2009...a year of fecality

In all of my life, there have been very few years that I've been so ready to shove out the door as 2009. While it doesn't take the crown for the worst year (2002 holds that honor), it's had all the charm of a large, odoriferous pile of summertime dogshit attached to one's shoe. No matter how diligently the foot is shaken, the funk is there and it will follow closer than a shadow. Heartbreak, heartache, pain, confusion, boredom, frustration, mental mutilation and an ice storm beyond belief...yep, it's been a bitch.



It is said that which doesn't kill us only makes us stronger. That quote holds a lot of water, sort of like the Stanley Cup only less ornate. Among friends, I can say that there were moments when I seriously felt like the times were getting the best of me and I wasn't putting up much of a fight. That's what happens when indifference rises to the top like the cream of the crap. It tends to stifle the sparkle in the eye leaving a dull glaze in its place.



In the final furlong, I'm still here and maybe I am stronger for it. I guess the jury is still out on that one. For all I know, 2010 will be so thoroughly savage that I will pine for the good ol' days of its predecessor. The mere thought makes my blood run cold, but anything is possible.



This is not to say that the entire year was a barge ride down Shit Creek. There were indeed moments of goodness lurking in the funk-ridden weeds. The kind of goodness that I'd forgotten still existed in this world. Unfortunately, much of this goodness was served up with the kind of chaser that dropped me to my knees. It's ironic that the sweetest moments were often followed with an extremely bitter pill to swallow. It happens. That's life.



The afterglow left me staggering around in a haze trying to figure out just how in the hell I'd bottomed out onto the rocks so hard. I'm still trying to figure that one out. Considering the outcome, I'm not sure it's wise to think about it even in passing. Looking back, I don't think I'll be accused of being wise anytime soon.



Rather than sprinkling additional blood, piss, and venom on the parade route, I'll look at the materialistic goodness simply because it's easier. For once, I am taking the easy way out.



10 albums that made the days better (no particular order, as everyone says when it comes to this kind of shit):



BB King - One Kind Favor

Cracker - Sunrise In The Land Of Milk And Honey

Michael Dean Damron - Father's Day

Daddy - For A Second Time

Cheap Trick - The Latest

Ace Frehley - Anomaly

Drivin N Cryin - Whatever Happened To The Great American Bubble Factory?

Lucero - 1372 Overton Park

Micah Schnabel - When The Stage Lights Go Dim

Tom Waits - Glitter And Doom Live



Some of them were a tad disappointing (Cheap Trick) while others rose above already high expectations (BB King, Cracker, Lucero) and by far, the one that got the most spin-time and thoroughly kicked my ass was Father's Day by Michael Dean Damron. That man consistently delivers the musical goods and yet is largely unknown. If there was an ounce of justice in this world, his name would be spoken with the same respect that goes to the finest songwriters. His music has certainly made some of the worst days seem not-so-bad.



I don't get out and on the road to culture like I used to do and for the most part, I'm okay with this concept. Rather than list the best shows that I saw, I can easily list all of the shows that I saw in '09.



Sponge--Phoenix Hill Tavern, Louisville KY 3/14/09

Tommy Womack--Creme Coffee House, Owensboro KY 4/2/09

Two Cow Garage/Austin Lucas/Mike Hale--The Basement, Nashville TN 8/2/09

Tommy Womack--Boiler Room Bar, Owensboro KY 9/--/09

Motorhead/Reverend Horton Heat/Nashville Pussy--The Pageant, St. Louis MO 9/23/09

Buddy Guy/Stillwell, Rodenburg & Company--The Centre, Evansville IN 11/8/09

Lucero/Cedric Burnside & Lightnin' Malcolm/Dirty Streets--Headliners, Louisville KY 11/21/09

Cheap Trick/Superdrag--Ryman Auditorium, Nashville TN 12/3/09



In a nutshell, Sponge were good, Tommy Womack is always great (even in a certified shithole like the Boiler Room), Two Cow Garage (and openers) restored my faith in humanity, Motorhead were Motorhead (which is to say that they were great and they were fucking LOUD), it was one of the finer Buddy Guy shows that I've seen, the Lucero show was wonderful for a variety of reasons which I won't go into here, and Cheap Trick always put on a great show. Whew.



In that regard, 2010 is already looking promising as I already have tickets to see Willie Nelson in February and BB King in April. There is hope that Michael Dean Damron will indeed tour outside of the Pacific Northwest as either a solo act or with the reunited I Can Lick Any Sonofabitch In The House. Either way is fine with me.



I do hope that I will eventually make peace with the year and look back at it with reflective fondness at some point, but for now, I will just lift a middle finger aloft when thinking of 2009.

tonight

tonight, let me sleep
my body feels depleted
my eyes burn like embers
fatigue and bitterness
sadness and loneliness
tonight, let me sleep

tunnel without light

the days feel like a funeral procession
a tunnel without the light
some never find that glimmer of hope
that fuels their footsteps
others stumble through the darkness
unable to fall prey to what they cannot see

interrupting the dreamscape with a stout dose of reality

When I find myself unable to sleep and no option other than extremely late night TV to lull me back to the dreamscape, I’m usually hit with the same question. One question leads to another until it snowballs to an entire fleet of questions saluting and waiting at attention. Invariably, one or more channels will be playing the “Girls Gone Wild” infomercial.

The first question that usually rolls around in my sleep-deprived mind is “What the fuck is that about?” No, the plot isn’t that perplexing nor is it confusing. It’s a bunch of drunk college girls getting naked or semi-naked for the video camera. I guess my main question is “Where are these girls going wild?” My next question is essentially a two-parter that goes like this “How can I get there and does it require a right turn in Albuquerque?”

I work for a college in a field that uses cameras and I’ve seen nary a naked or semi-naked college girl in various degrees of inebriation. That, my friends, is just a damn shame. Further proof that life isn’t fair and that mine, in particular, just flat out sucks. Maybe I need to start giving away t-shirts as an incentive.

I find my occupational morale in the crapper nine times out of ten and a drunk college girl in a state of undress would lovingly lift the spirit right out of said toilet, dry it off, and make it shine. It might even go as far as making it so happy that it will burst into flames, but what a way to check out.

