, what might have happened? Yes, Miers possibly gets appointed to the Surpreme Court and we roll the dice with her; but at the same time, ultra-christian right-wing Republicans just might have found themselves isolated from the majority, from the Republican center AND from the office of the President. It could have derailed the right-wing agenda for fucking years! Could've been a bloodless coup. Could've, but won't.

Why is that important that Democrats adopt the spirit of a killer? We want this to stop. Because we want sanity to return to our country. Because we are fucking sick and tired of this crap.

The only way its gonna happen is if Democrats pull their heads out of their asses, revise their platform so that it can withstand the mindless polarity that pervades politics these days, produce a few leaders who can actually motivate people, and start acting like fucking murderous WINNERS!

Goodbye, sunshine

No!!!

Damn you, I said NOOO!!!

Awwg... It's such a crushing defeat every year, the end of Daylight Savings Time. Fading, fading, gone is the joy of summer.

Fuck.

BUT ON THE BRIGHT SIDE...

If you could name one good thing George W. Bush has done during his presidency, it would be signing the Energy Policy Act of 2005. The act amends the Uniform Time Act of 1966 and, starting in 2007, will extend Daylight Savings Time by four weeks each year. Soon, we will bask in summer's glow until the first Sunday in November, rather than the last Sunday in October.

I like the way you think, Mr. President. What other good stuff is in the act? Let's see (moisten tip of thumb; turn pages to bill's table of contents):

1) Subsidizes U.S. energy companies... Check.

2) Subsidizes Texas energy companies in particular... Check.

3) Has no effect on rising oil prices... Check.

4) Leaves no lobbyist behind, according to Sen. John McCain... Check.

5) Does not allow drilling in the Arctic National Wildlife Reserve... Hey, wait a minute here. What's all this about not drilling in Alaska?

Well, at least we get more sunlight in the evenings.

And now, some punditry

I. Lewis Libby, cut down at the knees, bleeding from the mouth and left for dead! A goner, yes?

Karl Rove, the crosshairs hovering over his temple, nervously awaits his political assassination!

But do they face any real danger? No.

Is the presidency in jeopardy? Not likely.

These two guys did their jobs -- they insulated their political bosses from attack. Libby and Rove are taking one for the team, and they're doing it in style. What, you think they're gonna go to jail? Could this country really tolerate something like that? The highest advisors to the president and vice president as convicted felons? Could the United States ever command respect in the world again?

They will be rewarded, because they're national fucking heroes. Would any board of directors hesitate for a second to hire either of them to lead their global military contracting company? Think about it. Hell, I'd even hire one of them to manage my life for 12 months, if I could afford it. Think of how well off I'd be!

Years from now, when all is said and done, Libby and Rove will be relaxing in large leather chairs alongside the former Prez, his dad, the former Vice Prez and anyone else they care to associate with, content with the success of their tenure. Smokin' cigars and slappin' backs. They successfully changed direction of the national ship. Fuckin' A. Fuckin' B., too.

So, maybe we're doomed as a result. But then again, maybe not.

Gotta give them credit for their effort, even if you don't like it; and if you can't recognize their impact, you're a pussy.

Well then, what's really going on here? Nothing, except that this second-term presidency is unraveling like they all do. Not too big a deal. In the end, they all become ex-presidents. It's the law.

I wouldn't be surprised if there isn't a secret club on some warm, forgotten island where Bush, Bush, Clinton, Carter (Ford -- is he still alive?) and all their aides gather every quarter for some major debauchery, including endless pranks involving the ambushing and de-pantsing of each others' vice presidents. Man, that would be fun.

Anyway, all's well in the country, far as we can tell, because it's fucking impossible for one man to manage a representative government for an extended length of time. On deck, a Democrat possibly. God only knows how he'll fuck it up (and it will be a he, mark my words.) But he'll move on, too. Then the next one... until the empire collapses. And there ain't a damn thing any president's gonna be able to do to stop that.

There you have it.

It's time for a manifesto

We fully intend to bring the republic to its knees by forgoing the foreign-made trinkets and gadgets that this psychotic capitalist nation collects daily by the millions of tons.

We reject features like powered antennae and rear-view-mirror-mounted digital temperature gauges. We replace them with home-grown, stovetop-canned jalapenos, suits handmade from paper and sidewalks built of recycled brick and mortar.

We view Christmas as an American hell that threatens everything we hold dear -- things like Halloween, Thanksgiving, New Years Eve and our sound financial footing.

We eschew foolish offers, sidewalk sales, coupons and clearances in favor of not buying the crap nobody else wants. Furthermore, we do not accept the "throwaway market" that supplies us with keychain flashlights, fancy-but-not-too-fancy logo-embellished pens in unnecessarily large jewelry boxes, or free large-sized tee-shirts with corporate slogans.

We ignore the hype of the marketplace; preferring the tranquility of a home void of burdensome bullshit that we don't need, can't use and in reality don't even want.

We recognize technology for what it is -- machinery that eases the burden of the industrial age, not a tool to isolate us from our brothers and sisters. Meanwhile, we recognize the intrinsic value of a used Atari 2600 with two paddles, two joysticks and all the video game cartriges that can fit into a medium-sized cardboard box -- especially Pong. We recognize and appreciate the many levels of meaning that accompany the term "joystick."

Finally, we declare red lights as the signal to GO forward with this as-yet-unnamed revolution. Did Che stop for red lights? We doubt it.

Is 50 years of Rock & Roll enough?

If I were an English 102 student confronted with the task of writing his final 20-page research paper (and possibly the last large writing project of his life) I would consider this theme:

Rock, Roll and Pop: Sick, Dying or Dead?

I would attack the issue not from the touchy-feely, ill-defined bullshit of a music critic, but from an academic, historical perspective the likes of which would tickle the erudite fancy of my professor.

My position: that Rock & Roll's time is up. Not because it sucks, not because it's boring; but because it's simply time for something new. The evidence would speak for itself, and my writing acumen -- even at such a young age -- would send my point sailing home with no questions left unanswered.

The arguments would highlight the historical patterns of western music development, specifically the length of time each genre or musical period maintained its dominance in western society. I would point out that Rock & Roll has so far survived about as long as the Classic period during which Mozart thrived and that it has dominated longer than did jazz, blues or country western. I would also mention that although the longest-lasting music period in recorded history spanned 143 years, it was fueled by the cultural, spiritual, scientific and social reawakening of the western mind during the Renaissance; and I would express doubt that a reawakening of similar magnitude had ever occurred during the past 50 years.

I would argue that technical advances have accelerated social turnover, and that 50 years today feels much like 140 years did in the 15th and 16th centuries.

