another embedded youtube reading of a new poem: New Wave

some continuing saga stuff, and poems, too

Return of Kazootra (continued) 

How, dear friends have been asking, could Mikey Mumbawumba contract gonorhea from an electric guitar? It's an unlikely risk of showmanship. He was guest musician at some rich Illuminati exorcism ritural, and he was obliged to play a very special song, this anthem of supernatural power, and it's such a crowd pleaser. Mikey would use a part of himself as a plecturm, while the guests cut loose into a orgy. You get some guy's climax hitting the pick-up on your guitar, where it's nice and warm, then you strum 'I Like Demons' with your dick, and sure you could get VD. 

For once, Kazootra stayed home in his room in the Studly Arms. Bored, he went onto the internet, hoping to find a decent movie on the free flick site, Stoolu.com. As he kept stopping one turkey and trying another, it seemed that ever since Kate McDangerzone starred in the cult classic 'Boatnapping,' she was cast in every poor attempt at a cult film. She and random actors from the rest of the cult films that made money. The library at Stoolu was all flicks that didn't make it the first time. It was their Second Coming. Kazootra's boredom was escalating. 

As he clicked through bad movies, a cut on his right palm broke open. "Damn," he thought to himself "it was a bad idea letting that Satanic guitar player I met last night sew up the gash I got when I broke a bottle on that detective's face." The dental floss had come loose, and salt from the potato chips he was eating supplied the jagged cut an with inflow of salt. The mix of boredom and stinging seemed to be two related forces acting against his wish to enjoy the useless, passing time. 
.........

Plainclothesmen. Observing people, ordinary folk like Kazootra and Mikey Mumbawumba. Taking notes in their little black books. Following fellow travelers into the restroom. It had been a dreadful mistake. Neither man had violated the anti-sodomy ban. The cop saw one man lend another man his hanky, to absorb some of the discharge from Mikey's case of clap, and he assumed it was something untoward. Kazootra could hardly be blamed for the way he reacted. But he was now at risk of being arrested, and he was bored, bleeding, stinging and worried. But soon his mind changed. A hatchet faced old woman, thin as a post, with skin like Carborundum, was sitting in the rocking chair in the corner.

More of this later.

poem: Horse Charities 

they thought that they bought Secretariat 
and received 
a delusional horseman of mass mendacity 
when word reached the mines below the mountains 
shafts filled with warm blooded hopefuls 
dreams sucked into the barrel 
the upward swimming hope 
drew back particles of change into the conference rooms inside the syringe 
the Earth gets a hot shot 
this aging camper sells only Shetland ponies 
factory seconds of their kind 
they are wonderfully alive 
I don't sell dead horses 

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=WvjMOl19zyY 

You need this quote:

In a time of universal deceit - telling the truth is a revolutionary act.

George Orwell

Fiction! Fresh Fiction! Wrapped in sanitary digital news paper. You'll love it.

Return of Kazootra

Ouch. The hurt. A private burning. Down there. Mikey Mumbawumba may have contracted something. From the strings on his cherry colored electric guitar. "My johnson is hurting," he said in jocular passing, from the palette stack he played his ax on, to the little person's room far in the back of the barny dance hall.

"That's because Robert Johnson in your trousers went someplace hot," he was ribbed,on his way to the bathroom, by the bone breaking sex machine, Lavoris Crackman. She too was a singer. Her ax was her voice. She had a band. Don't ask them for trouble.

Agonizing through his protracted, halting, fulminating micturation, a note of claret appearing out of the festered knots and into an enameled off white trough with stream of water to take it away, like a soft band leader, he thought of something. As soon as he recovers from the clap, he will christen his sex organ "Robert Johnson" after the famous delta blues mystic. For the kind of person Mikey is, this signifies a change in his world view.

Gonnorhea is famous for hurting like a motherfucker, and Mikey was visibly wincing and writhing, upright, spurting blood and whiz when Kazootra, a lost soul from other places, first came to the establishment, hoping to get drunk and laid. But first, he needed to use the bathroom. 

"Hey there," Kazootra said, friendly, personable, allowing for how a fellow person was having a christ-awful time taking a pee, a man in fact visibly bleeding from the organ into the trough, with a cherry red electric guitar strapped on, the neck going up and down as Mikey spazzed in pain.
"Hey, I bet you got the clap. Bummer, pal. That can sure fucking hurt." That's empathy, people. Kazootra had feelings for people he met in honky tonks.


Mikey was too engaged in discomfiture for bon mots, but he was able to grunt an affirmation that he had the clap and it hurt like a motherfucker.

While the pained Mikey waited for the dripping and burning to stop, Kazootra told him about the year he spent in the Spring Garden area of Pittsburgh. He had been on assignment, some shit level NSA garbage, no big deal. Just then he was at liberty. A dork. A dork arrant. 


"Oh, it was quite simple," Kazootra explained. "I was supposed to fuck up some stupid hobbyist's attempt at running for city council. But the asshole wrecked his bicycle and croaked. This creep had been demanding the city install bike lanes for years. Soon as they were installed, the poor asshole pedalled himself to Valhalla. He was hit by an eighteen wheeler while crossing an intersection, which adds to my suspicion that he deserved to die. But I was merely supposed to monitor his actions and spread evil rumors." 

Guess frankness is best about a place like where this is happening. People have this brand of optimism that suggests that if you get hit by a truck you deserved to die. It's a view point kin to God meant for it to happen, and it's someone's inbred cousin to the view that it's part of the Grand Design. There is crap called 'intelligent design' which says the course of heredity is the way God works, and freak traffic accidents are the way certain types of people die. Mikey Mumbawumba managed to get back to his stack of old wooden pallettes, or 'skids' as they are also called, and resumed playing his instrument.   Kazootra was trying make contact with a new culture.   More of this saga will slide in your direction, like a disintegrating retaining wall giving way to an innocuous petty spillage of common dirt.   Until this starts again, thanks for reading, have a nice one.

Short fiction: Funnel Cakes In The Head

Maturity in people is a variable, this stupid prof kept insisting. His circle of friends, at their oak round table, with it's collegian nick names carved by horny students' using switchblades, slugged their beers while trying to figure out what to say to the burly old pedant.

"So if someone age 20 acts his age all the time, he/she is some sort of deviant?" one of the smart ass exchange students said, practically auditioning for the role of himself in a sitcom if he wasn't just subsisting near his crappy state alma mater. He will die, tragically, before he gets the part.

"I was saying certain people range in maturity, and it can be observed. It can be evoked."

Not satisfied with Dr. Doomski's qualification, Skip, the neo-thug with the Brylcream-a-go-go coif, "Which certain types of people we driving at, Doc." 


This time, Dr. Doomski tried to paliate his people with more beers all around, and a speech, with hand gesticulations and outbursts of emotion, like, "Jeesus' tits, people can be a danger to themselves and others when they are pathologically like Shirley Temple when they are age 75." 


He began speaking directly to Skip, the strongest, most brutishly handsome of the gang. He told him a series of droning shaggy dog stories, each time concluding that that didn't really matter, but it was necessary that Skip 'follow the bouncing ball' as he listened to a stream of deliberate nonsense. 

And without prompting from anyone, Skip seemed to lose his youth all together. His bone turned into chalk. He was weak and aching all over. He was arthritic, for fuck sake.

Skip's voice quavered. "I don't feel right, Doc," he said, meekly.