At the very least, I’d need a Radio Flyer wagon to keep my jaw clean as it hits the floor. If there was a widespread epidemic of naked or semi-naked drunk college girls going wild in my vicinity, I could simply show up for the floor show, let the show begin, retrieve my jaw, and wheel it to the next showing. Ammonia might be required if I was to encounter a gaggle of naked or semi-naked college girls in various degrees of inebriation, because I’m not sure that I could take it in my current state of fragility. However, I would be more than willing to give it a shot...repeatedly. Vital signs be damned.

I can only imagine an EMT discovering the carcass. “Yes, sir, this is the way we found him. Rigor mortis setting in, pointing at something, and a smile we couldn’t remove with a jackhammer. Whatever it was, it must have been good.” You damn right.

"We are Motörhead and we play rock & roll"

Motörhead
with Reverend Horton Heat and Nashville Pussy
The Pageant
St. Louis, MO
9/23/09

1. Iron Fist

2. Stay Clean

3. Be My Baby

4. Rock Out

5. Metropolis

6. Over The Top

7. One Night Stand

8. I Got Mine

9. The Thousand Names of God

10. Another Perfect Day

11. In The Name of Tragedy

12. Jus Cos You Got The Power

13. Going To Brazil

14. Killed By Death

15. Bomber

-----------------

16. Whorehouse Blues

17. Ace of Spades

18. Overkill

Archives...a good place for a Stick Up

The rain reminds me of you
Your defiance to walk into it all without an umbrella
Somehow, it’s becoming on you
Don’t ask me to describe it, just agree with me on this one
Some people can get away with it and look none the worse for wear
Others are crumbled to a grimy reside in the puddles





The grating sound of a leaf blower cuts through everything and slices into what’s left of my inner peace. Why don’t you take that thing, shove it up your ass, and blow your mind. Can’t we all just get along? Fuck you.




Beat me over the head with your foam-covered bat
Beat me senseless until I fall to the floor in a fit of laughter
Until the blood flows like a high pressure washer and the body works overtime to keep up
Please excuse the spittle and traces of blood on the foam
Consider it a token of my appreciation
You may have to get it dry cleaned so send me the bill
I’m good for it
I promise
I’ll return the favor when the time is right
You’ll see
I’m good for it, I tell you
When I strike it rich, there will be a foam-covered bat for each day of the week
My calendar will fill immediately but there’s always time for you




I want to evolve until it feels like everything is moving backwards
Until the numbers become one mass teetering on the brink of zero
Tumbling through the fractions in between
Grab a number and take your seat
The good times are set to roll
They’ll roll over you like a turbocharged steamroller, if you’re not careful




Chisel a hole into the foundation
Spray paint your name across the frame
Place your personal agenda on a flyer and let the sun bake it on permanently




I’ve got more troubles than I’d like to admit
The kind that kill sunshine in the middle of the night
Burn down all traces of myself to the ground
Vulnerable to my own scrutiny and guilty in the eyes of my inner peers




I've always been fascinated with dictionaries and who makes up the crap within their covers. Now I know. I walked into the workplace and coined a phrase myself. BOOM! Right on the spot.

The new word/phrase for the English language is "Toiletesque." To use it in a sentence, "The Longfellow building smells rather toiletesque today." And it does. It’s sort of a mix between a toilet and sauerkraut.




I am the F-word.




Page after page of unparalleled horror
Reactions run across the spectrum
Spilling into every crevass and covering every speck of available space
I feel ashamed to be of the same species




Shit happens and hope floats.




Why is the alphabet in that particular order? Who decided that A ranks higher than V or even the taildragger of the bunch, Z. Does A have better PR people or does Z just not give a shit? Maybe Z was taking a pee when the order was being decided and due to the tardiness, the alphabeticians threw it at the ass end of the alphabetic conga line as punishment. Once a few kids learned the song, the writing was on the wall and it happened to be written in many a classroom for all to see. We can probably blame the songwriters of the Alphabet Song for this bullshit.

Most things in life progress, change, and often grow larger. Perhaps we could use some more letters in the alphabet. I don’t think we have enough squiggly letters. How about a new letter that adds a few more kinks and curves and makes a cursive E look positively silly. On the other side of the coin, do we even need 26 letters at our disposal? I might be willing to give up on a few just to simplify life a tad.

quote of the day

"Kanye is my co-pilot."

silence is golden

The only thing coming out of your mouth that makes sense is the silence between your words.

Still airing out the archives...

Why is it that every time someone is about to take a photograph they want the subject to smile? Why not a really intense grimace like someone who happens to be passing a kidney stone the size of Vermont? How about an expression of deep sadness or even a homicidal glare? No, we get stuck with the smile. One facial expression in the Crayola 64 pack of expressions. It seems like we are only presenting one facet of the human diamond. I figure even those that process film must be really sick of all the faked smiles and lame poses. If for no other reason, we should rework our photographic poses and expressions to break up the monotony for those fine folks. I am guessing this is the precedent set down from ancient portraits and we get the smiles. Thank you, Mona Lisa, thank you.




Of all the cowboys in history, Twinkie the Kid is obviously the most ruthless of the bunch. You don’t want to piss that bastard off. He’s a golden, cream-filled timebomb ready to go off as only a snack cake desperado can go off. It’s not a pretty sight, so avoid him at all costs.




A Toilet By Another Name Is Still A Toilet

It’s amazing that something as relatively simple as a toilet can be so complex in the context of society. For instance, the home version of the toilet is called the “bathroom.” The land-locked, grounded public version is called a “rest room.” Take the same public toilet and put it 30,000 feet in the air or on the high seas and it’s called a lavatory. It can get incredibly complicated and I suppose if anything is going to get utterly confusing, it might as well be a toilet. The toilet has done and continues to do the dirty job and thus deserves the glory. All hail the toilet. We salute you.

The term “bathroom” seems a little vague considering all that goes on in said location. It implies that it is simply a place to bathe and leaves out the awesome presence of the toilet. I’m sure that it could possibly give the sensitive and emotionally fragile toilet some kind of inferiority complex. But dammit, the toilet is in the bathroom and let it roar.