Finally, I would include details on how modern Rock & Roll artists are eating their elderly to sustain their moment in the spotlight. How they mine the past for fresh-sounding music -- culling ideas from the greatest musicians and songwriters of '50s, '60s, '70s and '80s. I would add that many artists look beyond the limits of pop music to infuse life into their songs, thereby diluting -- and narrow-minded types might even call it tainting -- the bloodline of Rock & Roll.

To bolster my point, this 2003 article in LA City Beat would serve as a reference. And to provide balance, I would reference this review of a book by English professor Kevin J. H. Dettmar, who argues that Rock & Roll doesn't die, but reinvents itself. His ideas would be well-refuted and his physical appearance mocked.

A timeline of musical history would be prominently displayed and it would demonstrate:

1) The Baroque period, the paternal twin of the Renaissance, lasted 143 years. The period brought us secular music and harmonized melody.

2) The Classic period, exemplified by the boy-man genius-prodigy Wolfgang Mozart, blew past us in a scant 53 years.

3) Ragtime is born in 1876.

4) Edison invented the phonograph in 1878.

5) The Romantic period -- which included the likes of Beethoven, Tchaikovsky, Strauss and Debussy -- lasted only 90 years, and ended in 1910 (a mere 44 years before Rock & Roll hit the scene!)

5) The first jazz record recorded in 1917. Forty-one years later, John Coltrane ushers in jazz's "New Wave."

6) Bessie Smith bangs out the blues hit "Down Hearted Blues" in 1923.

7) Electric guitar invented in 1934. A year later, Glen Miller debuts in New York City.

8) Bing Crosby sings White Christmas in 1942. America loves it.

9) LP record format invented.

10) The first known usage of the term Rock & Roll in 1951. Elvis Presley three years later.

11) Fifty-four years of Rock, Roll and Pop followed. And although various offshoots and forms evolved during that time -- some more successful than others -- Rock & Roll and pop music, fueled by advanced technology, marketing and distribution efficiencies never before seen on this planet, evolved rapidly but just as rapidly depleted the resources of its genre.

I would conclude that Rock, Roll and pop will survive in a gradually weakening state only as long as the members of this generation survive. It will then occupy large shelves in college libraries so that future music students can study the evolution of the art, safely protected from Rock's fury by a wide generation gap.

And my research paper would receive an "A."

Under-employed and loving it

Maybe we're not doing so badly.

The other night, I heard one friend chortle with envy when he heard that another owed about $10,000 in credit-card debt. And boy, did he chortle -- like a fucking chortle monster leashed to a fire hydrant during a rainstorm. (Chortle monsters fear water...)

Seems he would LOVE to have $10,000 in credit-card debt, as his current debt apparently exceeds that amount many times over. His minimum payments are enormous, he explained.

The remark didn't sink in immediately, however, during the past 24 hours, it has: What he was saying in not so many words is that he has tens of thousands of dollars in credit card debt.

For what?

Children's braces? Plastic surgery? New car on the credit card?

Tens of thousands of dollars in spur-of-the-moment purchases?
Tens of thousands of dollars in happy-hour drinks?
Tens of thousands of dollars in home electronics?
Matching furniture sets?
Christmas gifts?
Snow tires?
Clean sheets?
Airplane tickets?
Online porn?
Groceries?
Rent?
Ammunition?

Fuck me.

I had almost forgotten that I cut my cards into pieces years ago. Now I remember why I did it. My schizophrenic alter ego -- the one with all the common sense and discipline -- took charge, kept me from hurting myself.

Jesus, I love that guy...

Dreamy Monday

Welcome to the new American Motors Range Hand 1000: The logical "next step" for vehicles of utility and sport.

Do you take large bites? Do you crave what the 1,000 has to offer? Follow these steps to find out:

1) Evaluate whether you really need a large truck like the Range Hand 1000. Many customers find that they have little use for a truck at all since they barely have the will and strength to climb into its 62-inch-high driver's seat each morning. Furthermore, many of our customers haven't done a full day's manual labor in the past ten years.

2) Calculate the largest gasoline bill you've ever paid, and then double it.

3) Balance your need to stroke your own ego against your need to accelerate up a mountain pass while towing a 5,000-pound speed boat. Many customers don't even own a speed boat, and often it's those customers who find they've wasted their money on the Ranger Hand's optional towing package.

4) Ask yourself, "What function do dual rear wheels really serve?" If you can't answer that question, or if you have to think about it, it's unlikely you would truly appreciate their special qualities.

5) Determine whether the SuperMax Diesel is really a good fit for your lifestyle. You likely need the SuperMax Diesel if you regularly transport farm equipment on flatbed trailers, operate your vehicle on open road in a long-haul capacity, or use your vehicle to pull tree trunks from the earth. Conversely, if you simply drive your vehicle from your garage to the parking garage at the office, you might enjoy the award-winning "Rainbows of Judy" edition Range Hand 1000.

6) Are you willing to throw yourself from a moving vehicle? Some drivers find the Ranger Hand's occasional braking anomalies and listless "country-road" steering discomforting.

There are no right or wrong answers. Could be you're not a perfect fit for the world of utility sport, but don't worry -- you likely need the American Motors Range Hand 1000 most of all. In fact, you just might need two.

Satan: savior or pimp?

You might not have known it, but BENEATH HALLOWEEN'S CANDY COATING IS A HISTORY OF DIABOLICAL EVIL!

Seems clear that Samhain (in any form -- summer's end or lord of death) wants to eat your babies; but if you think that's scary, imagine what those punk-ass Muslims have in store. Jesus Christ... They don't have a chance.

I'm going on the record here: christians give me the creeps. And here's why:

1) Christians love peace, but constantly seek war. They are surrounded by enemies.

2) Christians don't trust themselves.

3) Christians prey on the weak.

Don't get me started on christians, 'cuz their message has failed me. I love you, Mr. and Mrs. Christian, but you're a couple of fools.

By the way, Satan, you can suck it, too; but I'll never give up on Halloween -- it costs much less than Christmas.

Hey big spender, spenda little coin on me

Transferred $10 into my lonely long-term savings account today.

That doesn't preclude withdrawing $40 later this month, but at least it's an effort.

I now have about $420 socked away for retirement.

With that money, I plan to buy an old tin pail, some rubber boots and a giggin' stick. I hope I'll still have my guitar by that point, 'cuz I'll need it to earn safe passage to the south. My skillful coaxin' of soulful tunes from the device shall pay my walkin' fare to the Gulf Coast, where all the survivors will one day reassemble, flush with their newfound wealth sprung from the reconstruction.

I will gig for frogs.

I will sell them on the highway.

Then I shall die -- a wise, happy, deeply-tanned old man.

My kin and those few others whom I will have left behind shall be forced to follow in my footsteps, southward, in order to claim my property: an old tin pail, some used rubber boots, a perfectly fine giggin' stick, my worn-out guitar, and the $300 million dollars I will have earned sellin' frogs on the highway to tourists and wealthy reconstructionist surviviors who, despite their better judgement, still fancy a few frog legs for supper.