"That's because you're old,now, Skippy, you smug bastard."

"Will I get over it?" Skip inquired, this time more shook up, but still real meek."

"No one recovers from old age, stupid."

The circle of friends finished their beers. Prof was right.
This was in a small town. Just happens. 



A dashing young Satan figure played his candy red electric guitar in the corner, on a stack of palettes, or skids, as they are called. The drum machine couldn't make a mistake. The beat was consistent, but Mikey Mumbawumba had a mastery of that guitar. To such a degree, he was able to strike cymbals with a steel rod tied to the end of his instrument, near the tuning pegs. Mikey's riffs caused people to go completely ape. 


Skip was now wheelchair bound. But the music took his mind off being sick and old. He had the wisdom of the elderly, which has nothing to do with facts by rote or even social acumen. People that old can commune with lumber.

But he was no longer welcome in Dr. Doomski's clan.

The good people the good doctor communed with were finally believers in the existence of a genuinely important weird beard. 


A sparse crowd of bobbing beauties danced some sort of variant of the twist. Their leering smiles would put a good person off. But these were hell raisers. Real ones. Can't say it's good to hang out here. They got into each others faces, and made animal noises. Mikey was smiling as he leaned into his guitar riff 

Poem and fiction fusion: Remember jazz/fusion from the 1970s? Didn't work then, might now, more fucked things have happened

He didn't want to be a schmuck, but was born, and the rights and decisions and, dammit, perceptions of him, so sacred,were destroyed before his presbyopia.  He has been made a fool of on a monthly basis because of something he did, for fun, over twenty years ago, and no one, not even he, expected his cat to live that long.

 Upon being given the cat, a then six week old calico kitten, so adorable it easily  outstripped common sense, or at least that owned by a schmuck, Wandering Willy Simpleton decided to name his new cat after a nationally famous human being.   At the time, 1994, an Egyptian diplomat was front page news, connected to transglobal crisis, the then secretary general of the United Nations, fella' name of Boutros Boutros Ghali.

  It was Wandering Willy's American free choice to use poor judgement and poor taste by naming his kitten 'Boutros Boutros Kitty.'  The person's name sounded funny.  Comedians like David Letterman were cracking jokes on televsion like "Your first name may be Boutros, but your last name sure ain't Ghali"  I laughed at the jokes, I noted that humor comes from needless derision.  All Wandering Willy's freinds, at the time, found it very cute and funny that he named his cat after Boutros Boutros Ghali,but with spontaneous wit and invention, the two traits for which Wandering Willy was best known.

The person, Boutros, with whom I am on a solipsized first name basis, has been a forgotten name for the last nineteen years.   It was during year one of Boutros Ghali's name in the American media, and it was the only one year of its kind, that Willy was gifted a lovely kitten, following an unwanted cat pregnancy.  All succeeding years have excluded Boutros from national attention.  Boutros had received his fifteen minutes of fame, American Style.  But Willy was reminded of his poor judgement often because people were always asking him why he named his cat 'Boutros Boutros Kitty,' and the procedure of explaning why he named his cat 'Boutros' has been grating on his nerves for fucking long time. Too bad for Wandering Willy Simpleton.   He should have used better judgement than to name his goddam kitty after an Egyptian globalized flash in the pan.   Fifteen minutes of fame versus a generation of stupid questions, followed by assertions that willy is a schmuck. You decide if a little fun is worth something as horrible as that.

Poem Time, Fuck It All:

Ringman  (continuing saga poem)


Oh, my rings and divinations
an owl ring for the Illuminati
don't know them
mayhaps they know me
in any case the ring says 'howdy'


I drew the suit of wands
and you can hit a guy
you can give a fella' lumps with that stick
but it is for hiking
for clearing brush
it is for conserving the aching legs
the eroding hips
the more judicious spine
and for the divinitory mind

I bought off the ringman the Pentagram
noted it scares young black men when I ride the bus
Guy looked like a bluesman looked mighy nervous
Will play in E seventh

Gum Stories

The world might or might not care what I am chewing on right now.  That could be intimated about anything and anywhere.  Someone might insinuate who-the-fuck-knows.  Maybe this is important.  This could be some fucked, doomed form of unrecognized science.  I'm chewing a bright red ball of cherry soda flavored bubble gum..  

It's another chapter of experience shopping at the Dollar Tree store in Westview, Pennsylvania.  The one inch diameter spherese of red bubble gum, fairly hard on the outside, busting loose within upon penetration, some lubricious confectionery food porn, this red, red gum fizzes.  It says in festive fun fest lettering on the three point five ounce bag, "Fizzers...fizzing bubble gum."  

Underneath, it says, ":fizzes when you chew."   It does, and is.  As a ball of gum gives up it's fizz, and expends it's shotgun load of fake cherry flavor, there is sensuality such as is tolerated world wide when people are getting off on their food.  Funny how it's illegal to fuck in public, but you can eat all the fuck you want, anywhere.

I am indulging the senses, once again, in my private Valhalla, the NorthSide zone of Perryhilltop.  Fizzers are sailing the ships that transport my cardboard soul.  My cellophane travel balloons, lofting from the bottle cap of burning kerosene, are rising into the dark plastic sky.  This gum is greater than all delicacies gorged by Ancient Egyptians.  

Flat Picking Valhalla

Yes, another sermon. How fucking pompous.  And about flat picks.  Cheap celluloid guitar accessories.  Big fucking deal, you snort, through your eight inches of head on your huge glass of expensive imported beer, from some posh micro-brewery.  Relax, I'm making no harsh judgement against you sucking beer foam while you downgrade the renaisance in my goddam living room.  I am learning to use a flat pick on the house guitars, including the older accoustic beater, and now the new candy apple red electric guitar I copped off the internet.


Before this, I had been using bare fingers to apply the 'claw hammer' technique, both on the Adam Levine First Act accoustic guitar, that was got at the Westview Kmart, and the Ktone banjo, that I got mail order from Ebay.com, as if it was House of Dior for winos, junkies and fools.  I buy a lot of gear from Ebay.  I love it.  It's a form of gambling.  Gaming against the quality of life and efficacy of your career.  Compare the dilemma to that of small business garments.  A cheap suit has some sort of impact on people's career.  So does your guitar playing.

I'm even using flat pick technique on the fairly new banjo.  Might have to change the strings on it, for the first time, using the brightly colored tuning peg crank I bought from Ebay, for eighty eight cents, which speeds up the process of changing strings.  Already tested it on the six string Levine, eager to see how long it takes me to restring a five string banjo, with trepidation in advance over that wierd friction peg that lives on it's lonesome five frets up the narrow rose wood neck.  Next online purchase will be a bulk load of strings for both the generic electric guitar and the student grade factory banjo, both of which were made in China, were little hands are ever busy copying our American industry standards, and selling back to you and me, cheap.  So fucking happy to be modern!

For way of reasons, I started using the flat pick when I started practicing on the newest, and prettiest, guitar in the house, the generic fake Statocaster, cost of ninety four dollars, past paid, delivered to the front door.  It appears to be a decent ax, and flat picking is a fine option.  The harmonics are good on my new sweet baby, which on other guitars, can be an achilles heel, such as on a bad accoustic ax.  In that case, bare finger tips help to buffer the poor sound.  Conversely, on a real good guitar, the flat pic can cut the beauty of the thing loose, with precision. I'm old, but am still improving.  My new ax helped me realize I am still able to learn and to aquire skill.  Better music helps like heck as the person playing the music gets uglier from old age.  Who would have imagined a twenty three cent guitar pick would be so much like the Picture of Dorian Gray?