The next on the agenda is the misleading “rest room.” This is the toilet available for mass public consumption in such luxurious locations like elementary schools, shopping malls, flea markets, football stadiums and numerous other nifty locations. I will never understand the rationale behind the decision to name these franchises of human elimination a “rest room”, because I personally find no rest or relaxation in them. I’m too busy trying to open doors with my feet like Pele. I end up getting quite a workout in these places. I’d like to think that I invented the concept of the foot flush. However, I’d be willing to bet that someone else kicked the flusher before I even entered the scene.

If “rest room” is a swirling stream of confusion, then I won’t even try to figure out “lavatory.” I’ve never experienced the high seas variation, but I have taken to the friendly skies and I hear they have lavatories on airplanes. I will confess that I’ve never had the guts to use what I will call the “aerial pisser.” In my whacked out reasoning, I figure the mere procedure of flushing is somehow diverting precious energy from the engine. I would hate to be responsible for sending a plane full of people into the ground at a high rate of speed simply because I didn’t visit the ground-attached facilities, or rest room, back at the airport. In fact, there was a time when I nearly had to use the air sickness bag because I didn’t want to use the aerial pisser. By the time that I worked up the nerve to visit the 30,000 feet facilities, the captain put on the “Do not leave for seat for anything” sign and we proceeded to hit some gnarly turbulence. I will add that I did not have an aerial accident, but when we landed, I was hauling it through the airport like a pre-double homicide O.J. Simpson in his prime. True story.

This leaves one more on the list. Yes, the bastard son of the toilet—the porta-john. I was completely paralyzed with fear when it came to the concept of the porta-john. For many years, I evaded them for any acceptable eliminatory substitute. Be it a tree, a desolate stretch of multi-lane highway or anywhere conjured up by a lukewarm creative mind. But as I once learned at a music festival in downtown Nashville, desperate times call for a place to urinate. It was either sink beneath my prima donna levels of existence or walk across Hell’s half acre in heavy traffic back to the hotel. Laziness beat out fear that day and I opted for the porta-john. Other than fearing that I’d drop my possessions into the abyss, it wasn’t an entirely terrible experience. Actually, it was inspiring as a human being to face the fictitious fear and conquer it. Now I wish all toilets had the charm and charisma of the porta-john.

Don’t even get me started on Depends undergarments.




May 2, 4:45am

As Saturday gives way to Sunday, I sit in the dark listening to Bob Dylan’s Time Out Of Mind at a low volume so the ghost of Saturday won’t be offended. It all amplifies the lonely melancholia that seeps into the bones of the early morning hours. The light of day would chase away the spirits and the routine would mute out the sadness until night falls. Saving it for times like this when I feel like the only person on Earth. I can’t reach out to touch you or call to you. I can only lie here feeling tragic as the music plays me to sleep.




The canine world will be disappointed to learn that perversion is now man’s best friend.

the unforgiving wheel

Sometimes, I feel just like a gerbil running around and around on a wheel. The eternal carousel that keeps me running, insensitive to my desires. The kind of endless nonsense that entertains and intrigues the mindless. These are the very people that laugh themselves hysterically at the most mundane of television sitcoms.

The wheel is thoroughly unforgiving like a traveling torture device that remains in place. It is like a vehicle bogged down in the mud or a swimmer fighting the tide. My mind tries to convince me that I'm moving forward and progressing, but the heart is sinking because it knows that it is truly stagnant.

The wheel becomes even more incarcerating than the cage that engulfs it. Many victories must be obtained before freedom can be achieved.

More Honky? You damn right.

It’s nothing more than a middle finger uplifted outside a driver’s side window. That’s not exactly a declaration of war or even an insult to your manhood. It’s simply a criticism of your judgment and your driving skills. Maybe even bridging the gap into your very existence. It’s official. The verdict is in. You suck.




You learned your attitude from a Snoop Dogg video. It’s silly for a 13-year old small-town white boy from Kentucky to act like a pimp. You know more about pimples than pimping. Until you get old enough to drive or Cadillac makes a bicycle, it’s time to take a long look at your style, my friend. Besides, you can’t very well wear a pimp-style hat with your head up your ass and you definitely can’t drive a Cadillac that way. If nothing else, it makes it incredibly difficult to buckle your seatbelt. It’s all about the seatbelt, you know.




Run Like Hell Or Walk Like A (Dead) Egyptian

Why is it that everyone wants to jog seems to do it on roads with virtually no shoulder or space to share? This has always been a mystery to me. As soon as the weather gets borderline pleasant, the daredevils take to the roads and get their exercise mojo working.

If someone wants to exercise, I am all for it. It's a good habit to start, but it's a bad habit to do your good habit where there is a good chance of getting your gravy licked by a SUV doing 45 mph. "I like to run to keep in shape." Well, that's fine, but you're probably going to get a little flabby when you recovering in a body cast at the local hospital.

Over the years, I've had to come to a complete stop to avoid oncoming traffic and the jogging jackass numerous times. That has become a thing of the past, because I am an asshole. For those that don't believe it, the verdict is in and the jury says that yes, I am an asshole. It's official.

So you may be asking yourself "What has changed? You can't just run over joggers." Unfortunately no, I can't do that and that's a damn shame. It is. But I do have options and they can be quite entertaining. I figure that life is short and it's important to get all the entertainment possible before buying the farm. I will provide a few of my own ideas and you can no doubt add your own to your repertoire.

If you find yourself faced with oncoming traffic and a jogger in your lane that refuses to break pace or take the ditch, I say give them the close shave treatment. All you have to do is get your side mirrors as close as humanly possible to the jogger and they should take the hint that you mean business. If this idea somehow damages your vehicle, it gives you the opportunity to get your own exercise by beating the person like a rented mule.

If the running person is going in the same direction as your vehicle (also known as "Going my way, Sailor"), why not roll up right behind them and lay on the horn? Part of exercise is elevating the heart rate and nothing shoots the heart rate through the roof like a loud, unexpected noise behind you. While most standard automotive horns will work nicely, it's always nice to provide a tune like the General Lee's "Dixie" horn. You can even give them motivation and incentive to continue running by riding directly behind them and revving the engine. They may have the pain of a thousand ice picks in their side, but I bet they will keep running to avoid becoming a hood ornament.