Find both truth and fiction in the following account:

Today, I discovered several sets of stolen keys discarded near the dumpster behind the office of my current employer. The keys were not just any keys, but ones stamped with with the warning "DO NOT DUPLICATE." Alongside them were a recent bank statement (about $3,000 in the account), various documents containing sensitive personal information (social security numbers, dates of birth, names and numbers) and three baseballs, slightly scuffed. Inside the dumpster, there was trash.

I deduced that the items belonged to different people. Not the trash -- the trash isn't important.

Like Mike Hammer, I tracked down the items' owners. I called the locksmith who forged the keys and followed the leads. My investigation revealed that they had been stolen from a facility manager's car the night before. The other documents were stolen from different cars in the same area on the same night.

I had uncovered a crime spree!

Like Bruce Wayne, I called the owners and invited them to collect their stolen property, and then I alerted the authorities. A young blonde sheriff's deputy was assigned the case. When she arrived two hours later, she immediately unstrapped her holster and ripped off her shirt, revealing milky-white breasts heaving with anticipation.

Like John Holmes, I pleasured her.

She informed me that a man living in a nearby apartment building was recently arrested in an identity theft sting. He had purchased a $30,000 boat using somebody else's name. The deputy wondered aloud whether my discovery was connected to her case, and then kissed the flesh of my inner thighs with her large, perfectly shaped lips (The cases weren't connected. I could have told her that. My man was a small-time operator, an opportunist who committed foul deeds in the southern reaches of the metropolitan area. Her guy lived nearby, and was already in jail.)

"But," she added between kisses, "Another identity thief was recently discovered living a few miles south of here." She suspected he might be responsible for the stolen property by the dumpster.

"Let's go," I told her. "Time is running short."

I dressed. She strapped on her sidearm, but left her uniform shirt on the floor. Topless, excepting shoulder holster, she winked at me; and the two of us sprinted to her cruiser.

"I'll drive," I said. "You navigate."

I wore my dark sunglasses and a street-smart smile. As we blew down South Parker Road, the deputy brandished her badge, tossed her head and winked again. She threw the badge out the window as if to say, "I now fight crime the effective way -- the vigilante way." Her hair was beautiful in the wind.

For my part, I abandoned my slow-paced life as a millionaire horse-racer.

Off we went: a pretty young pistol-packing deputy and a brilliant and handsome -- if unschooled -- criminal investigator. What an unlikely, yet successful pair. She was a Charlie-Angel, I was a Tom Cruise detective. We captured many dangerous criminals.

What a story to tell. Every word true.

What's with all the SHOOTING?

Where are all the NRA members when you need them? Not in fucking New Orleans, because the only gunmen there seem to be street thugs looking for new clothing and madmen intent on bagging the greatest prey of all: human fucking beings.

Law and order take a hike and we immediately resort to violence? I don't get it. I don't recall snipers attacking refugees of last year's tsunami. But here in America, we do catastrophe right -- is that how it is? Click, Click, BANG!" in the Superdome, at the hospitals and in the flooded streets?

Nice.

Goddamned animals.

Live it up, fuckers. You're never gonna get a better chance to explore your inner idiot.

Artists are fuck-up angels.

More on heaven and hell

"Good heavens! You are hellish fun!"

"What the hell are you doing in my heaven? Get offa my cloud!"

"Hell, yeah!"

"Heavens, No!"

"That woman has heavenly thighs. I'd give a hell-of-a-lot of money to stroke them with a wet paintbrush."

"What the hell?"

"Heaven sakes!"

"Heaven help us."

"To hell with us."

"With rockets like that, she must be sent straight from heaven."

"She's a hellcat in the sack.

Heaven and Hell: Suggestions for their use in sermons

Eloquent, with modern elements:

"Downloaded from on high, perhaps from heaven, the latest updates shower us with golden joy, god-ish in the way they improve our soggy existence.

"Uploaded from below, certainly from hell, our petty, vain efforts to improve our lot on this planet do nothing but interfere with god's work.

"Look upward for software updates, but always be wary of downstream inquiries. Guard your backsides, as the devil strives to shove stuff up your butts!

Persuasive:

"If you ain't with god, you're agin' him. Get yo' ass up to heaven, or I send u 2 hell!"

Like Wimpy the hamburger man:

"Give me some money today, and I promise to pay you back when we're all dead in heaven."


Quote a lyric:

"Go forth. Be ye good, be ye pious, be ye gentle, my tender flock, for you will be '...cli-imbing [the] stai-airway [pause] to hea-ven.' [pause for masterful guitar]"

Comparison/Contrast:

"Hell is a suffocating cavern of magma and sulfur, buried deep in the earth's core, where demons force the damned to suck Satan's white-hot genitalia until their mouths catch fire.

"Heaven, by contrast, is freezing cold and full of fluttering angels. The saved kneel alongside history's finest men and women, and together they warm God's frozen genitals for eternity while he dispenses kindly wisdom."

Helpful:

"I suggest you strive for heaven, because that's where ice cream goes when it dies. I'd steer clear of hell if I were you -- the "hellies" only get okra, overcooked spinach and sardines."

Bullet points:

Heaven:

- well-lit
- spacious
- "right side of tracks"
- eternal happiness
- the "safe bet"


Hell:

- eternal misery
- "nanny state"
- high-crime
- "tax-and-spend"
- prison-like decor

Dangerous colonels in drag

...Burning Leopard to Drooping Snake, over...

...Drooping Snake, do you copy...?

...Burning Leopard, Drooping Snake, over...



[radio static]

"They're not responding, sir. I don't know why."

"Try again, soldier, but this time use different adjectives."

"What do you suggest?"

"I don't know. Anything. Just do it for christsakes!"

...Funky Leopard to Horrid Snake, over...

...Funky Leopard, Horrid Snake, over...

[static]

"Try different nouns, too."

...Dissonent Hyperbole to Deep Zenith, over...

...Dissonent Hyperbole, Deep Zenith, over...

[static...followed by clicking]

...Copy, Dissonent Hyperbole. This is Deep Zenith...

[static]

"Sir, we've made contact!"

"See? What'd I tell you?"

"What are your orders?"

"Attack... Kill... Destroy..."

"...no, wait a minute. Gimme the handset..."

[Labored breathing crackles over the airwaves, then a pause, filled only with ambient noise]

"I watched a snail crawl along the edge of a straight razor. That's my dream. That's my nightmare..."

[In the background: "Sir, that's from a movie...]

"Shit, you're right."

[Radio static]

"Okay...[inaudible] ...

...you can't handle the truth!"

[Background: "That's a from a movie, too."]
[Heavy breathing briefly resumes amid the static]

"Fuck."

[More breathing. In the background, the soldier's voice: "Do you want me to do it?"]