A Personal Hero Surprises My Aging-Like-A-Cheese Self

I'll find the link and post it here real soon, don't have it handy at this moment of realization, but I was studying punk rock idols from the 1980s, and my fave bassist from the Circle Jerks, Zander Schloss, turned up in the form of a recent video, with Zander playing a Yamaha twelve string accoustic guitar with aftermarket pickup.  It was a duo, forgot the name of the singer.

Zander provided a talk about his time working with musician  Joe Strummer.   He quoted Strummer as saying that it is always a priviledge to perform music, and a musician should always be thankful for the chance to do it.  It was hard to take, at first, from the fellow who was so irreverent in his role in the movie 'Repo Man.'   Add that as bassist for the Circle Jerks, and in some of Zander Schloss' video clips, he came across as a sort of bad-ass, bad seed, or wild child.  On the other hand, less obvious, he showed a fantastic work ethic in his punk band career, and I think that has something to do with his presentation on the youtube, in which he and another individual sing to Schloss' fine accoustic guitar work.  It is pure athleticism to play an accoustic twelve string, as well as music acumen.  

Here's the link, just went to a new browser window and fished it up:  https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=aNfUpdCUgHc

Screw me for being a ditz, the other guy is Sean Wheeler.  Never heard of him till last night, web surfing.

Meandering Essay about My Cheap Guitar

Gotta say it, the red menace can be wonderful. That is to say, if you love buying cheap shit off of eBay, the quality and beauty of crap has been inspirational in my home, and could be in yours, too, if you will simply lower your standards and listen.

So true is this crock, I boast that the prettiest object in my moldering hovel is my brand-new electric guitar. It is a daringly accurate copy of the famous Fender Stratocaster.

The guitar is carnal lusting candy apple red, with the virginal white pick guard, and white maple neck, like an anorexic blonde Angel's leg. The hardwood headstock, with shining stainless steel tuning pegs for the Angels toes, is the arch type and personification of glam rock, and of hair bands of the 1980s as well.One should never underestimate the carnality of commercial music and of cheap lurid products. The price of the guitar I bought was pornography in and of itself, a titillating $100 for a guitar that looks precisely like the ones Jimi Hendrix took such pleasure in smashing on stage, his great private package flopping up and down as he struck  blow for blow, pelvic thrust for likewise,  the guitar against his great Marshall amp.


My new generic copy of a Fender Stratocaster will make noise at least as beautiful as Hendrix' noise, even if I don't play a guitar all that well. The guitar may be a cheap and inferior copy of the original, but at least the sound of it being battered against floorboards will sound the same as that of greatness being equally destructive.  A musician needn't be the best, he needs only to entertain.

Allergic to Phenomena

This junior shit-storm of writing is about the phenomenology of not liking people, places and things.

There's been abundant new interest in allergies last long while.  Some new thoughts pulled from sources real and imagined is that cold air, such as that which is freezing people's ass off this fucking awful November, 2014, in the 'Burgh and lottsa other spots, may act as an allergin.  The cold, cold air, breathed in, makes my nose run like Angel Falls.  The new explanation of an allergy is that any foreign substance, near about, could cause a reaction, such as sneezing, so to remove the substance, and in the main, a substance that may be harmless to most people may be toxic to persons with an allergy.  Cold air may be perceived by the body as a foreign substance, even if you merely perceive freezing your ass off, with your nose running Old Faithful.   The reaction is the same whether caused by cold air or rag weed.

But there may be something new for the witches brew.  I am proposing that people are prone to allergies to perception.  Not all perception.  A racist might be allergic to perception of a minority person.   But more notably, people sometimes, and too often, respond to the sight of something foreign to them, causing anxiety, fear, loathing, and long winded rants about how the visage is dooming him or her.   Many people are allergic to bad architecture, some are allergic to any new type of clothing or hair style, even when it's some nice shit that ordinary motherfuckers are just not ready for yet.

People are allergic to foreign phenomena.  It's like the way some people wheeze like a punctured accordion when golden rods or rag weed is shoulder high in an asshole neighbor's untended side yard.  I'm still allergic to the sight of people dressed head to toe in major league sports duds.   But then, to be fair, maybe Pittsburgh is allergic to the sight of me.  Fuck 'em.  People can't help feeling the way they do.    People are allergic to the sight of each other.

Odd Affirmative Action Issues

Cowboys/Cowwomen/Gay and Transgendered Cow Individuals,  with affirmative action guidelines strictly enforced,  there is bitter cactus juice to expectorate.   An obsessive cattle roper of the urban high plains,  it is remembrance of disgruntlement formed around the time people were at their most obnoxious with their computers.   The Peguins won two Stanley Cups the decade I was to learn of something that pisses me off now.  Recollections from the 1990s deserve a few extra puffs on the peace pipe for having taught me that women have a social hierarchy.

Don't men?  Yeeeeee-ee-eeehhh-essss.  Are men referred to, jocularly, as pigs?    Do fish swim?

Isn't the social ordering of people in some ways the nature of civilization, without which people are too plainly barbaric to function beyond hairy bear-skin wearing brutes?  I must respond in the very same long creepy affirmative as above.  Yeeeee---esssss!  And at the same time, no.   Some people have been noticing, and commenting, that civilized people would be a fuck of lot nicer if they quit engaging global combat and fulsome social meddling.   But I wasn't trying to go global.  I have a local pain in the ass I need to talk about.

I was told that some nearing-middle-age woman from Upper St. Clair, name withheld to protect the gold-digger, a so-said lovely, wonderful woman, so elegant, so entertaining, had one strike against her.  Or, the only strike I know of, as people weren't telling me much in those days, but I'll whine about that at another time.  For pecuniary reasons, she married a Jewish man.

Did/does she love the man?  Irrelevant.   As the local hierarchy went, any woman facing financial ruin from previous behaviors/relationships/hush-hush arrangements tended  custom by marrying a man who has money enough to cover debts and needs past/present/future.   Per more localized custom, wife and husband are bound to enjoy a nice way of life in the suburbs, or ex-urbs, or bedroom community, or gated community.  Or penthouse, if the missus has superior aim.    There's gut-wrenching tales of black widow type poisonings on television, but none of that goes on, that reaches the news, at least.    There was, as still is, country club anti-semitism.

To have top billing among the blue bloods in Upper Saint Claire, a woman has to marry a rich Anglo-saxon man with mucho dinero.  A German or Austrian dude with any pedigree at all is fine, in a pinch, if they are solid in the banking zone, must have a Benz, and there are some lower ethnic preferences that permit relatively complete social status.  But quite low, too low on the short list for pleasure on my part, a woman has to marry a rich Jewish man if she is unable to rope any of the more preferred ethnicities.  The married lady I was informed about had done so, and was aggreived.   Best I can figure from a half-long gossip session, in a shitty kitchen, in a shitty efficiency apartment, the one right next to mine, identical to it, the two people liked each other well enough to act as a couple no matter what the emotional digital read out was on love or sex or feelings of any kind at all.  And at the same time, she was dissatisfied with having had to marry a Jewish man to sustain her standard of living.  The standard she saw herself entitled to.   This type of marriage was clearly understood and tolerated, which could be described by some as some sweet Neil Simon theater shit.  Or  gold-digging and racism all at once, against people to whom greed is too often ascribed.  Jews are greedy little money persons, and wealthy Brittish men are handsome no matter how bad their teeth rot out and their  jowls flop on the floor.  White suburbanites, uber alles.