Sure, these ideas may seem just a little mean-spirited and I am perfectly okay with that. However, sometimes it is good to be kind and compassionate. It may come as a shock to some people, but I can be kind and yes, I can even be compassionate. Since exercise tends to make the body sweat and get funky, I like to help out. When you see Joe Jogger sweating like a New York waiter, drive beside him and then clean your windshield. The wayward spray should offer him a nice blast of liquid refreshment and take off a layer or two of sweaty funk. Feel free to add to the goodwill by offering some encouragement like a nice thumb's up and a smile before going on your way. I'll bet the person will offer their own gesture to show their gratitude.

To those that may think these ideas are a bit extreme, I say maybe so. However, paved roads were built and maintained for automobiles. There are plenty of available areas that are much safer for walking and running, such as parks, golf courses, sidewalks, treadmills, etc. Chances are good that you won't see me driving my truck in these places, but if you keep running on my roads, asshole, that may soon change.

Next topic: People who insist on moving hellacious farm machinery on narrow roads during times of heavy traffic.




I gave up devil worship for Lent.



Tonight has me feeling like I’ve been beaten for days on end by an angry, tire tool-toting mob. This event occurred after being mauled by a pack of disgruntled grizzly bears and being pelted by a quarry of boulders. Yes, it was a rough day and the repercussions and effects are lingering. The prior days are stacked and warehoused within my bones. To say that they add up is a vast understatement. I’ve spent so much time waiting for something better to come along and it has become obvious that better times were detained at the border. At this very moment, they are probably bending over in a dimly-lit room waiting for the inevitable cavity search. By the time this takes place, the better times are bruised, violated, and generally lacking a sense of humor. This is the condition that they arrive in my life—walking a pained, bow-legged walk with a four pack a day nicotine habit and absolutely no trace of positivity in sight. Such is life. It is what you make it and I’d like to make it out alive without a cavity search.




Late at night, you’re all that’s on my mind. I’ve spent the day trying to figure you out, trying to make sense of it all and somehow retain a trace of dignity. Forget sanity, it doesn’t even fit into the same frame without throwing off the composition.




We can send humans into space and back, transmit data across the world instantaneously, offer hundreds of channels of television programming (although 99% of it is basically shit) and yet we cannot invent cough syrup that doesn’t taste like a combination of paint thinner and something that dropped out of a raccoon’s ass. Perhaps the intent is to concoct a mixture that is so nasty that the cough immediately wants to go to a more peaceful environment.

Quote of the Day.

The house of cards is inching closer to 52 pick-up.


(2nd place: Sally sold seashells by the seashore...because she lost her ass in the stock market.)

extremely honky...gruff yet lovable

That’s not to say there’s no hope. But a homeless man has better chances of hooking up with a super model than we have of getting out alive.




What’s the point of carrying on when you know the outcome? There is no intense drama, no big surprise. This is it, chief. As good as it gets and that’s not saying a lot. There’s no hidden subtext or symbolism to carry you through the lean months. It’s do or die and the do is getting increasingly difficult. Put on your walking shoes and go where the wind takes you.




I draw imaginary lines along my wrists to pinpoint my exit. Tiny lines that cut across the grain within and go against all that we live for. These lines mark the threshold of freedom like an emotional border between black and white, here and there. For something so seemingly opposite, there is no true difference. One is as good as the other when you’ve already left the building. Call it what you like and make yourself happy. I’m sure that some so-called expert will have an explanation from a nicely bound book with faux leather cover and gold lettering. It’s amazing that so much time, effort, and detail goes into something so incredibly insignificant and yet we can’t cure what ails us. As long as the outer shell looks okay, fuck the rest.




From a bottle of Diet Rite:

WARNING!Contents under pressure. Cap may blow off causing eye or other serious injury. Point away from face and people, especially while opening.

I feel a lot like that bottle today.




It is what it is, but what the fuck is it?




The older she gets the more Christina Ricci looks like a space alien. She went from goth chick vampire girl to ET in a matter of like five years.




Has anyone ever actually shot a telephone due to persistent ringing? Maybe I can be the first. I can only hope that I time it just right so that the bullet hits the phone right as a telemarketer calls.




Fill in the blanks with what you want me to say. Shape my empty expression with the way you want me to look and tell me how I should feel. Happy?




Lower your expectations to the lowest possible level so that any outcome seems like a winning lottery ticket.

With my winning ticket, the world would never hear from me again and this rambling bullshit that you’re reading right now would end in mid-sentence. There would be a better chance of finding Jimmy Hoffa than finding me. My expectations are at rock bottom and things still seem like shit. I guess it’s time to go subterranean.




I want transcriptions of a thousand obscene phone calls written across the sky in a font similar to Times New Roman. I want metal objects thrown through panes of glass and entire cities to scream at top volume and see how far the noise carries. It could very well make the tree that fell in the forest that no one was around to hear feel self-conscious. I’m okay with that. I’m sure that the woodland creatures that lived in or on that tree heard it, but they were too shaken up from the concussion to comment at the time. I bet they’re pretty pissed off about it now. I want to stage a new Hands Across America event with every American, legal or otherwise, flipping obscene hand gestures towards Canada. This would show our gratitude for sending us Mike Myers, Celine Dion, Paul Schaffer, and Canadian musical powerhouse, Loverboy. The Canadians can stage their own event to thank us for the countless rappers and boy bands that we’ve exported and thus infected the world. I don’t know of many Canadian rappers, but then again, I cling to the idea that the shit never existed in the first place. American, Canadian, Australian…shit is shit, no matter the geographic location.




Bad decisions and bad tattoos linger like tear gas.




Martha Stewart nailed for whatever it is that she was nailed for. I envision angry mobs of interior decorators, gays, and fans of that kind of thing taking to the streets to rip down wallpaper and anything mauve. I bet it would be an interesting sight, if not a Kodak moment.




I see your cities of dust
Nothing was lost and there’s nothing to win
Rats ruling the cages of rust
While everything else rots in a pool of sin




I’d sell my own ass if it wasn’t attached
Fairly low mileage but it’s dented and scratched




There’s a fine line between love and hate.
I’m straddling the fence on the issue when it comes to you.