"NO!"

[Rustling...inaudible...]

"Top Gun rules of engagement are written for your safety and for that of your team... They are not flexible, nor am I. Is that clear?"

[Static. In the background, likely the soldier: "Jesus Christ. Colonel, this is stupid..."]

[Repeated gunshots, followed by rustling, inaudible mumbling and microphone noise]

"Your days of fingerbanging Mary J. Rottencrotch through her pretty pink panties are over..."

Bruce Lee to kitten: Young one, you fight with too much anger!

Bruce Lee is not a cat, but if he were -- and if he weren't dead and if he lived next door -- he'd likely offer this advice to our kitten, who is learning to hunt phantom prey in our backyard:

"You make too much noise! And all that anticipatory wiggling before you pounce only wastes energy while telegraphing your attack. The less effort, the faster and more powerful you will be."

"Relax, little kitten. Your blows should be an extension of your chi. Let them explode from deep inside like suprise lightening on a hot, cloudless day; let them rain like one-inch ball bearings plummeting from some Lagrangian orbit; let them destroy flesh, bone and spirit."

"Calm your breathing, and don't do that twitching thing with your mouth when you think you see something moving in the grass."

"Let your opponent graze your skin, and you smash into his flesh, kitty. Let him smash into your flesh, and you fracture his bones. Let him fracture your bones, and you take his life. Then relax in both your glory and pain as you eat your opponent."

"Try the one-inch punch. It's deadly."

Lists

I love how the boss walks into the office singing some cheesy song from the 1980s that I haven't heard in years. It cracks me up every time.

An open letter to Sufjan Stevens, and to his zombie fans at the Bluebird Theater Friday night

Mr. Stevens,

Thanks for bringing your light-hearted, melodic and intriguing show to Denver. Although your music was very quiet, I heard every note, every one of your soft sighs, your musicians' tiniest mistakes, and even some of the performers' banter usually reserved for the folks on stage.

Under normal circumstances, those sounds would be inaudible. But Friday night at the Bluebird wasn't a normal circumstance, or at least I hope it wasn't. I hope for your sake that people in other venues display a little emotion, and if not dance, at least sway side-to-side or nod their heads to the beat. Maybe your shows in Chicago produce more reaction since those people are likely thrilled you're writing songs about their city. They never stop raving about the place anyway.

I know some shows can get a little scary, especially during moments of mass insanity when the crowd surges toward the stage and you feel like your life and the lives of everyone in the venue are protected only by the forethought of a few powerful people: the concert promoter, the road manager, the security workers, the architect who designed the theater, the engineer who approved the plans, the city safety inspectors who checked all their work, and the emergency workers who rush to everyone's aid when things go terribly wrong.

But your show Friday night was scary for other reasons.

First, it is marvelously unnerving to stand in such close proximity to so many silent people. It's hard to find reasonable comparisons, but libraries, funerals and church services immediately come to mind, even though such similes have been rendered trite with overuse.

Second, your music so mesmerized the audience that I fear not a single member was capable of fleeing the building in the event of a large fire. Hundreds could have died, the lot of carcasses charred to a creepy vestige of the mind-numbingly silent crowd they once comprised -- kind of like those thousands of terra-cotta warrior statues discovered buried in China, only memorialized by fire rather than earth.

Thankfully, that didn't happen.

You remarked on the phenomenon yourself -- that we were a very quiet and attentive audience. It was a kind thing to say, but I think you missed the point. We are actually too cool. We've seen it all before. We simply refuse to get worked up in any way -- no matter how good the music, how well-matched the outfits, or how pretty the female musicians.

Please don't be concerned. We are merely Denverites who don't know joy and who couldn't express it even if we encountered it.

Maybe you could do a little song about us someday.

Regards,

Jk.


To the music lovers at the Bluebird Theater that night:

I'm not angry with you, but I'm very disappointed. First of all, Sufjan's show wasn't so impressive as to steal your voices away (It seemed little quiet to me, and perhaps even a little slow. Maybe it was the altitude, which has affected visiting performers and athletes in the past.) But the show wasn't boring, either. (The ladies were pretty, and Sufjan's not bad looking, either.) In fact, it really wasn't a bad show at all, and none of you left in disgust; further proving my point that you actually enjoyed the show, but were incapable of showing it. Even the Irish construction worker who complained he was tired because awoke at 5 a.m. that day stayed for the duration.

But all of you just stood there, motionless and silent, like extremely cool people who had seen it all before and who refuse to get worked up over some traveling band of easy-going musicians in matching outfits. You glared when I danced, or spoke, or yelled loudly between songs "You could at least move your heads a little!"

You glared when I did anything at all other than cross my arms on my chest and stare silently at the stage alongside you.

In conclusion, you were simply the worst audience I've ever been a part of in my life, except maybe for the ones at Steve Earle shows in Boulder where everyone sits quietly in their chairs and shushes everyone else. Those are pretty bad, even for liberals.


Regards,

Jk.

The Ten Commandments, and their exact opposites

You'd think that a quick Google of The Ten Commandments would instantly yield said commandments, with extensive commentary on their benefits, including cogent arguments against violating them.

But you'd be wrong.

I invite you to check for yourself. In Google, type "The Ten Commandments" (without quotes) and please, e-mail me your results.

Here's what I found:

1) What does God want from us? Should we keep the Ten Commandments?

Excerpts:

"What does it mean to love God 'with all thy heart, and with all thy soul, and with all thy mind?' How do we do this? Well, when we say that someone loves money we understand that money is very important to them. They desire to have money and they seek to obtain it. Money is an important part of their lives. To love God is much the same."

[God is like money]

"You may heard [sic] that Jesus came to do away with the commandments, or to "nail the commandments to the cross." Don't believe it! Consider these words from Jesus: 'And, behold, one came and said unto him, Good Master, what good thing shall I do, that I may have eternal life? 17. And he said unto him, Why callest thou me good? there is none good but one, that is, God: but if thou wilt enter into life, keep the commandments. 18. He saith unto him, Which? Jesus said, Thou shalt do no murder, Thou shalt not commit adultery, Thou shalt not steal, Thou shalt not bear false witness, 19. Honour thy father and thy mother: and, Thou shalt love thy neighbour as thyself. (Matthew 19:16-19)"

[The narrator struggles with grammar, or maybe suffers from keyboard typos; and Jesus referred to himself in the third person, recalling only seven of the ten commandments.]

2) A company offering inspirational posters in varying sizes, starting at $2.99

3) A compilation of newspaper articles detailing the fracus over ten-commandment monuments in U.S. courthouses.

4) A Canadian website with the following caveat: We do not promote our own religious beliefs. We can't because we are a multi-faith group. We try to explain the full diversity of religious belief in North America, from Asatru to Zoroastrianism, including Christianity, Hinduism, Wicca, Universism, and others.