Well I can't close the show without some sort of positive humanistic snake dance.  You might say that a community of prosperous individuals, all sharing fucked up customs and norms, could be no better or worse than the rest of fucked up human kind.  Productive, hardworking and accomplished men of several races get to cohabit with some attractive, warm, witty aging socialites.   I'm only mad because I don't have the big bucks, and can't play in their big jungle gym in Upper Saint Claire and other fat honey jars.  I'm still disgruntled, but who cares.

A Too Fucking Revealing Blog Entry About What's Eating My Balls At The Moment

I shouldn't be telling you this because it's private and possibly hurtful, to myself, but then it's a two way street, I tell things, other people enjoy hearing it, it's how the news and information industry survives.  I still want to be 'The Kid.'  It's a fantasy, I believe it's organic, universal, and in theory, a person, any person, could be any age, like me, I'm turning 57, and I have this need to be something called 'The Kid.'  There is work involved in this matter, and acquisitions.

 I'm in the final decision stage of buying an electric guitar, a cheap copy of the famous Fender Stratocaster.  There is a choice of six colors, two different styles of pick guards all shaped like a squashed squid, and two types of fret board to choose, white maple with black dots, or rosewood with suspicious white spots marking positions for the beginning guitar student.  Leaning towards blond, but am still thinking.  Rosewood might possibly better personify an arrant rock musician of perpetual youth and flair.  A total insane glutton for clarity as I am, the choice of candy colored guitars are for sale on ebay, mail order, postage paid, ninety dollars for the cheapest imitation of a Strat available to anyone, anywhere, on Earth or Outer Space.  The God-like power of global economics makes this sort of shit possible, both the product and the living rock fantasy enabled by one's electric bauble.

To toughen up what may seem like some weak connections, buying the guitar and revitalizing my pilfered, affected alter ego, 'The Kid,' are like a heroic couplet, if my life was a poem.   It isn't, it hasn't been, but metaphors are here, for sale, like Hebrew National weenies from a stainless steel cart on wheels with umbrella and portly, mustachioed vendor.  There have been pentillions of archetypal 'Kids,' ranging from James Dean to Marlon Brando to Pancho Villa to Joan Jett and why, even, to some degree, Debbie Harry, though she's so, so a class act I'm not completely comfortable using her as a model, though she makes a splendid one.  All right, already, David Bowies 's 'Ziggy Stardust' was about a person who was filling the shoes of a 'The Kid' by being a cool looking guitar wizard.  Countless 'The Kids' were viewed looking cool and callow in a pool hall, hustling for a living in the asphalt jungle.  I still plan on being an incarnation of 'The Kid,' and I am counting on the purchase, mail order, of a fake Stratocaster.

Why, why,why?   I need to scratch an itch, and the scratcher is an electric guitar, probably the one that is candy apple red, with a blond maple fretboard.  It's a large back scratcher.    The need to fill out an internal paradigm, one that synthesized through media presentation of 'the kid' archetypes, include the hallowed Sid Vicious, is all together valid and real,  but is in fact no different from a permanent obsession with nobility, such as believing you deserved to be a knight of the round table, if you were putzing your way through the times of King Arthur.  Rock and roll obsessions are eminently more practical.


Buying the guitar is a form of sexual perversion, replete with anticipation, guilt feelings, a ritual, and even the disruptive thought patterns that could disrupt an ordinary career, if I had one.  It has become my career to buy shit, cheap generic copies of a iconic things, things that reflect what American used to be, such as a perpetual youth being sassy in a free representative democracy made for fast cars, easy poon, young men with big dicks, and young women eager to give it up to a 'Kid.'  Of any age.  Mine.  I'm the Kid.  Will complete purchase of electric guitar by weeks end.  Will play the fucker.   Will proceed as The Kid.

latest movies by Bruce

This is desperate cinema.    It's cheaply made.   Yet I feel grandiose.  




Go.  Watch Ingmar.  Watch Federico.   I understand you are unable perceive the new wave in film.  I perceive it.  You don't.   It's alright.  

Knife Throwing News: the sports crap

Big deal, you might say, but this afternoon I stuck a 20 inch long throwing knife, with a throw from it's wood handle, thirty eight feet.     It stuck nice and firm, parallel to the the ground, protruding from the dead tree I've been using for a target.   It's a fortuitous dead tree, giving it's worm eaten self up for the cause of knife throwing, so it is one venerated motherfucking dead tree in the vacant lot behind the house.

Knife throwing mavens will already know that knife throws are discussed in 'rotations,' and the knife spun at least four times, maybe more, I haven't figured it all out yet.   I picked a flat spot on the hillside the tree bolts up from, over three feet wide, and tested a few throws, and it took only two tries.  Elated at the score, ran to the house, got the tape measure, and had an orgiastic reading.  Thirty eight feet.   Better, there is a flat spot another  twenty or so feet back away from the dead tree, so it will be possible to go for the rarely achieved fifty foot (pluss) throw, with the blade sticking in like a good throwing weapon should.

Will surely post pics and youtubes as new records are set.  For now, the pic below includes, top, the original machete from which the knives are made.  Next knife down is the one I threw 38' this afternoon.   The machete's are excellent steel.  The specialty here, for now, is circus knives.  These knives are made for sport, such as tournaments, and for stunt work and entertainment as how ever people have fun.

Lean Lovings

no reach for my wootsie-tootsie bag
don't attempt to force bruit my bamboo flute
it is not for you
that I am dancing the wootsie-tootsie

here I wait for the bus with my wootsie-tootsie bag
there's the camera from the internet
a hanky
some mute pencils and orange peel
and the book in which I record my new blue tootsie-wootsie
stencil in it meeting you, the altered beauty
we fit together 

everyone fits in the fiefdom

I'm making a slew of public service videos.

Advanced Whining and Moaning

Peanut butter and jelly sandwiches factored into millions of people's lives.  As did the whole concept of a sandwich.  For some, a bologna sandwich better defines the layering and ordering of food, by purpose and desire.     Foods range from very good to very bad, thus it forces people to think.   And everyone has to eat.

 People are more advanced about it than dogs and horses.  Even Secretariat couldn't take food beyond it's most basic form and function, e.g. grain in a feed bag.   People are able to prove their superiority over animals by merely tossing  a slice of Dutch Loaf between two slices of Wonder Bread.  But this is about philosophy, as it orders itself, in layers, with the meat in the middle of two opposing yet identical slices of wheat, white, or rye.  The sandwich I'm eating at the moment has to do with having had a complex living arrangement earlier on, in the kid days.

