Friday, July 27, 2012

Our Henges Are Better Than Theirs!

Historians having been chewing gristle about Stone Henge forever now, loading up on theories they can palm off as hard science.   Always has to be spiritual mumbo-jumbo.  Like the Stone Henge was where some type of vegetarian social observation took place, aping religeon and modern secular humanism, all digitally remastered to fit the needs of people's understanding in it's both dazzled and dimly illumined 2012 trance.

No.  My theory is that Stone Henge was a patio.   In it's day, dull clueless citizens of where-ever-land would sit around in nylon web patio chairs, reading newspapers and swatting flies.  No?   It might have been a giant circle jerk.  Or else they played croquet around the posts and lintels.   People make a big deal out of it.  Well fuck that.  The Northside, right here, not far from the observatory gracing Riverview park, there are Burgh Henges.  A Burgh Henge is the remnant of some poor asshole's basement, submerbed into hillside, where most the house was demolished.   Cinder block or stone corners and broken basement walls form a henge, what ever the fuck  a 'henge' is.  Even that has not been made clear at the Ivy League.   They're jerk offs.  Henges over there are bull shit.  The henges here are grand!

Thursday, July 26, 2012

Baghacker's Dark Inner Self

My new name is Bruce Baghacker. This is because I received a parcel post, and along with the winch I'd sent away for, there was pillow shaped packing materials of almost clear vinyl, full of air. Or some gas. Maybe it's an industrial gas. Or Morpheus, God of form or what ever, farted into the square pillows, sealing each unit by tensing the muscles in his fine gargantuan ass.

They were posing a minor problem because of all the space the shit takes up in the trash, after I flatten and bind the big brown cardboard box, like a responsible cellulose recycling little fuck. But I was not angry when I drew a blade!

I had that Carnaby Street feeling when I took to stabbing the pillows, each time pressing the gasses out, so the noisome vinyl can better be stowed in the shit can in the kitchen. But you've not been here. What the fuck is a kitchen?

Fuck. Just join me in celebrating my new name. A trade name. I'm a working fuck.

No no no no no...........Yes.  Tics.  Spasms.  Outbursts.

You ask me, Mr. Baghacker, why did you want a winch?? Fair due! Good Question. I see you're thinking. That's good. Real good. A motorcycle. Planning to winch one up a steep dirt embankment behind my digs. If this Greek tragedy nets results, some cool transportion could follow. Like the sun. Or an angel. Or some type of animal that somehow reflects your ontology. Your shit. Your cosmos.

....I blazed a trail about a hundred feet long, adding for dog legs and serpentine log jam divertimentos. Gonna use two ropes and a dolly to move a bike, mostly assembled but not, in a 300 pound carton built like Hercules' shit house. Like Hera's bidet. It's stocky. Hope my system doesn't fuck up, like in Zorba the Greek. 

I be winching if it works!
Cranking. Pumping. More like an orgy than anything else happening in this dead puppy village. divertiminto!

Saturday, July 21, 2012

Personal Sludges: self oil change

People will sometimes ask why I'm such a depressing individual.  "You can be a downer,"  I am, at times, reassured.   There is cause.  It is career grief.  Unending.   I used to work in a men's store (1978, post-disco reconstructrion era.  Scars. Fading vistas.) for precisely the minimum wage, no commission on sales, which wouldn't have mattered, except the boss had this specially ancient sales method of having me approach the customer and then he takes over the sale, in all cases as if he was showing a whelp how a professional duds salesman does his manly, dignified profession.   Hated the asshole.   But this job had the double uglies for reasons beyond.  It was the beauty contest  nobody won, staged for all the flaming assholes in Pandora's box.  I've had other shit jobs, but mark that one year as it's own ring of down under the boneyard.   Poo.   Bad carma.  So unremitting.