5) This site -- operated by a non-denominational bible-based church in Rawlins, Wyoming -- which (finally) sorts this mess out.

So here the commandments are, according to www.therain.org. I've taken the liberty to include their opposites as well, in hopes of avoiding confusion.

1) Thou shalt have no other gods before me.
Anticommandment: thou shall have thousands of gods before me, and after me, and over me, and under me. In fact, thou shalt not have me as a god at all...

2) Thou shalt not make unto thee any graven image. (this seems to be a double-negative, but then again, maybe it's not. It's hard to tell, but I'll do my best)
Anticommandment: Thou SHALL make unto thee MANY graven images, especially ones made from wood or stone

3) Thou shalt not take the name of the LORD thy God in vain.
Anticommandment: In the presence of the LORD thy God, thou most certainly shalt cuss like a clap-smacked sailor in Southeast Asia. And thou shall blame the LORD thy God for the burning in thy loins.

4) Remember the sabbath day, to keep it holy.
Anticommandment: Fuck like a whore on Saturday, cussing the LORD thy God's name the whole time thusly: Oh GOD! OHH GOD! OHHH GOD!

5) Honor thy father and thy mother.
Anticommandment: Steal thy parents' car and drive it to thy girlfriend's abode, fuck her in her parents' bed, crash the car into thy neighbor's tree while driving home

6) Thou shalt not kill.
Anticommandment: Kill, kill, kill, especially the Muslims and Pagans

7) Thou shalt not commit adultery.
Anticommandment: Oh yes, thou shalt!

8) Thou shalt not steal.
Anticommandment: Whatever...

9) Thou shalt not bear false witness against thy neighbor.
Anticommandment: Thou shalt secretly witness thy neighbors have sex, then claim thou didn't.

10) Thou shalt not covet anything that is thy neighbour's.
Anticommandment: Thou shalt covet thy neighbour's buttocks above thy life.

Endless goodbyes

Is there anything worse than saying goodbye? If there is, for christsakes, don't tell me about it. I fucking hate that (I love Viva Burrito, I love clean sheets, etc. There's an earlier post that explains this whole Viva Burrito thing...)

Even if I haven't seen some dude in years, there's still the possibility that I'll bump into him somewhere, so long as he still lives here. But if he moves, that's pretty much it, isn't it? Well, maybe not, but it still feels that way.

See ya, Judd. Have fun in Australia w/ your new wife. I'll be here, in Denver, doing whatever it is I do. You know where to reach me...

I love Viva Burrito.
I love clean sheets.
I love reading on the toilet 'til my legs fall asleep.
It goes on like that...

Jk.

Lovely list, day one.

* I love Viva burrito, specifically the carnitas tacos they sell, as well the pickled jalepenos and carrots that come in plastic bags sealed with knot.
* I love clean sheets.
* taking my time on the toilet, basically reading 'til my legs fall asleep.
* The Moffat Tunnel East Portal, and all the stuff that's nearby.
* Dolmades
* This particular newspaper column
* Two Tecates in a can, without lime.
* The banged-up Martin D-1 guitar I have at home, with good strings tuned down nearly a full step. Along those lines, I like the little callouses I have on the fingertips of my left hand -- they signal that I'm playing enough.

Days and days of silence, followed by a split-second's sweet, soothing noise

Actually, it was the other way around -- the soothing noise is the drudgery of work, the silence was an entire week's worth of Texas right here in Colorado. Good to see you, buddy. Hope you get back soon.

Changes are coming, friends. They come slowly, and in the tiniest of increments, almost imperceptible increments, hardly worth noting. But they're a-comin' none-the-less. Take, for instance, the gloomy cloud of gloom that's been rubbing its balls on my soul for the past few years. Soon, that fuckmist will be heading down the road to bother someone else.

Yes, I can tell. It's coming soon. Or rather, it will be going soon.

To help it along, I'm doing tricksy little things to break it down.

I make lists.

Lists of things I like. Little likeable things that brighten those less likeable moments of the day, like earlier when I was on the phone, talking to a friend, making loud retard sounds (duuuuueeeeeeeeerrr!) and moving my hand in that way that retards do (severely bent wrist, slapping against the chest) while just barely outside my realm of awareness (behind me, to the right, on the other side of a parked car) a REAL LIFE RETARDED LADY in a wheelchair was being loaded into a van with the aid of a helper. She and her helper looked right at me, the helper with something like derision, the retarded woman with interest or maybe the excitement one feels when one recognizes a peer. (By the way, I was only attempting to describe to my friend on the other end of the line how "retarded" I would be if I tried to play the guitar left-handed like Jimi Hendrix or Elizabeth Cotten. See?)

Anyway, I blew it. I was, at least for the moment, a walking pee stick.

So, I recite my list of little lovies.

1) I love those carnitas tacos they sell at Viva Burrito on Leetsdale.
2) I love clean sheets.
3) I love not having a real job, although the money sucks. (normally, I'd have start over as a result of that secondary negative point, but this is really just for demonstration purposes.)
4) I love crunchy peanut butter.
5) etc.

These are all dinky things that I love. Nothing big, nothing important. Nothing to get anyone's dander up.

Baby steps.

With baby steps, I will rehabilitate my damaged sense of joy -- the sense of joy that has been mutilated by the last decade, probably due to the fact that I am surprisingly unprepared for adult life. I seem to get dumber the older I get, and if that's the way it has to be, then I accept that. There's a strange beauty in dumbness. Dumbness is the new smartness.

This will succeed, even if it takes decades.

Jk.

This kind of hubris is normally reserved for people who have jobs

But before I get to the meat of this matter, let me detail my day:

- Awoke at 8:30 a.m.
- Showered, shaved, but did not shit (saved that for later, when the clock would be ticking)
- Arrived at my "clients'" office about 9:30 a.m.
- Shat (while reading Stuff Magazine)
- Changed a few file names, did some research, checked some e-mail, made some phone calls.
- Made a prank technical document. Left it in the printer for others to find.
- Left my "clients'" office about 4:30 p.m.
- Conducted a fruitless Internet search for a free download of Paris Hilton sex video.
- One beer by 5:30 p.m., vodka martini by 6:30 p.m., an hour of guitar, Jack and Coke by 8:30 p.m.
- Begged two beers from a man I once viewed as my economic inferior.
- Begged another from a former colleague (one I like to consider a protege, although he certainly would argue with that)
- A quick -- but drunk -- drive home...

Now, on to the meat of the matter (late, but true):

You fucking British fags have failed us all here in the United States! How could you let this happen? We clearly can't handle this quagmire ourselves, yet you re-elect Blair? It was within your grasp; you could have changed history, but you blew it.