In my dream, I never existed
My existence is in the dream
My existence is the dream itself
This life disappears with the dawn
The moment I open my eyes, I am no longer there




You talk like you have something to say
I listen like I care
If it gets any less interesting, we’ll be in trouble
I’ll simply stare blankly until it happens




If this is as good as it gets, then we’re fucked. This isn’t a beer commercial and we’re not in Kansas anymore. We were never there to begin with, so that should come as no big surprise. If you’re waiting for the beer to arrive, then you’re in the wrong place, champ. This room is strictly non-alcoholic. Although these floor tiles are mildly intoxicating, if not nauseating. The artwork hanging on the wall isn’t much better, but that’s beside the point. I’m sure that it makes sense to someone. Unfortunately, I am not that person. It looks like Walt Disney puked on canvas. If I stared at it long enough, I’m inclined to think that I might do the same thing.

Never mind the tonk, here's the Honky

night time
nothing more than crickets chirping
and the sound of dew forming on the grass
my mind is equally vacant and tranquil
slowly giving in to the night
darkness engulfs me
in the visual silence
my mind fills in the blanks around me
to soften the harshness of life
to the point of nothingness




My eyes are bloodshot from insomnia. The night was not kind to me and the morning was a brutal attack on my sleep. I was beaten into motion to greet the day and to say that I was reluctant would be a major understatement. The combination of my green eyes and the bloodshot condition is rather festive and borderline Christmas-y. I’m guessing the next logical step is to make some kind of glasses out of Christmas wreaths or a giant Christmas wreath sombrero. Classy enough to be worn at formal shindigs and informal enough to be worn at convenience stores without drawing too many worried stares from employees and patrons alike.




For my money, there are very few, if any, diseases with a name as cool as scurvy. It seems to float on the air like a helium-filled balloon. I can just imagine a hipper-than-thou beatnik pirate saying “Man, that scurvy is groovy.” This chap would be decked out in his bell-bottom pirate pants, a tie-dyed peace symbol on the eye patch, and a pirate ship built by Volkswagen. Of course, the ship has to have the obligatory Jerry Garcia sticker and maybe a line of the dancing Grateful Dead bears. A boat like that is probably what pissed off the shark in Jaws. If I was a shark, a giant killer whale, or even the Loch Ness Monster, I wouldn’t want an ugly ass boat like that sailing overhead in my ocean. I’d be raising some underwater hell to beat the band.

While scurvy sounds groovy, herpes has a happy sound to it…until you get it. Then it’s your ass, well, maybe not exactly the ass. But you must admit, herpes has a much perkier sound to it than syphilis.

There are others that don’t sound happy at all. As a diabetic, it’s a little disheartening to have a disease with both “die” and “beat” in the pronunciation. The fact that they moved “die” to the front of the choo-choo sucks, but it gives diabetics an edge and makes them meaner than the average bear.




I’m in constant amazement that some people actually give a flying fuck about the on-again/off-again love life of Ben and J-Lo. I am equally surprised that anyone would willingly call themselves “J-Lo.” But I really shouldn’t be surprised since our world seems to embrace flaccid entertainment like the so-called reality shows and even worse, yuppie horseshit like “Friends.” With friends like “Friends,” I’ll stick with enemies.




It’s good to hear your voice
on a night like this
when all I want to do is die
my saving grace in the darkest hours
and the light at the end of the tunnel
give me your strength
show me what it means to be alive
and push the blood through my veins
someday things will work out even for a moment
however fleeting it may be
that one moment would be enough to sustain me




“They’re all godless atheists and as you know, that’s the worst kind.”
--anonymous




floating effortlessly, endlessly
pick up my body and let the flow be my guide
close my eyes, open my mind
let the soul explode
destruction of the spectrum
sending fragments into the stratosphere
and into the darkest crevasses of emptiness
filled to capacity with everything
overflowing, spilling over the outer edges
washing over all that stop in their tracks
long enough to get a little on their shoes




Sometimes, I think I could sit thinking about nothing forever. So much of my life is spent with positively no thought passing from cell to cell. I savor these times, because it is a time when I’m not thinking about life. I tend to gravitate instantaneously between the two. A mere moment ago, I was floating in nothingness. I was nothing. I thought of nothing. I wasn’t here. I wasn’t there. I did this without leaving my chair or changing my physical plane of existence. It’s an out of body experience without the move.




Me, You, & Beethoven

We sought solace in Beethoven’s 5th. I didn’t like it so much, but I was trying to be polite. Hours and hours were spent in its grasp. Hours stacked upon hours that probably equal three weeks in dog years.

We listen to these things to seem like such enlightened individuals. Like a 100 watt bulb in a 60 watt world. It gives us that old world charm while we adjust the EQ on the Volvo’s CD player.

We sip our authentic Brazilian coffee, which is made from only the finest of the finest beans, and spend our evenings watching PBS and thinking about recycling. Those homeless people are such a drag while we make our way from the suburbs to our destination. Our Kenny G CD can only uplift so much, so we have to look the other way or drive faster. The new age jazz falls short of the emotional goal line, but it’s so safe and unthreatening. Our family values remain in tact while we listen to these songs devoid of any trace of the human existence.




Breathe in the dream
and exhale all that matters to you
Let it drift away and come back to haunt you.




She beat him senseless with a beef log from Swiss Colony. He had nothing to defend himself with but a half empty bag of pretzels and a box of Junior Mints. While it was the movie theater size, it was hardly enough to combat the wrath. A food fight to the death with life for the victor. Swing for the cheap seats and duck when the shit hits the fan. The giant deli tray can be yours, my friend.

even more Extreme bits of the Honky

Do those people that create and send spam e-mail get annoyed when they receive someone else’s shit e-mail in their inbox? One would think they would get pissed off, but perhaps they evaluate it and make changes before sending out their own crap.




It’s like origami...only different.



Rice Krispies...the original Pop Rocks or Pop Rocks...the missing link between Rice Krispies and aquarium gravel.



If it indeed requires more muscles to frown than smile, let’s just say that I’m working out.



Numbers are heavier than words




There’s nothing to see at 8am that can’t be seen later in the day.