But I'm not sad.   No frail spirit is sad.  Only tragically cuff marked.    Also, the store I was selling, in essence selling, anyway, being used as a prop in an annoying process of obliging the customer, was far along in the process of slow failure, was sad, sad, sad.    A vestigial cow pie left over from the practice of long term economics.  A small store front business could last at least a century or more, if referenced by Meadville in 1970, not now, no how, but during my tasks measuring bulbous inseems, it was still possible for a business to lose for years.     The local economy was worsening by the season, and it had been stable and lovely for so long, such a sweet social model of community and business.  The store closed for good a few years after I got my cute ass fired.  I was being a smart-A towards the end of that rancid working relationship, doing my utmost to piss off the dickhead owner of the failing little men's store.  He was a prick. I was so puerile.  It was a depressing coctail of  outside circumstance and interpersonal small-minded meanness.  But shit, you paid your nickel to see this side here's more misery on a plate.  Here's a deformity in a pickle jar.

The boss who had been making my life shitty as best he could short of being jailed had been rooked most cruelly by the original owner of the store.   That fellow was a shrewd small business bastard of better days, when a small store front suit and tie and trouser shop could make a load.  Horse choking.  Big lurid sweaty wads.   The prick I got to work with for a year had been, first, the clerk, then the manager of that same little men's shop.  The luckier of the two men sold his manager the store, at a premium, and left for Florida.   Not that it's funny because it's sad, but the US was fishtailing into now, leaving stores like the one I worked in wedged between the treads in a speeding muscle car's tire.  But it's my bag of sour grapes, right here, and among juicy red and green ones, the transition from long term, to short term, ecnomics has meant the very reincarnation of failing small business, only more in franchised  and calculated working models of clip joints.   Makes ya' proud. Not.  My career has been one of jocky on a horse that goes out of business.

Anyway, to sum up my experience as a name in labor statistics files, it's been shit.  Just shit.  But it's happens faster and faster.  Makes ya' dizzy.  I always am.

 Let the fishing line in the River Yesteryear snap, so your birch bark canoe can take it's freedom in the rapids, and in the rare calm waters, too.   Be light and agile.  Take extra time to be a prince.  Add cheesy existentialism, the new applied philosophy, to your skill set.   Ride a simple wagon down hill.

 "Yowza.  Tweet tweet."  said both Ben Bernie and Gordon Lish. 

2.Forgot to tell you the basement. You should know the basement. Upper floors, too.

But below the men's shop I worked for a year and got my ass fired from, there was a perfect rectangle of space in sanintary commercial concrete, of clothing that had never been sold, or that was no longer rented. The old prick, who could, in my opinion, really used a boot in groin, had closed out his rental business (tuxedos, evening weear, franchised formal wear geared for store front chicken shit) though not before paying a separate mortgage to the prick who first owned the shop, the lousy pricks boss for thirty years, from junior high till he found the balls to buy the dump. The prick paid a separate mortgage for the rental franchise, along a much bigger one, for the store itself.

Here was teensy, cheap vindication. Revenge. Come uppance. I loved that basement. I was in fashion history Valhalla when I was pretending to clean and rearrange the basement. I'd tell the prick that I was going down there to perform some menial work on behalf of INVENTORY SACRED HOLY ELEMENAL MATTER OF BUSINESS HENCE GOOD GOOD GOOD. I'd hide down there trying on tuxedos and white evening jackets, also there were oversize apple caps like stereotype beatnicks once wore, also syphlitic young newspaper hawkers, and there were racks of brightly colored two and three piece business suits, which, in the 1940s, 50s and 60s were sold to African American customers. They had an industry term for those suits, but it can get you kicked out of the United Nations for saying it, so I'm not.


A case could be made that African Americans were harmed by the fashion industry, as were women. By changing style each season, each year, people feel compelled to buy the latest. This business strategy keeps poorly educated people spending above their means, while separating them, aesthetically, from the conservative establishment, which favors consistent styling, which makes for better resource management, and ultimatley world domination.

The fashion industry favors skinny men, while hating women like a closet sadist. It forces women to worry about their weight, size, shape and all aspects of  physical person, making her self conscious, and subjecting her to capitalist mind rape. But I'm a histrionic little fashion plate, in my polyesther sans-a-belt wrinkle free slacks. 


Friday, July 13, 2012

Cosmic Work-Outs

Sorry to hear of your confusion. Beta particles. Begin by gazing in the crystal ball. It's hard edged distortions of real objects will mirror your looped neuropathways. Find the control knob. Continue.

Put the ball back in it's naugahyde belt assembly. Remove all pig shit from the surface of the card table. Name the objects. What do you want? Fish an invisible gallery of things that could get you where you're going. Gather invisible wrenches. Push button knives. Fine fabric. The cutest house pet on the planet. Your favorite food.