As much as I hate to, I am forced to urge our ignorant, hot-headed leaders to anhililate your pitiful island and wipe all traces of your faded empire from the face of the earth. Only then will you see how horrible a people you have become. You are, in a nutshell, the biggest pussies on the planet! Even more so than the French. It's obvious your pubs have taken a toll on your balls, and I'd love to meet a dozen or two of you in a dark alley. You're Big Show; No Results.

Here's what your idiotic media has to say about it (and believe me, it's taken me a long time to come to this hateful conclusion):

BBC:
We asked Mr. Uncle Sam, an American professor of political science who has sworn his allegiance to the Bush regime what he thinks about the Iraq situation: Professor, isn't it true that President Bush lied to the world and led the United States into a horrible war that killed thousands, if not millions of people?

Professor Sam:
No it's not true. In fact, we saved the planet, including Europe, from Saddam's huge stockpile of weapons of mass destruction.

BBC:
But investigators have not turned up a single weapon. Are you saying you're a liar and a bastard, or are you saying you're an American Pig with the culinary awareness of a butt slug?

Professor:
Neither. I'm saying the world is a better place because of U.S. action, and President Bush, both houses of Congress, the American people, the U.N., most of the Western and Eastern hemispheres, and soon, the U.S. Judicial Branch, know you can't do a God-damned thing about it.

BBC:
Right. That was Ethan Donnely reporting from Washington. Clearly demonstrating a widening rift in American policy on the Iraq war...

Me:
You can say what you want about the U.S. media, but at least when they question the Bush cronies, they have a few hard fucking facts to back their position rather than a bunch of bullshit hyperbole!

Me, again:
God help us all, for we're all a bunch of failures. And suck it, UK! (That's not bullshit hyperbole. I'll nuke you if you to disagree.)

For the very first time, I think I understand handguns

Late tonight, or early this morning, there was a racket outside my door; rap, rap, rapping outside my chamber door. Two men, arguing at first over respect, or mutal fear, or hyperbole, began to show signs of desperation. Sensing this, or maybe just fearing it, I took the time to pull on some pants, as I didn't want to call the authorities, only to stand in the street later in my skivvies recounting the details of the fracus to investigators.

A third man, perhaps worried that the noise caused by the first two might attract unwanted attention to the situation, decided that swift, steadfast, violent action was the only calming recourse available to him at the moment. He tackled the first man in a very manly way, bent his ear to his victim and uttered what can only be assumed was some sort of threat.

The second man, the one who wasn't tackled, took the opportunity to repeatedly kick the prostrate body of the first. This was my second clue that things were quickly spinning out of control. I dialed 9-1-1, and was connected to the Englewood Police.

Immediately, I recounted my version of the ongoing event to the operator, who then asked what race the three men were (black, white, hispanic, aluetian, samoan, polynesian, aboriginal). How the fuck would I know? It was dark, they were fighting near one of those mercury-halogen streetlights that makes everyone look like the flesh on their skulls is dying and they're slowly transforming into orange zombies. I think I said some were dark-skinned, and for all I know, they could've been Italians.

The cops shortly came, but not before I poked my head out the front door and yelled at the little Vin Diesels.

"Hey!"

I can't remember what they did, one might have non-verbally challenged me. It was hard to tell.

"The cops are on their way!"

I know at least one of them heard that. He looked up and seemed to acknowledge what I said. But by then, the fuzz was rolling. Five of them appeared -- maybe more -- lights a-spinnin' and a-blazin', but no sirens thankfully. Wouldn't want to wake any of the neighbors who should have already been awake with all the goddamned noise. More on that later.

Timidly, yet with conviction, I stepped out on the porch. One officer strolled up and pulled a notepad from his breast pocket. "You the one who called?"

I nodded, and felt a sudden, puzzling urge to cry right there on the porch. It occurred to me at that moment that I was fucking scared of these three ne'er-do-wells and their rambunctious behavior. I think I still am.

Yes, I told him, I called 9-1-1.

"What happened?"

"Two guys were fighting, then a third one came and jumped one, wait, the two guys were arguing, not fighting, and the third one came in and jumped the second guy, then the first guy started kicking him on the ground. Right there, in that yard across the street. Those three guys... there's one in a gray shirt, and another in a gray shirt, and one in a..."

I was babbling. Fucking terrified. They're Chicago thugs, probably south-side, or east-side, or south-central, or wherever the fucking thugs come from in that damned city. I remember one of them saying something to that effect: This ain't Chicago, bro! THUMP, right to the ribs!

Like that seemed to matter. Are Chicago cops slow or something? Overloaded with work? Are they selective? Or do they only respond to crimes reported by criminals? I didn't know. I have never tangled with the Chicago PD, nor have I relied on their services. But this I know: here in Denver (or Englewood), when a guy calls the cops on a fight, the smackdown is imminent.

The officer then asked if I wanted to use my name "on the report."

I said I only wanted to call the incident in, because it seemed pretty violent. Like maybe someone could get hurt.

The officer replaced the notebook in his breast pocket. Told me he understood, that a lot of people didn't want to give their names for fear of retribution, that he wouldn't ask any more questions. And he didn't. He walked back to the ruckus and dissappeared amid the activity and flashing lights. I didn't get his name. I didn't think to look.

That's when I noticed that not a single neighbor had even poked a head out their window. Not even the young couple who owned the yard where the fight took place. They have an infant to care for, and they didn't bother to even call. And the tough Irish guy next to them -- the one with the big, tough Irish son who's always talking in grandiloquent roughhouse-style and who seems invincible -- even he stayed in the house. The argument and fight took place within 30 feet of his bedroom. My neighbors to the north: nothing. To the south: nothing. Two houses south, where all the police cars converged with their lights and screeching radios: nothing. There are fucking children living around here, neighbors! Maybe just one of you proud parents could show some balls for your kids?

The officer left me with the uneasy feeling that I really screwed the cops that night. That the only way these guys were going to jail -- and not back to their rooms a half-a-block away, all coked, boozed or methed up, after I publicly challenged them and stood like a preacher on my porch as the cops ran criminal histories and otherwise had their way with them -- was if I answered Mr. Officer's questions correctly. And I didn't.

Not to worry. Surely, I thought, the cops will be cleaning the whole mess up and shipping these young toughs to the hooscow tonight to ponder their errant ways. But I was wrong. The thugs might have even cheered as the squad of officers released them back to the streets. Right there, across from my house, where A., my dog and our new kitten were sleeping. To the thugs' credit, they haven't fire-bombed my house or hassled me in any other way, at least not yet.

To the officer:

What am I, a fucking lawyer? Do you think we all know criminal law from memory? When, exactly, did you learn the law? At crime school, in Fighting Johnny Law 101? Did I really fuck this up, or did you simply avoid some paperwork tonight? I don't know, officer, because I am not a fucking cop!

Do you know how to spell or avoid double negatives? Do you know the weight of any lag bolt between three and five inches long? Do you know which wire to connect to ground on slave dimmer for a living room ceiling fan? Do you know which over-the-counter children's medicines are toxic when mixed?