I feel it building within my body
The pressure that screams meltdown
There was a time when I wanted to avoid it
Now, I’m not sure that I care enough to steer clear
Bring it on and get it over with
Let me sleep and separate from these things
I never wanted to hurt anyone
And in the process, I continually hurt myself
I continue doing so until I no longer feel it
Once you’re cut, what difference does another cut make?
The stain is there and additional blood doesn’t hurt any more
Things just keep moving until nothing is left
It’s a gradual process that never arrives soon enough



When I die, I hope that my funeral can be held in a McDonald’s playground. This way, the handful of folks that are genuinely sad to see me go will have a mood lifter while in a playground and the folks that are there for the playground will be bummed the hell out to have a funeral in their play land. It all averages out and french fries will be available for those so inclined.




The tree limb scraping against the window sounds exactly like a squealing pig. For you cinematic types, it sounds like Ned Beatty taking it up the pooper in Deliverance. Either way, it’s pretty damn annoying.




Of the few things that I know in life, most were learned in convenience stores, listening to songs with three or four chords at the most, watching skin flicks, or reading books without opening the cover. My formal education doesn’t play a big role in my ongoing consumption of oxygen. I guess my stunted mathematical skills could come in handy if there was a 30% off sale on a travel size of barbecue-flavored Pringles. In that instance, I try to act like I know what the hell is going on, so that the trained person behind the register has to do the math and I can scratch myself inappropriately while waiting for my change. Sometimes, it’s the small things in life that bring the biggest pleasures. Other times, it’s just a bunch of emptiness while standing beneath the harsh neon glow of a Pabst Blue Ribbon sign. Like a lighthouse in the storm, everything has a purpose. I suppose education is no different. Of course, I dropped that ball and couldn’t bounce the other, which leaves me here scratching what I can under the harsh neon glow of a Pabst Blue Ribbon sign while waiting for change. We’re all waiting for change in one form or another. Some of us want specific coinage and others of us will take what we can get. Desperation is a big factor. Desperation will put the razor to the wrist. Desperation will put the needle in the vein. Desperation will not only shake the life’s ladder while you climb, but it will light it on fire and stomp your bones to bits when you hit rock bottom. Formal education doesn’t mention desperation. Why, you ask? Desperation is bad for morale and no one wants to hear the truth, because they want the sanitized, fluffy truth. The kind of truth that doesn’t hurt. Work hard and the world is your oyster. They fail to mention that sometimes the oyster will snap shut on your fingers and you’ll pull back stubs. That’s the breaks. Take what you can get and hope that it doesn’t kill you. Although eventually, it all kills you. It kills you slowly and it kills you when you’re not looking. It happens every second of every day. It happens in Parisian bath tubs and it happens under the harsh neon glow of a Pabst Blue Ribbon sign.




The residue of sour cream and onion potato chips leaves a heavy mark on anything within reach. Slap your fingers on a sleek, black surface and you don’t need to dust for finger prints to find the culprit. Look for the empty bag and greasy fingers. Mystery solved.

Lest you think I am brutally singling out only the sour cream and onion variety, I will add that the same can be said about the barbecue, steak & onion, cool ranch, grub worm and bathroom cleanser flavors. I guess it’s a side effect.

seasonal suffering

spring brings about the rebirth of nature
providing a renewed sense of hope and goodness
until summer burns it all away like a raging brush fire
leaving a charred skin in its wake
autumn breathes the subtle air of death across the land
more foreboding than soothing
allowing the remnants to wither and fade in winter's icy grasp

34

August 8 is one of those days permanently etched in my brain. I don't need any kind of reminder to jog the memory, because it's just there. It will always be there whether I live mere minutes or I'm still walking the Earth at the end of time.

Prior to 1995, the eighth day was just another balmy day in August. No better or no worse than any other day. As a boy, it meant that the summer break was drawing to a close and school was on the horizon. As an adult working for a university, it meant the summer sessions were almost over and the fall semester would soon begin. Neither of which are particularly golden in my life.

A lot had to happen for the day to take on an amazing luster. Many not-so-happy aspects of life had to occur to provide the groundwork for our paths to cross. God probably put in overtime in order for it to happen, because divine intervention was definitely required. Although I often feel cursed in life, this time was the most blessed of blessings and one that I never take for granted. In fact, that one blessing makes every moment of suffering in life completely worthwhile.

I have so many happy memories associated with the day. Even though I botched up the first birthday celebration with illness, I still hold dear the conversation that we had that evening and I hope that I made up for it a few months later and each year after that. Most of all, I hope that you knew that the day was more special than any day on the calendar simply because it was your birthday. Your birth is what elevated it from anonymous summer day to a day more important than my own birthday.

It seems like a lifetime since I've heard your voice or been warmed by your smile, but I look forward to celebrating the day with you again as soon as possible. Until then, I hold the day near and dear to my heart and celebrate your life for the both of us.

Happy birthday, Alina.

Herd Mentality.

As an adult firmly in my twilight years, it has been many, many years since I've had anyone attempt to tell me what I will wear. While I admittedly don't make the most sound fashion decisions, I really don't require assistance in this department. Really. I don't. Like most other trends, fashion isn't even a blip on my radar and I really couldn't care less what is in this season or what other people are wearing. That's how bell bottoms happened, not once but twice. No, thank you.

Perhaps this is why I find the concept of a co-worker (and non-boss) making the decision for everyone that we will wear a designated shirt and the dreaded khaki pants on a specific day to be absolutely ludicrous. Khaki...bland, boring color for bland, boring people. This whole turn of events reeks of conspiracy. However, most conspiracies have some element that teeters on the cusp of making sense. It might not actually sling itself over that hump, but damned if it doesn't give it the old school try.

This kind of fashion synchronicity might make sense for a special event, where our group intermingles and infiltrates the unwashed masses with unwashed asses. However, it just seems to border on cult activity any other time, unless french fries are being served as a side order. Trust me, I have worked here since the beginning of time and we've served nary a french fry in all of that time. Otherwise, it seems like one step away from mutual castration and wrapping ourselves in a purple shroud before trying to thumb a ride on a UFO behind a comet. I guess I should at least be happy that it's a purple shroud and not khaki in nature. If this is how it has to be, then just give me my cup of tainted Kool-Aid (Flavor-Aid, to be historically correct) and leave me the hell alone. Please.

The purpose of this synchronized dressing, like some kind of neo-Diana Ross & The Supremes? A new television commercial to pimp the workplace to specific unwashed masses with television-viewing asses.