It was a sandwich of arch political right, and polymorphous left.   A shit metaphor to bread, you may suspect?  No.  Identical people with differing views.  There were two major influences in Meadville, Pennsylvania in the 1950s through the 1970s.  There was Allegheny College, and the Talon Zipper factory.  In the former, there was a vigorous, polymorphous tradition in liberal intellectualism, and the factory employed hundreds of small town crackers, many of whom hated blacks, Jews and intellectuals.  Many of the people attached to Allegheny College looked down the proboscis at the blue collar folk who worked at Talon.  I am munching down in the present tense.   The opposing forces I grew up with are still piled up in mnemonic strata, turkey roll, pimento loaf, American Cheese, and some industrialized, educated ketchup.  In some ways, it was haute cuisine, and in other ways, it was a shit sandwich.  It made me complex and marginal.  There is an ineradicable conflict of lunch meats.  Lean resolutions.  A tough breaded cutlet to choke down.  And sometimes, I must regurgitate.  And yet it remains to  live with the sandwich within. It's some empty barfing.   But it's a livable  indigestion.

I'm a Closet Feminist, And Fucking Proud

Not all,  but some prominent feminists have been insisting that God be spoken of in terms of 'She' and not 'He.'   I'm immaculately pleased to conform.

  I've been doing just as demanded ever since I made a godawful mistake and used the word 'Him' when commenting on a most brilliant feminist comedian's facebook post.   It cost me.  I'm on the geo-political B-list for life for clumsily failing to move with the times, and for not holding up my end of social reform.  Sorry about that.  Trying like a one-armed union affiliated LBGT paper hanger to make amends.

So I'm making a divine proposal:  Who is the best archetype for a female God?   The old world of entertainment provided Charlton Heston and a few other scowling,  robust, notable actors, when God was a fella.'  Next time there's a contest to figure out who the new God most looks like, there will be plenty of  good options.

Gertrude Stein and Golda Meir are equally right for the part, but then I used to watch Xena the Warrior Princess, and Lucy Lawless would be excellent.  Beatrice Arthur would slay as God, while Iman would also be hunky dory.  Partial as I am to delta blues, though, maybe it's Ma Rainey who could best manage the universe.  Why should the world be anglocentric and male supremicist, too?  Too much fascism.    It's the pimply, pasty white northern European male that made the world a war mongering, misogynistic hell hole of monopoly capitalism.  Maybe Rachel Carson should be God.  Or Ayn Rand.  She'd make a good God.

But no matter which woman wins, I will never refer to God as 'He' again.   Hope She digs my sermons.

A Cheery Autumn Poem, And A Video Project

Mirror Smasher

who is in the glass pool of light?
won't know right away
hide and seek

blade the first penetrates  mid section
shower of splinters splay
like silver fruit flies at play
people file out of that sector
like a visit from the building inspector

throwing another knife
(I'm a collector)
at the reflection of my prominent throat
an evil contingent rows out of the mirror in a boat
and so goes  communities all
behind the mirror so tall
getting smashed to bits with knives

Spite Essay

I'm not naming the name of the late bastard who expired about two years ago.  He was pompous, pretentious, a glittering B-lister who happened, also, to be spiteful bully.   I knew this prick when he and I were kids.  He used to pick on me. He was bigger.  Probably better looking.  I was a goofy little kid.  People were pricks about it.   Then, as adults, this prick made a better showing in the art department at college.  Much ego bruising on my end, I must fess up to.  But he was a fake, and I'm the real deal.  I'm a late bloomer.  And he's mingling his moles and skin tags with sea life, as his ashes were dumped at sea.

The prick was a year older than me, and right now, I'm the same age he croaked at.  I have been hoping to live a lot longer than the prick, but I'll settle for a few merry years.  Most of all, though, I need to land a book deal.  To show the bastard.  I wanted to show the prick up while he was still alive, but now it's enough to outperform his life's work, which wasn't all that great.  He had a wider following than yours truly at the time of his croaking, so there is work to do.

poem: Promptly

vultures dress for Mardi Gras
constables loaded for bear
buck skin fringe down the long arm
tan suede leather
blond angel bathyculpian has edged weapons made of blue diamonds
she sings Amazon anthems sweet as Sirens
clipping heads
as needed
not too excessive 

Part of my new look....the fashion agenda

Last month I invented a new fashion item, the raccoon tail beret.  The hat is military surplus, and the tail,  hand stitched into it,  is genuine, bought off ebay, my El Dorado.  The city of gold, and not a sleazy, gas guzzling pimp car.

 The new item raises a conflict of semantics:  Is it acceptable, or is it offensive, to use the phrase 'coon-ass?'   It works perfect for my raccoon tail beret, and I was thinking of doing a sales campaign called, "Coon-ass."   Like, "I'm wearing the coon-ass look."  And it is in no way bigoted.   Here, and in all cases, 'coon-ass' refers to the type of hat Davy Crocket or Daniel Boon wore, to great effect, both for real and on television.  'Coon' is short for 'raccoon,' and has diddly squat to do with any person's appearance or social status.  Anyone at all should enjoy wearing one of my raccoon tail berets, and no one should shy from saying 'coon-ass.'  I'm coon-ass, and I look sharp.

Frankenstein Meets The Human Genome Project

Social progress, counting back the last arm load of centuries, might be compared to science fiction.  Suppose that science is a sort of Frankenstein movie, in which vaccines and weapons both get made up at once.  There is a geometric progression to the sciences, which is much like Son of Frankenstein, Frankenstein meets the Wolfman,   Dracula, Son of Dracula, Lon Cheny Also Meets Bela Lugosi Somewhere Else,  and then we find splinter groupings and mutations, all forming more sci-fi flicks.  Meantime, scientists work their wonders.

In hard science terms, there was popular bombast in the media over The Human Genome Project.  The cover story was that science was to discover a pattern in the DNA that was to enable quickie cures for all that ails ya'.   Ya' gots' a medical woe,  bearded wonders will find it on their big chart, and select a course of treatment, tailor made for you.   The Project gave me the willies because I tend to think it's also the stuff ethnic cleansing is best informed by, like a blue book for inferiority.   These sorts of things can go either way, in terms of helping you or killing you off.  But I haven't heard much about the Human Genome Project these last few passing years.  I wonder where it went.

Maybe the Project escaped.   Maybe it's devolved into hundreds of failed human experiments, and they managed to get out of their cages.  Some of them may have run for public office, and, heaven forbid, won.  Others are working on Wall Street.  Their flat heads shiny with hair gel, clever accessories strung from the bolts in their necks.  They are in a merger with Dracula and the Wolfman.   So much for better living.

poem: Pleasure Food

chawing on the eight foot stoneroni
sausage costing nineteen thousand piasters
diners appeal to the law
let us eat the forbidden home-made melancholia fixer
with florid pickle 



Idle  Talk

got sinuses like the Carlsbad Caverns
coccyx crazing  like the San Andreas Fault
sweet-spot in the dome one barren old declivity
cracks suturing till the reaper comes
my voice walks through damp tissue 
up the seventeen flights of concrete steps with rusting rebar
tone bangs into a bend behind a remarkably big nose
words find their way out a mile of muslin wrappings
upon finding an ear 
no juice
they bubble up  in soda pop colors and croak
without a funeral
an oracular miasma blends with military work togs
no record

short fiction: Bindelini's New Behavior Pattern

Bindelini couldn’t help remembering how he used to feel about his life.  He found the dusty dust jacket from his Vhs copy of Sex Organs, a very hip movie from the late 1990s.  The dust cover was underneath an improvised shelf, a space Bindelini never dusted, squashed flat, with a foot print, certainly his, in the dirt and cob web filaments.   He had his VCR and deep dish twelve inch television   on the shelf above, with a load of VHS tapes stacked, out of their dust covers, on the ‘unit.’ All appliances are a ‘unit.’   Not at all typical of the old Bindelini, the new one picked up the dirty dust cover from one his old favorite movies, Sex Organs, and threw it in his flimsy plastic trash receptacle.   The receptacle was a cheap imitation of the more famous Rubbermaid type of office shit can.  Bindelini got his at a dollar store.