Should I have known something that I didn't, and should I have challenged you about it? Should I have said, "officer, I'm sure you know your job, but are you saying that by not giving my name, all the information I provided was useless? Isn't fighting assault? I told you they were fighting, but none of them were arrested. Were they play-fighting? Was that one guy play-kicking the other one in the ribs while the third play-held him to the ground with a pretend headlock?

These questions of mine have no answer. But this one does:

Should I move to Chicago? I think maybe I should, because at least I know those three dudes aren't there now.

What our seven-week-old kitten, Jack Kerouac, has to say about current affairs:

./
9999999999999999999999999999999999999999999
888888888888888]]]]]]]]]899998333
uuuuuuuuuuuaczzzpppppppppppppppppppppppppppp
pppppppppppppppppppppppppppppppppppppppppppp
pppppppppppppppppppppppppppppppp;
888888888888nnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnn
nnnnnnnnnnnnnn
ggggggggggggggggggggggggggggggg m666ggggggggggggyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyy
yyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyy
hhhhhhL<,,,,,,,,,,,jjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjj
jjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjj
kkkkkkkggggggggggggggggggggggggggggggggggggggggggggggg
zzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxvccccccc,,,,,,,,

Jack Kerouac, AKA: dorkchop

Morning, sir! I'm standing tall.

There's nothing quite like walking into the workplace with a wicked boner a-bouncin' and a-boingin' in your trousers. Grab coffee, turn on computer, pleasant smile, make light banter with boss, with co-workers, maybe with clients if you're lucky.

"How was your weekend? Really? Sounds fun. I did a lot of yardwork on Saturday, but on Sunday we went hiking near Boulder..."

All the while, your terrible secret is safely hidden behind your untucked shirt and your brain feels like a super-charged capacitor ready to pop, overloaded with images of incredibly naughty women of all types, performing all types of godless acts -- womens in sheets, womens on bikes, womens in the back seats of abandoned cars, five womens, six, maybe more; womens on top, on bottom. Womens! Womens! Womens!

"Yeah, the weather was great, although it did sprinkle a bit during the afternoon. Not that we minded, it was so warm."

Fuck me! Fuck me! Fuck me!

"Did I what? No, I haven't gotten to that yet. It's my first priority this morning. I'll be wrapping up that project today."

Little fucker's trying to chew through the zipper! Down, dammit! Down! Jesus, that feels good... Tight as a fucking drum, they don't call it wood for nothing.

Meanwhile, coworkers and colleagues go about their business as if they don't have maddening erections. They take no notice of the massive, pulsating, vibrant, jaw-dropping member (if it had a voice, it would SCREAM!) barely concealed in your pants (are those jeans stretched to their limits?) But in truth, it's more likely they suffer from a similar shameful affliction 'cause they're all a bunch of freaks around here, anyway -- only they have smaller dicks.

A Modern Rosetta Stone: Deciphering the lyrics of the song: 'Here's Where the Story Ends', sung not by Harriet Wheeler of The Sundays but by pirate whores

Editor's note: Until now, this song has been a lyrical mystery. 

Studies have uncovered most of the lyrical content of a beloved, if oft-misunderstood song. 

We hope this sheds some light, perhaps squelches the moaning of those tireless enthusiasts who prowl the net for answers. (Following italics and bold our ours.) 

[strumming guitar in G, sparse bass, modest drums in 4/4]
 

People I know 

places I go 

'tis but a rough sea 

[strumming]

you love me not 

don't touch m' twat 

feels like an oak tree 

[strumming]

here's...

where...

the story ends 

[strumming]

senses alive 

can't feel m' eyes 

lucky to see me 

[strumming]

you love me not 

don't touch m' twat 

hear like a small flea 

[strumming]

here's...

where...

the story ends  

[strumming]

here's... 

where...

the story ends  

[strumming]

i am pretty fortunate 

for a buckled-down nut 

with heart and soul of gold 

well, we could have went to bed 

but for the books that you read 

were all I loved you for 

i am pretty fortunate 

for a buckled-down nut 

with heart that can't grow old 

i know why the lights are red 

porque es malo red 

 

surprise, surprise, surprise 

 [strumming]

crazy I know 

places I go 

make me feel so tired 

 [strumming]

I can see how 

people look down 

i'm on the outside

argh! 

 [strumming]

here's...

where...

the story ends  

 

arrrgghh! 

 [strumming]

here's...

where...

the story ends 

 [strumming]

it's that little souvenir 

from a terrible year 

which makes my eyes feel sore 

 

& whoever would've thought 

the books that you bought 

were all I loved you for yarr! 

 

the devil in me said 

g' down to th' shed 

Aye know where aye belong 

 

But th' only thin' aye ever really wanted t' saaaay 

'twas wrong, 

'twas wrong, 

'twas wrong... 

 

Editor's footnote: Due to the project's unresolved financial imbroglio and its questionable scientific merit, our experts abandoned all research before we could recover the remaining lyrics. We can only presume they've been lost to time. Thank you very much, Dr. Loren Nielsen, University of Colorado Anthropology Department.

Keep it together, old chap

Everything's gonna be fine.

Jk.

Notes only, pay no attention

Charlie's gettin' hard again.
Seen him yet? He's lookin' thin.

Every night, warm and dry, I sleep like a kitten on mother's milk
I get soft, I get high.

But Charlie
Charlie's gettin' hard and thin

He walks the streets, walks the deserts, walks the mountain canyon rims
Looking for a fight, he can't be right, but he just might win.

Third night alone: No woman, no cry.

The old lady takes a beating from me sometimes (metaphorically, of course); and most times she deserves it, but after three days and nights without her, I'm forced to admit many of her qualities might often go unnoticed amid the furor of my fury.

It occurs to me that that she plays a sizable role -- much of it behind the scenes -- in keeping this house from foreclosure, from crumbling to the ground, or from slowly dissolving into a wretched structure of neglect. For example, she waters all these plants (a task that almost got away from me, until I caught the error just today. Still not sure if I caught it in time), she deals with all of the most hated chores (laundry, dusting and general housekeeping), she supplies the house with rock and roll and the latest trendy movies, she mixes refreshing alcoholic beverages that everyone -- man, woman or child -- enjoys, she cooks up one mutherfucker of a meal when she has a mind to, fetches the dog when he escapes, and looks great in a summertime spaghetti-strap top (if you get my meaning.) She does it all while maintaining gainful employment and providing that artful, womanly touch lacking in even the most upscale homes.

She also provides occasional sex.

By comparison, my role in the matter seems a little weak. I do change the oil in her car now and then, and most times I take out the trash. I always mow the lawn and lift the heavy things, and I clean the bathroom weekly (more or less.) I also do my best to clean up my shoes, socks, dirty underwear and other things, which surely cuts down on her work somewhat. And I provide occasional sex, too -- great sex.

