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------------------------------------ There was a large painting of Evel Knievel shaking hands with Richard Nixon. It hung in the Mayors office. Late one evening after everyone went home. I took it down to the lab. I zoomed in on Evel’s left eye a 100x and enhanced it. It was an address. I went to the address. It was a modest, 1970’s style, split level ranch home in the suburbs.
----------------------------------- Inside I found a dead parrot lying on a waterbed. I revived the parrot with some saltines and adrenaline. We became good friends. The parrots name was Randy. One night a few years later while Randy and me played Gin Rummy, he sang me a song about a fire. The title of this blog was never mentioned but I sensed it, and Randy confirmed it by giving me ‘THE LOOK’.
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Right about now Earl Weaver is cussing out God. For those of you who don’t know Earl Weaver, he was the baseball manager for the Baltimore Orioles for almost 20 years in the late 60’s - the mid 80’s. The only thing ol Earl liked more than a 3 run homer was cussing and getting tossed outta games.
Another great vid is Earl giving an foul mouthed interview as a gag that was actually taped http://youtu.be/QWQbN0jFo_k
RIMFP - Rest in mother fucking peace, Earl!
— overheard in my dreams
I liked the internet better before it existed and we’d all just talk to ourselves like crazy people and fall into massive depressions. Back in the day there was nothing to do. You had to wait. And if you were ugly and got depressed, no one would talk to you for weeks. And then you’d have a breakdown and go on a Dr. ordered sabbatical and go on some weird vacation to Hawaii and take mescaline and have a spiritual breakthrough discovering that we are causal joy resonating in the heart of all things, but no one would know what was going on with you, because no faceblog internet clap trap. Then you’d run into a good friend you hadn’t seen in a couple of months at street fair and they’d ask “Whatcha been up to?” and you’d say “Oh not much, you?” “Same ol, same ol,” they’d reply. And you have polite chuckling banter all the while giving your teeth each there own secret names because you are a fucking lunatic who suddenly enjoys being completely and utterly alone.
You remember?
Ahhh the roaring void aint what it used to be.
When I was older I used to live in reverse. I discovered that all great artists were in fact cheap parodies. For instance, I found Prince Rodgers Nelson was still making music at the ripe old age of eighty and living in France. He’d made a horrific French parody record of Purple Rain called, ‘Ze Pourpre Pluie’. He did it all under an assumed French name and everyone thought it was brilliant. “When I’m younger this will actually inspire and remind me,” he stated, in an interview he did in the late 1920s. He said some other great stuff in that interview too, something about God being a splendid whore who fell in love with an endless contradiction.
:
Tom Lehrer, “The Old Dope Peddler” (1953)
beautiful!
The first music I ever heard, or that I remember hearing, was country music. It was in Tom’s Cafe, the bar/cafe across the alley from the house I was born in. I was three yrs old and hung out there a lot, because old Tommy Burke would feed me pancakes. I remember eating pancakes in a wooden booth looking at a red white and blue PBR swag light hearing a man sing about blue eyes and crying rain.
I’ve always meant to see Willie play live but I never got around to it or it was too damn expensive. Well, I looked up tickets again and old Willie is playing just down the street from me in a few weeks. And cinching the deal is that he’s playing with Merle Haggard.
Sorry I haven’t been posting much. I’ve been busy hand crafting a new artisan beer called, “There’s a Tear in my Beer!” Its actually brewed out of the tears of starving children. And it’ll be bacon infused (duh!) using a special bacon that’s cured and smoked right in the slaughterhouse. Mmmmm…. you can actually taste the smoked squealing suffering inside of the regular suffering.
The entire process has been quite daunting though, tears of starving children are actually quite difficult to harvest. Not that there aren’t millions of dying children in surprisingly good local organic supply, but they’re usually so dehydrated that you have to rehydrate them to get a proper tear flow going. And to ensure our organic status the water has to be shipped in from Europe, as the water for miles around is toxic.
Its slow going but incredibly rewarding to crack open an ice cold one while celebrating the birth of your new tattoo or body mod. Also goes extremely well with live blogging that new TV show. Bonus! A portion of the proceeds go to “Hair For All” a charity that designs and builds mustaches and beards for the facially hair challenged. So drink up in good conscious knowing that all that suffering isn’t just going to waste. Six packs available at Whole Foods for just 18.99! And seasonal brews are on the way!
I’ve always felt bad for the monster, when the good guy killed him, like he always does. I’ve always felt for the bad guy so poorly written, like a one trick pony frozen in disbelief, thawing out with a whiskey he never gets to drink.
Maybe Godzilla smashes all them people cuz they won’t stop screaming. Perhaps he just wants to have a few pints before he wanders back into the sea, to the wife and family.
Maybe ol Jason Vohries just wants to be left alone in the devouring silence and not inundated by boring loud horny teens every weekend. Maybe he finds the forest and lake beautiful and humanity a form of blight. Maybe he’s just pruning the garden.
If I was the black hat I wouldn’t even show up to the final gunfight. Let the simpleton good guy rot in that shitty small town. Let him wait for an eternity and ponder the true meaning of evil.
last night
I heard a flower dreaming
I heard an animal howling
but I didn’t see the moon
this morning
I saw my dog sleeping
in my dreams you were alive again
and I was weeping
an open window
a brightly lit room