He had grown slightly more decisive in the last twelve months, and clear as a reading on a digital micrometer, he had grown as a person.   No more hoarding.  No more retaining posessions that aren’t helping his case.  The movie made him remember Dahlia, with whom he had hoped to have at least a tolerable working relationship at Pressley Ridge Schools, where both losers worked as ‘residential advisors. ‘   They served as role models for people with special needs.  And a fucking fine role model Dahlia provided, trading sex for drugs or over-time and other little job perks.    That relationship was a sore spot in Bindelinis memory banks, and the movie reminded him of her.   One thing they had in common was that they both loved that really hip, cool movie about lively, entertaining career criminals.

To further support throwing out the old movie, his favorite podcast hostess had talked about one of her gay men friends, who was still stuck in the 1990s.  The 20teens are  taking a purposefully innocuous state of effete suspicions and loyalist mendacity.  The friend of the hostess still wanted to be a lovable tecky in a garage band, playing some Smash Mouth covers.  No one is doing cover tunes anymore.   No one still hoards stuffed animals.  Men don’t bother with male bonding stunts, because they are either in the click or out.  To Bindelini, this was like a message directly to his heart from the podcast hostess’ lips.   Divorce from the 1990s.

There was one thing that was still viable in 2014, and that would have to be ritual.  People always had them, and always needed them.  There remained, too, the need to forget.   In the 1960s, in film, it was taught to us all that people go to bars, friendly ones, with people in suits and fedoras, and in the bar they drink to forget the things that didn’t work out too cool for them.  That approach stopped working for people around the time the post offices started laying off postal workers, in the 1970s.  It became popular to refer angry people to a shrink.  

This brings us all to the disposition of an outdated movie on VHS, which is also outdated, even though you can watch all the movies you want on your VHS unit.  It’s the penalty phase of a situation, an ordinary, unimportant situation.  And it is spiritual, for elsewise, it would be acceptable to just toss the film in the trash.  Bindelini found his Crossman pump action BB pistol, set the film Sex Organs on his mantle, placed a phone book behind the video cassette, and took to firing pellets at it.  His first shot grazed the door to the film, the thing that gets lifted inside your VCR, so the cogs and magnetizers can have at the sanctity of human perception, against an ordinary perception of ordinary daily life.  Films make people wish they were different from themselves, and more similar to members of a super hip ensemble cast. Bindelini’s second shot cracked into the clear plastic in front of the tape inside, but the cast of the film was undoubtedly still alive, the way you can’t kill a bank robber by just shooting into his/her house, through a window.  The perp must be where the bullets are, just like a commoner has to be where the action is to get anywhere in this life.   Aiming more carefully, his third pellet hit the spool of VHS tape somewhere in the mid section, and was most unlikely to have done much harm to the super-hip.  It was then that he needed to think about what he was doing.  How many pellets must he shoot before a film such as Sex Organs dies?  Is ‘hip’ able to die, same as a person?  And will it’s death result in a future worth taking out of it’s dust jacket?  Of course not.  But still, we need rituals.  We need a source of hope.  Bravo, Bindellini, for doing exactly the right thing.

my new email address is: brusistan@gmail.com

pardonez,  but my old web site, brucereisner.com, is down, and with it, the old e-mail account, br@brucereisner.com.


So be a welcome guest at the new address:

brusistan@gmail.com

World Cup of Supremacy

Watching  world cup soccer today on a very large television, I am largely intimidated.  The game was riveting, I'm not making a fuss about the game of soccer.  This not about the National Anthem that was played at the beginning, which sounded like Deutchland Uber Alles.  There were no lyrics, just military enthusiasm in instrumental form, but if there had been lyrics, they might have been, "We have completed ethnic cleansing, have never been more buff and are fucking proud."

But it wasn't the music that put me off.   It was the way both teams look like Aryan archetypes of the master race.   It looked like Hitler's status as first runner-up at WW 2 may have been posthumously advanced.   The Nazis who fled to Argentina should be especially proud of the remarkable resemblance their adopted team had to the German one.  At least two countries on the globe are practicing some lean, mean eugenics.

Maybe I'm just too old to assimilate cultures more distant  than the convenience store down the street.  There was a terrifying official on the side lines.  He was  a short old man with a gigantic bald head, the only person on the field in a blue business suit, who looked as much like a geneticist/vivisectionist/fearless leader  as possible.  I have no idea who he was or what he was doing there, but it could have been to bask in the glory of his best human experiments.  Looked like they worked out swell.

Love those 'what are you most like' games on Face Book

The last one was the best yet.  I'm a spotted eel.   That's the deep sea menace I remind the folks  of, who made the test up, the most.   They said a panel of judges determined that people with my preferences in shoes are long and slimy.   There were other criteria.

Some of my FB friends learned that they are near enough to Ghandi to sit cross legged in a loin cloth, others found that, had they been a bootlegger, they would have been Al Capone.  The games all start out with a post on your Facebook, asking which object of awe and repute you are the most similar to.  For a teaser, they tell you that one of your friends is just like Ed Gein.  Or Dag Hammershold.  Or Dr. Ruth.   Or a baby hedgehog.   You could turn out to be similar to something, but you have to answer a series of questions, or content yourself just being your own ill-defined cabbage-like self in the produce department of daily life.  You can decide for yourself who or what you look and act the most like,  while, too, some people earn a position that defines them, but it doesn't cost a red cent to let the good people on FB decide it all for you.

I'm an eel.   A spotted eel.   Wiggling at 'ya.

fiction for people in a foul mood

July 3, 2016

Food hasn’t tasted the same without the fly shit.  There isn’t one single insect, living or dead, in the institution,here, and it’s a testament to the modern pesticides the state is getting, probably from the Monsoona Corporation.   It’s roughly the same food our soldiers get.   But their food probably has fly shit in it because they have to eat outdoors much of the time.  I’m envious. Anything cooked in a commercial kitchen is required to be free of pests, and it’s easy as shit to kill ‘em all and let God sort ‘em out, using a perfectly safe chemical spray product.   But it just isn’t the same without bug droppings.  If they ever let me out of here, I will look into a way to market gnat shit, for cooking.

The taste test proved to me, years ago, that no one should have to fret having house flies.  I had  a whole house, full of house flies, and, oh, I guess I can come clean about some dirt, like maybe I’m a hoarder, when in a position to be one.    It’s impossible to be one, here, so here again, I think the Powers are onto something.   ‘They,’ (neighbors, the police, the council) felt I was unsanitary, and that was one of several things that ‘cost me my freedom.’  As if that was possible.  You can’t seize a fruitcake from a swain who don’t got one.

Which is another reason, on a sad note, to put people in jail, since they can’t pay a huge fine, or their taxes.  Some of the the perps in my block didn’t sign up of mandatory health care.  It a weird point of philosophy, something like “your tonsilectomy is part of my fair standard of living.”   People who went through harrowing cancer treatments are correct in feeling that other people should go through similar discomforts.  Most importantly, the collectivised economic balance would go all to fuck if enough people tried to opt out of all the generous options the Fed wants everyone to have.   