But... I fart a lot, crack a lot of off-color jokes and sometimes fly off the handle in the childish way that men often do. On the flip side, I am quite an ambassador for our home, reaching out to the neighbors, to coworkers and to total strangers, inviting them all into the house for a tour, a drink, or to case the joint.

I basically liven up the place. I like to think I provide that untenable emotional spark that makes it all work...

I'm certain I do more, but it'll take a few moments to tally my contributions. I'll get back to you.

Jk.

Bleeding all over my guitar

Left work about six hours early today to rush home and ROCK! But that bastard Eric Clapton almost killed me.

Claption's unplugged version of Old Love contains one of the most passionate solos he's ever done, at least according to Wolf Marshall, author of Eric Clapton, from the album "Eric Clapton Unplugged": A step-by-step breakdown of his acoustic guitar style and technique.

I borrowed the book today from my co-worker Agustin. We're thinking about getting together someday and jammin' out some slow hand-- just a couple of guys, cuttin' up our fingers on the smoky blues-rock ballads spewing from our guitar holes. Maybe a couple beers, maybe not.

Not that I really like Clapton. According to the old lady, he's overrated. I never developed any specific opinions about the man's work myself, but he certainly never turned my crank. I just assumed that whatever the old lady was talking about was the reason I felt the way I did about him. But one thing's for sure now that wasn't before: I do not think Clapton's overrated, not after what I suffered today.

I lost several hours -- even with Wolf Marshall's guidance -- pounding my fingers on the razor-sharp strings until the tips became tender and possibly damaged. Midway through the day, I broke for an hour to regroup. I had barely learned the arrangement, and yet plunged like a fool into the solo. At last count, I had a tenuous grip on three and a half bars of the solo's twenty-four. And those three still need considerable work before they can be released to the public. The strings of my guitar will have to be replaced soon. The stress was too much for them.

At this rate, I'll have memorized the basic form of the solo in eight days -- not counting an additional week to rehearse the entire song. But there's no way I could continue splitting from the job six hours early for the next eight days. There are bills to pay. The old lady would be alarmed if she found out I had played hooky on 46 hours of paying work. Fact is, mastering Old love is going to take a lot of time and a lot of maddening concentration.

It might be that I never liked Clapton because I knew instinctively that he was a thousand times the guitarist I would ever be. Could be I just knew that if I listened closely, I'd become instantly hypnotized by even his most boring songs.

The shame of it is I still don't like Clapton that much. I'm only doing this because Agustin is infatuated with the guy. But Clapton is not overrated. Anyone who says otherwise is ignorant and wrong.

Jk.

On the topics of race, racism and racists.

Are the neighbors really blaring a comical country song about NIGGERS from their car stereo? And are they laughing hysterically?

Oh, come the fuck on!

First of all, how funny could a dumb country song filled with tired stereotypes be? (I heard the damn song -- twice -- and it wasn't all that clever.)

But more importantly, if you've got to be a loud-mouthed racist, you should at least pick a group of people who really pose a threat to your Christian-American lifestyle! Honestly, a song about NIGGERS? What year do you think this is, neighbor? 1920?

Bother the folks who take your jobs, instead; or those that invade your neighborhood, speaking strange languages and smelling of herbs as they stand on your street corners and wait for your buses. If you make your living in the construction or farm-labor trades, target Latinos (call them all Mexicans if you like -- you really don't care where they're from, anyway.) If you're in the high-tech sector, pick on the Indians (no, idiots -- I'm talking about the highly educated, but extremely poor folks from INDIA. The ones who are stealing your jobs because they happen to be smarter and more willing to work than you. Strangely, they also speak better English.)

But really, leave the scary niggers alone, especially if you live in Colorado where black folks represent a mighty 3.8 percent of the state population according to latest U.S. Census figures. You really have nothing to fear from them. Might as well decry Eskimos, for christsakes: "Fuckin' Eskimos and their fuckin' dog sleds, runnin' round in the fuckin' snow, ruinin' the fuckin' world and threatenin' everything we hold dear... Martha, I tell ya, sumpin's gotta be done! Haw! Haw! Haw! Hee! Hee...Damn, I think I just pooped myself again."

It's unfortunate the census doesn't track the state's population of idiot bigots. Can you say "off the charts?" My extended family has produced their share, I'm ashamed to say.

Besides, getting down on the blacks is pathetically outdated. It demonstrates a profound ignorance of current affairs and a complete failure to hate your fellow man efficiently. It's a misfire of malice in embarrassing proportions.

Get with the program, Colorado, or better yet -- JUST SHUT THE FUCK UP!

Bittersweet weekends

Sad, sad endings. Sad, sad, sad, sad. The neighbors are friendly, but -- as I learned Friday night -- racist and weird. Tsk, tsk. More on this, later.

Saturday night: Drunken anger... white hot malice. Not entirely my fault, but then again, claims of innocence on my part would be, at best, an exaggeration, possibly even false.

Family gathering Sunday: Fantastic, excepting the grueling, unfinished blowout with the old lady, forced to be placed on hold during the festivities. Nine fucking hours of raw smiles and forced laughter. Murderous and suicidal rage, smothered, strangled, what-the-fuck-am-I-doing-here?

Lucky for the guests, I possess formidable social technique and my fury remained secret. Or maybe it didn't, what the fuck do I know. The long hours did take a toll, however. By the end, I was so tired, so very fucking tired.

At least it's finally Monday. Drudgery of work, take me away...

Jk.

Madness -- endless

Tiny little circles, they keep spinning ('round and 'round and 'round...)

Meanwhile they prove nothing. Tiny little circles of logic, history, fashion, shame -- they just keep spinning and spinning and SPINNING!

Foolish, freakish, foul geometry, the circle.

Center on this, mutherfuckin' hoop!

It's small wonder our type grew so fond of the right angle. Our trustworthy, defiant, powerful structure (gift of Satan?) never left us to struggle with unanswered questions or numbers that never end.

FUCK YOU! Fuck every one of your 360 degrees.

The Man has left the building, and I'm free to whittle

Counting is not my strong point, sir.
I prefer adding and subtracting.
Mostly subtracting.

-----

Nowhere, nowhere
He's going nowhere, he's never been
And he's had so much time!
So much time to drive, walk, ride to the end.

Nothing, nothing
She's done nothing all these years
But she landed one fine man!
A weekend lumberjack with a collection of fears.

-----

I feel my arteries hardening, weakening, growing resistant, reticent, doubtful and strange.
Change has changed, my friend. It no longer relieves the daily pains. It no longer shimmers so beautiful, so close and so slightly sweet.
It's a prickly creature that doesn't seem to want me anymore. Change has changed again, twicefold a stranger to me these days.

Jk.