The shadow boogie. It's time. Use your spot light with multiple fixture settings and moderate heat, allowing your madd Watusi to do you in the ways that have been lacking. Angle for stunning gesticulation. Spread your personae like a geisha fan. Contract, become smaller, lines returning to bliss. Feel grand?

Citizen's Advisory

Readers who can see the spirit world are probably aware that, for some individuals, life is an invisible rodeo. Having had no health coverage for the past eleven years, certain continuing health problems have accrued from the illusory bull riding and metaphysical goring incidents, incurred over that hystrionic and impressionistic span of time. As a life long voting democrat buckaroo, I jangled my spurs in favor of the incumbent president. A gut feeling says he needed his first term in office to learn how to be president.  I feel confident he will win the upcoming election, and see good things coming in his second term. But as a disgruntled tarot reader, I got a bone to pick with Obamacare. Pull up a cuspidor and have a listen.

Obamacare is smoke and mirrors placed in front of the practice of socialized medicine. Call it what it is, and drop the despicable, un-American penalty for not buying health insurance. If it was possible to provide the US with the service through free market methodologies, it would be a better option than mishandled socialism.   Obama seems to be paliating the medical establishment.   The President is using a punitive, austere, compartmentalized  form of socialism to deal with the cripping cost of health care. The Canadians don't do that. And they've been making American health care look barbaric since the disco era. Imposing a cash penalty fo noncompliance is a coercive business practice that could lead to an economy predicated on things you are forced to buy. It's dystopian, for chrisake.

The economy is far to complex to deal with in terms of socialism or capitalism. Or with ordinary common sense. Everything these days seems to be some sort of fuming, corrupt,innefficient, beaurocratic crazy train. Hence a divinitory process. The  card I pulled a moment ago from the Rider-Waite deck, always reliable, was the Page of Cups, which can only mean Obamare needs to be reformed, to a more humane approximation of the socialized medicine so many other countries already have. Drop the penalty for noncompliance. Just get us health care we can afford.

Tuesday, July 3, 2012

Jail Bait at the Boomerang Field

Yesterday I made the first effort to make video clips of the sport that  made itself  a mission.  I'm out to make and throw the Great American Boomerang, assimilating the Aboriginal aspect to suit the suit and tie set.   Proper dress required.  You get points for accessorizing.   It's a fashion sport.  But the sartorial aspect not withstanding, the attempted filming failed completely, though I got some grand snaps of the decrepit vacinty with my peach pit size spy cam.  Then a societal thing happened that itches of deep south social strife.  I was approached by two seriously attractive young women.  Highschool Age. 

I was throwing the boomerangs just fine.  The camera has no screen or eyepiece, you have to hope you lined it up the way you think you did,  and hit the button.  Then you have to hook it up to a computer to own your success or failure.  I didn't get the bad news about the videos till a good hour after the two young women approached, as I was throwing in Fowler Field.  "Hey,  can  I throw that  thing?"  one of the tall beauties asked.

I was forced to effect my cheap imitation of a high school principal's voice, "No.  I'm sorry.  I can't let you."  They were coming towards me aggressively.

She asked why not, and I continued, like a nerd health  official, "You can be injured if one of these things hits you.   Can't let you do it.  Sorry."   And I gathered up my rangs, stuffed them hastily in my 'rang bag, also known to normal folks as a back pack, and made a beeline out of hot hot humid contentious Fowler Feild.

You can get your head split, fingers broke, knees knocked excruciatingly, and people have been known to lose teeth, on the return trip, after a perfectly excecuted throw.  It's very hard to catch a boomerang.  I'm still working on it.   But that's not the real reason I high tailed it like a wood chuck.  The two broads were jail bait.  All I need is for one asshole to see what was happening, something too fucking creepy, like free boomerang lessons in a public park, and go screaming, "Hey, quit luring young women into a van, you 'rang throwing pervert."

I worry about things like that happening.  Probably everyone does, now that it's a world of raving perps and perves.   None the less, Pittsburgh's Perryhilltop is a gem.   There's a deer in the picture, above and to the right of the fire hydrant.  It's tiny, hard to see.