I’m here for being a pig and a  public health menace.  Most of my new friends here did worse things, things they actually planned to do.  Any jerk could tell that’s what makes people really, really dangerous.  The meditations of the heart are one fat fucking son of a bitch.

July 4, 2016

The generousity of this prison warms my heart, uniformly, each day.  Everyone on my cell block has a view of fireworks, through small windows, which when looked through closely, yield as much of the sky as any free person can take in.  There is only so much sky to look at, the piece holding  the picture of fire fountains  and rockets is as visible to me as it is to people who took the trouble to organize their belongings and mop their floors with greater regularity than did inmate number 7111577842.  Just call me ‘7’ for short.   I would have been popped sooner or later for poor hygiene, but you can wind up here sooner, yet, if you have a habit of running at the mouth.

July 5,2016

Woke with this nameless dread, nothing so serious as to call in the shrink, but I was feeling scared, nervous.  For no reason at all.  What could possibly go wrong inside a jail?  Maybe there is such a thing as a portent.   One of guards, Fidelia, a woman I lust after in my heart, came to my cell door, just a few hours ago, and ordered me out and into a meeting in the conference room.  What a goddam rip!  I was adjusting beautifully to prison life, and they’re kicking me out.   They need room for worse people, and besides, the administration got a report.  I was making some of the inmates uncomfortable.  Seems I’m a bad conversationalist, along with being an awful housekeeper.  But there I was, self-conscious, being stared at by a panel of men and women, all in agreement that I don’t belong in jail.  I just don’t fit it.

Now I can’t decide which is more upsetting.  Being ejected like a dull razor blade, or that my newest friends were harboring some irrational animosity towards me.  I had the same problem when I was in college, and dozens of times again in the work force.  And I’m usually so goddamed positive and adaptive.   Maybe that’s the problem.   Envy is a confusing and diabolical emotion.  It was envy that caused the fatal rift between Stalin and Trotsky.   I grant that is old news, but in principle, it’s one of many reasons the New Commradship isn’t working as well as the Intelligensia had hoped.  I was born with a measure of social grace, and loud, inarticulate boors resent me for it.

Shocked at the news I got earlier today, I lost control for a few seconds and started begging them to let me stay where I am.   The fireworks display last night had been splendid, and the food is palatable, even without fly shit.  But against my protestations, they don’t want me here any longer, and are already at work,  finding me an apartment in a supervised complex.  I’m being assigned a legal guardian.  Someone with a violent hatred for disorder.

embedded video of a reading: Me and Noodles, a cat journal

Thanks for joining me for my cigar smoking period.   Been puffing stogies during virtually all projects, written, visual, and now spoken.   It's a phase.  I'll get over it.  The way I got over my business casual wardrobe, which didn't net the really cool outcome I'd hoped for.

Inspired.  Inspired, and it's a Sunday. Like that automatically relates to logorhea at a time and place picked like a bingo bean.   It's a memory piece about the time I had to get a gonad seen by a medical pro.  Brand new to Pittsburgh one week in 1991, I woke in my brand new sleeping room rented for chump change in a flop house in South Oakland.  So long ago, narrow, crooked Semple Street had a diverse ethnic entomology composed of row houses, apartment dumps, flop houses, and store front business as spare and cavernous as an an ant colony.  Upon that waking from sleep in a brand new funhouse, it was to become evident that my left ball was swollen and was hurting like a motherfucker.

Not having established a primary care physician, a term that hadn't been invented yet, I was in a panic and had no idea how to begin the process of obtaining treatment for a sick friend inside a much regarded scrotum.  There are hospitals all over the place in Oakland, in easy walking distance of my latest hovel, but it cost, even back then, a kings ransom to get a pimple squeezed inside a hospital.  Man of the street, I learned long ago the cheapest way to get medical care is to snake it out.

I took to walking, down the hall, through the communal kitchen,down two flights of stairs to the street.  It's the walk.  The walk of urgency that fits like blinders on a junk dealers donkey .   Imagine in this model that relief from testicular pain, and, as well, from the terror of all grimmest possibilities, like death from cancer of the balls, is a carrot on the stick in front of the burro's long determined face.    It took several attempts to find an office with a doc's shingle that was taking new patients.  But I found Doctor Flomm's office, and was able to get the ball treated with modern antibiotics, upon receiving  great news.  It was some sort of infection, totally treatable with some pills the good doctor had in his closet in a yellowing, moldering bowery-looking office.   I jumped the gun, a little, in this discourse.

Semple Street was half a ladder wrung upscale from a bowery at the time my nut got festered.  The office was store front below a shitty aparmtent building, charming like On the Waterfront.  Upon entering I got a chill, and it was a hot day, because the eight or nine people seated in the narrow, grubby waiting room looked like either vagrants or other wise retired to a hovel, walking distance.  This is the shit commonalities are made of.

Everyone looked afflicted, pained and dirt poor.  Mother Teresa would have loved that waiting room.   It took me a moment, standing in the door way, to decide what to do.  One of the patients moaned assistance.  "You gotta write your name on that tablet over there," he informed me, pointing to the tablet on a wooden ledge along a dispensing window, where a nurse might have been sitting, on a salad day.   The booth behind the window was empty, and much in disarray, as if the billing department routes around in paper like a gerbil.  I still wasn't convinced that this was really a doctor's office, and not an opium den or bookie joint.  It was the real deal.  Cutting to the chase, the doctor called me in after seeing everyone on the list, me last, last guy to come in, sick.  Not that I really know, now,  what was going on, but I'll venture this was a charitable drop-in center run by a very good doctor.  He checked the situation down there and gave me some antibiotic pills, physicians samples, the keystone of cheap off the street medical care.  That swollen, painful, infected testicle cost a gentle thirty five dollars to treat.  Took the pills.  They worked like a charm.

Back to sermonizing.   ECT patients sometimes return to sermonizing, after about six months lag time, after having their organ of thought chicken fried.  That has not been necessary, thanks, affirmations, for what appears to be mental health sufficient to eat and shit without they come and throw a net over me.  I'm  thankful on a secular basis for not getting strapped down for my own good.    It is affirmative to be walking around in open space, at liberty to fritter time.   Dr. Flomm made a great impression.  He may have had had a stroke at some time, as he moved about like someone partially zapped, but he knew his gonads, and fixed one of mine.  It was very affirmative.  Affirmations.

Info-toon

My Battle With Euro-Trash

This was back when I had good hair, and I might have been thankful for it.  Should have been.  This was in the early 90s.  Still had good skin, like that was enough, during that baleful time of cultural tide pooling.  Filthy fucking sea life grows amok in that clammy littoral  precipitation.  I was a waiter in an asshole restaurant on Carson Street.


'Asshole?' you ask. "How can a restaurant be an asshole?" some may interrogate. I submit a response.  This joint was a dive and a failure among more popular bistros on Carson, was poorly run, and was making me look like a fool.  And I wasn't earning shit there.  Just up the street, there was a much more popular restaurant, with better food, better interior design, and all the waiters had the Euro-trash look.  It was, and may still be, haven't seen anyone doing it lately, an expensive, time consuming and brutally elitist look requiring ultra trendy hair care, which I never went in for.  Didn't matter, though, because I had thick curly hair, which is wrong, all wrong, for the type of hair style that was in at the time.  It was best to have thick straight hair, razor cut on one temple and grown into a precision mobile flap of hair on the other.  It should move with you in a sassy way, especially when you make a dramatic turn of your long, linear northern european head.  I'm weaselly looking, now and then, and my hair, then, was completely useless for the look of the day, the Euro-trash.