First of all, it's not like any of us was going to be featured in the advert in the first place. We had already chosen our on-air talent (or victims, depending upon your perspective). Secondly, it would look completely stupid for everyone to be wearing the same t-shirt and the same color of pants in a shot.

Even though I do my best to perpetually stray from the herd and it's lame-brained ideas, conformity seems to be happening entirely too often for my tastes these days, especially because it always seems to involve some form of khaki clothing. Those people that actually pull the strings of the powers-that-be seem to really get off on their khaki and they must work themselves into a froth over making everyone else follow their lead to bland and boring. It's an undiagnosed khaki fetish or something. Believe me, there are a lot better fetishes and fixations out there, folks.

All I know is that if I wanted this crap, I'd work in a fast food joint, join a gang, or follow the trends like every other jackass that needs someone else to think for them. This is how and why amazingly hollow trends become phenomenons. It's herd mentality in all of its glory. There is no safety in these numbers, because those in the crowd are often as dumb as a sack of hammers.

Besides, the herd often gets loaded on a truck and taken off to be slaughtered. If that is going to happen to me, I want to go it alone because I don't want to spend my closing moments with a bunch of dumb shits. I'd also prefer that it not involve mutual castration and without some clueless nitwit telling me what to wear.

Even more honky, even more extreme

They found me drunk and wearing someone else’s clothes
How I got there no one knows
Drunken, crazed out of my mind
Chasing shadows through the holes of time



What does it take to get out of this place? At this particular moment, I am willing to chew through the concrete block and shit gravel for a week. Anything for the cause. The only other exit is the window and that would no doubt lead to some broken bones. That’s not really an attractive option. Not that gut gravel is a lot better. Sometimes, I think some folks just enjoy hearing themselves talk and they probably lead a much fuller life than bitter people like me. Maybe I should be remotely interested, but I am unapologetically not. I really just don’t give a shit. Call me shallow or small-minded, but it’s silly shit any way you slice the lump.



Today is one of those days when I feel like I’ve passed through someone’s colon. Chewed up and shit out right into the toilet. Rather than take the trip through modern sewage systems, I am plucked, dressed, and ready to roll with my day. Thankfully, no one seemed to notice my origins. I blame any lingering funk on the dog. Any dog. For all I know, I could have even emerged from the sphincter of the funky dog to begin with. It might even have resulted from one of those scoot sessions across the carpet. I have pretty much ruled that one out since I didn’t wake up caked into the carpet fibers. I would consider this to be a good thing, but it hasn’t made the sun shine any brighter on my day. Shit is shit, no matter the source.



T-shirt slogan: “Heaven doesn’t want us and Hell is afraid we’re gonna take over.”
Both places probably have a strict dress code that prohibits lame ass t-shirt slogans.



If you want to see the monkey dance, you’ve got to pay the monkey.



Stop in the Name of the Fashion Police

What some people do in the name of fashion really amazes me sometimes. I’m sitting here pimping the workplace and a crowd of 3-4 people crowd around my table. From my Kodak instant photo of the moment, I’d say the two-ish chicks were a part of the dude’s posse. Now, whether or not he wanted a posse is anyone’s guess. But from my seated position, I look up to see one of the posse chicks wearing a half-shirt type of deal with a white belly spilling out from the shirt. To add insult to injury, the cloud-like belly had a big black ring. I don’t know what she was thinking, but damn, cover that shit up…now. I shouldn’t made snide remarks, because if she’s cool with it, I should just deal with it or preferably just look away. But she had it all out there for mass visual consumption and that’s not good for anyone. It scared me. It really did. I felt slight twinges of guilt when she left and told me to have a nice day. I know that I’m all soft and pillowy, but my shit’s covered.



Did you blow a goat to get cab fare home? Did he treat you like a lady and wine you and dine you? Just the thought makes me feel like a man. So much, that I crave beef jerky and ESPN—the very essence of the manly existence. Let me scratch myself. Ah, much better.



Is it enough to watch me die or do you want to see me bleed? Bleeding in a cinematic way like on the silver screen. Will I whisper something dramatic with my final breath or die like an outdated machine? The choice is mine and the choice is yours. How do you want it?



I’m a part-time superhero.



From a flyer swiped from the college door:

“If your interested in Young Children Come
join us for Pizza and Drinks as we
elect officers/plan activities/and have fun.”

Far be it for me to poke fun at the grammar, but you know that if I spot errors, then it must drive the English instructors completely nuts to see such errors. I won’t go there, because that’s not really funny. The English instructors going completely ballistic is kind of funny, though.

I’m sure that this is a wonderful club to join, but to me, it sounds like an invite for pedophiles. They’re “interested” in young children, so to speak, and who could resist the temptation of pizza and drinks? The desire to “have fun” is just an added perk. It sort of goes hand in hand with all of the other components.

Obviously, there is nothing funny about pedophiles, but the flyer itself seems very ironic as far as the wording. It’s just not right. The cute little clip art just makes it even creepier.

Hopefully, I’m the only oddball that would be amused by it all. I wish I could have attended the meeting to see how many trench coats were present. Now that is funny. Go ahead. Laugh. It’s okay.

Crazy Scheme #5

I had this idea after a moderately heavy dose of snow and not being a fan of winter, I had an idea of how to get rid of it a little at a time.

Find someone that lives somewhere where there is a warmer climate—Miami, Jamaica, the surface of the sun, or wherever. Then box up a bit of snow, tape it up really well, and then visit your local post office. These folks are trained to sniff out smart asses, so you have to keep a straight face in their presence. At this point, you will mail the box to said warm location. The most important part of this scheme is insuring the box for at least $200-300. When the box arrives at its designated location, the snow will most likely have melted and thus, damaged in shipping. There could possibly be some jail time involved with this scheme. This would be considered a downside.

Shoes On The Highway

(another old one and originally posted on Your Packaging Sucks!!)

On many occasions, I’ve been minding my own business and driving down a highway. Out of the blue, there is a shoe lying on the roadway. This has happened enough times that I’ve made mental notes about it.

The last time this happened, I questioned the origin of these shoes. Where do they come from and why is it always only one lone shoe? There are the questions that I would like answered and with no reasonable answers provided, I’ve come up with a few of my own.

Perhaps someone is tooling down the highway and scanning the wonderful selection of tunes provided on the radio dial. They settle on a station playing some crappy Elton John song, which segue ways into an incredibly nifty song that literally blows a shoe off and out the back window. Since most radio tunes clock in at about four minutes and most cars are traveling at the allotted speed limit (work with me here), we’re talking several miles. Is it really worth the time to backtrack that many miles for a tattered Nike with much road wear and a lace that is hanging together with one thread and a prayer? Probably not.

Personally, I will swerve across many lanes of traffic just to run over an abandoned flip-flop. If ever there was a footwear faux pas, it would be the flip-flop. Time permitting, I will even get out of my vehicle and club these shoes with a tire-tool or any available blunt object. Hopefully, this senseless act of violence would forever silence the hellaciously annoying sound that these shoes make. Excessive? Perhaps, but I tend to be an extremist.

Another theory involves someone hitchhiking a little too close to the traffic and in particular, one of those gas guzzling bastards from Hell, yes, a SUV. One SUV going at a good clip would hit a body so hard that it would only leave a shoe. The rest of the person would look like an incredibly life-like hood ornament. Grizzly, but life-like and also missing a shoe.

The Solution

(Spring 1993)

In a world ravaged by famine, racism, pollution, and increasing governmental corruption, we are constantly trying to find a solution to these problems. The sooner we realize that there is no solution, the better off we will be. As long as there are different races, sexes, and species, there will always be environmental, political, and social turmoil. We should accept it, because unless every single inhabitant of this world participates in the solution, then the efforts of those who try will be completely useless. Since this will never happen, I have developed an alternate solution to the problem at hand. The military organizations throughout the world have built up a stockpile of weapons, which at the drop of a hat can destroy the planet many times over. Perhaps the ultimate solution would be to select a day, publicize the blessed event, and on this day, each country, state, or any social outcast with nuclear capabilities would launch their arsenal at a designated time. The resulting activity would be much more spectacular than any Super Bowl half time show, have much more impact than any Fourth Of July celebration, and more eagerly anticipated than the next Steven Spielberg blockbuster. This solution would justify the billions and billions of dollars spent on the weapons, and in addition to this, it would solve the problems. Admittedly, my solution is a bit extreme, but would the results really be that bad?

exerpts from Honky Extreme

At some point in the early '00s, I began writing down various ideas in notebooks. It typically happened when I was pissed off or something was bothering me in a big way. I had a million displaced emotions and it had to be channeled into something rather than let it fully shred myself into pieces. When the material began stacking up and the title "Honky Extreme" came to me, I decided to compile it into something that I refused to call a "book." Books are for literary types and I don't think I fit into that group. To borrow a quote from Henry Rollins, I just "talk shit." I'm a shit-talker.

Here are a few bits from Honky Extreme that I will sprinkle throughout this blog until the new material begins to flow more regularly.



permanent ink on a temporary page
the irony is just amazing



watch me walk through obscurity
watch me fall into infinity



what means nothing to everyone
means everything to no one



my misery doesn’t need company
my misery is a one-man band



We talk about anything. We talk about everything, except the things that tear us apart. We don’t want to feel the knife that cuts us free. It’s much easier to close our eyes and open them to reveal the bleeding flesh. Neither of us wants the blood on our hands.


I didn’t ask for anything and I guess I got what I asked for.


On the side of a Pepsi can:
“Please recycle. Store in a cool place.”

Hmmmm, like a refrigerator? Cooler? I guess that makes much, much too much sense. Perhaps those zany Europeans drink their caffeine-laced carbonated beverages at room temperature. Then it all depends on the climate of the room itself. Intense pressure to conform? You bet. If you shake it up, you will be wearing pressure and conformity all over your Levi’s Dockers and cardigan sweater. Of course, you could always store your Pepsi can in a cool place like embedding it in the skull of an enemy.


With the lights out, I don’t see the pain in my eyes
I don’t see the ravages of time upon me
I don’t see the fact that I am alone
I don’t see life tearing me apart
I see nothing but what is inside of me


My brain feels like an AM radio station that is slightly out of range. The message is slightly fuzzy and it gets really annoying. I’m simply looking for the power switch to turn the shit off.


Unbridled Irony Story #235

I find it amusing when I see a car with a Pro-Life sticker slapped on it driving like a bat out of Hell itself. I guess it’s all a matter of timing and just whose life are they protecting? I consider my life pretty precious, but apparently this jackass feels differently.

And another thing that pisses me off. After I’ve survived my encounter with the Pro-Life maniac, I get to work and realize that some idiot has taken about half of my parking spot. If you can’t fit your vehicle in a parking spot, then you’re not fit to drive. If you’re having difficulty parking, then have the common decency to straighten your vehicle so that others don’t have to deal with your incompetence.


alone by the window looking into the night
nothing but darkness and the faintest of stars
autumn’s wind blows a gentle breeze
across the page of some silly poetic crap


I feel like a brown, crusty rainbow.



I never thought I’d let you kill me.
I was wrong.
Your aim was perfect.


I hate the way you make me hurt
I hate myself for my feelings
The very things I cannot control will destroy me
If either of us is going to ache
I want to be the one
I want you to swim in happiness
While I drown in my own sorrow
And they say chivalry is dead

long shadows

casting long shadows across the desolate land
the horizon seems endless with miles of nothing but nothing in sight
the path of the past has eroded with time
leaving no clear indication of the ideal route
every direction has its own set of treasures
every direction has its own set of perils
aim yourself at a hazy destination with determined footsteps
before death finds you in stagnant isolation

About the fodder...

For those people that mistake humor for happiness, this ongoing collection of crap may possibly be something of a shock in places. Those people that truly know me see past the outer veneer of humor and know that I am not always a very happy person. Humor is simply a defense mechanism that gets me through the day without hurting myself or hurting those around me. Some of the material in this thing that you are currently reading will likely seem rather dark and might not be what most would consider a “happy read.” However, these pages will be about as real and honest as it gets in the moment. When I write, I do my best to vent the spleen and exorcise demons. As I put this thing together, I decided to do it without pulling any punches or offering any explanations or apologies. While I prefer writing things that will potentially make people laugh, it’s not always where my head is located at the particular moment. Both are very real facets to my lump of coal as I strive to become a diamond. When all is said and done, I’m perfectly okay with remaining coal.