I suffered economically and socially for not being able to do the Euro-trash look.   I still hold animosity towards that postmodern time and place, and toward certain individuals I'm too civilized to mention here.  The ostracism for not measuring up was worse than getting cremated.

Hey now. Some flash fiction. Title is: Pesticide Story

I keep checking the fly paper.

The insects are triangulated along the amber curlicues, Raggedy Ann's death hair giving beige tints to sunbeams coming in the living room window. Reminds of motion picture film, though working different. You have to get right up to it and roll your eye balls along the sticky, pungent hoops. Somehow flies wind up on their back, in the adhesive primal honey toxin. Maybe it proves everything uses all it's strength trying to get comfortable. Or else it's misery, as happens to bugs. All kinds of flying insects are dead on the roll of film hanging from a curtain rod near the television. 

Now I'm finding these teensy people sticking to the fly paper. Often, they are still alive, and screaming their hearts out. People the size of house flies, pinioned in the sticky goo, with a pesticide. I think it takes longer for them to die than the bugs, because the poison is safe for humans. See how our humanity goes all to shit, some how. But you have to be greatly reduced in size. 


Now everything has gone too far. There is a dying unicorn sticking to the fly paper. It is also the size of a house fly. Didn't see it come in the house.

This woman keeps loitering on my front porch. Platinum blond. She comes up on the porch, stares inside the house, then goes out into the apple trees. I'm thinking about maybe going out there. 

Posing as a media personage

Thanks for asking, the cigar smoking experience went phenomenally.  The observations are just as I had them, while smoking.

Leftist, rightist, who gives a shit?   Only your fashion statement matters.   No one responds to an explanation of some obscure european text translated from who the fuck knows.  There is no such thing as a moral imperative.  All purposes are best served in the form of a dog and pony show.   Or a tune.   Just show things to people.  Sing to them.

Stylistically, most people are a complete failure.  So it is easy to gain advantage, and look better than other people by comparison.  In the picture above, I am wearing a beret, and am blowing a smoke ring.  Smoke rings are not always perfectly round.  I've blown better rings.  But this was a fair one.

As a child I wondered if I would ever wind up some where wearing a beret and smoking a cigar, and it happened the other day.   This is a coming of age thing.  It's not to be made big balls out of.   But it's notable.

Serious Health Concerns

Pimples are a leading cause of death.  On the face they are grounds for suicide, while when a skin eruption occurs on the ass, it's carbuncle-ville, a place where anyone could have convulsions.

Found one.  Might be in the process of getting larger.   Could be an ingrown hair, egged on by ass germs, of which there are many.  I'm not so morbid as to rule out that the infection on my ass could heal up like normal.   Or there are space aliens inside it, that get eight feet long and pop out, in a frenzy of blood and vicious tiny teeth.

Went through heck of frustration looking for a tube of antibiotic ooze that I know is somewhere near, but I couldn't find it.  That was almost as bad as finding the pimple on my ass.  It hurts when pressed, or when sat on.   Son of a bitch.

...........

HERE'S A TOO FUCKING IMPORTANT UPDATE:  I found the antibiotic cream I was looking for, and put some on my ass.   Now there is greater hope of recovery from the large, painful skin eruption.  I'm reminded of how I got very painful, bleeding 'rhoids a few years back, and high-tailed it to Westview, where they have 'rhoid cream for a dollar a tube at Dollar Tree, and  they also sell anti itch cream, and unguents too medicinal and personal to go into here.  They have ointments for your snatch, if you have one, and you can find out if you are either pregnant or liable for child support payments using a one dollar test for human infestation by dimwitted dysfunctional fetus.   I'm not a huge fan of people reproducing.  Good thing you can find out if you're knocked up, on the cheap.  They even sell single use drug tests, in case your baby is a dope fiend.  Wonder if I can get a job as a public health official?

Snakes are always good news...

...ran into one on the city steps, way up high, on the way home.   The root of superstition was about six flights up, wallowing amiably on a  narrow, weed choked landing, up reinforced concrete structure following the rollicking hill side.  I'm in the mystical communications business, and would be an ass to pass up the snake for some type of omen or portent, especially since it's ass was on a stair case.  Good mix of snake, and snaking long city steps up the arduous yet amusing hillside.    I'ts like Wild Kingdom and National Geographic, in the open air.  There is the principle of ascendancy, which is big balls to an astrologer.  Or sooth sayer.  Or mystic.   I'm also brucereisner.com, and can take payment for goods and services using a pay pal button.   Reasonable rates on  tarot readings, hypnosis and divination of all sorts.

It's otherworldly Friday the thirteenth, with numinous snake on steep city steps.  I'm miking it.

Ugly News Anchors, Only!

Remember how men didn't always have to have good teeth?  It's a fact that doesn't charge right up at you, like a banana spider, but physical beauty has become requisite to appear on television, especially on news programs, since news isn't all that interesting by itself.  Back when I was knee high to a grasshopper, they still had fat ugly men reporting news on television.   Short, squat bald men with nose hair in garlands in front of sagging, sweating snarling upper lips.  This was when a man's paunch was on his lap, in front of him, far in advance of his slack chin, where mass belongs.  Good posture and a trim physique is Satan's cedar closet.

As in mainstream television media.   It's pretty boy and party girl news anchors, every pert, trending, morally  amoebic  one them, that are the cause of all the mass homicides, like the most recent, this time a love sick pretty boy who didn't get kissed,  and did perform a massacre, with full metal jacket selfie to his own head area, like to prove he doesn't play favorites in his critique of human kind.  His manifesto was over a hundred twenty pages.  Such a waste.   He could have  been doing skits for Law and Order.  Bet he would have been willing to work for below union scale.

 But the handsome news people on the tube aired people in purple passion, speaking out, yelling, crying, begging, beseeching and pontificating in between shots of the killer and his victims, with gossip  column candy  news about the perp's private life.    The prick gets to be famous and important, even if everyone is mad at him and at the NRA, Ted Nugent, Charlton Heston and Randolf  Scott, who of all people, should be forgiven because he was a closeted gay who probably hated violence.

There would be less of the type of homicide if the news stopped putting it's thousand pretty faces on the matter.   Hideous  reporters only.   Hunchbacks, maximum height under five foot one, no firm chiselled  jaws, abs, buttocks and for fuck sake, no good hair.   Greasy come-overs only, men.  It's your homely job to stop the insanity!  Peace and public safety is just an ugly duckling away.

Divertimento from dreary saga: Why I like Ailene Wuornos

Someone kvetched about one of my blog posts, and it had to do with a comment about the nature of sick criminal violence.    All I said was that it takes more skill to perform an atrocity with a knife than it does with a gun, and since the piece was about a man who rushed in and shot up a psyche hospital that afternoon, during which time  I was home playing solitaire, the late, notorious  Richard Speck was a perfect object lesson in clinical deviance. If it was my job to hire a mechanic at a gas station, I'd hire Richard before I'd hire the Western Psyche shooter, because Richard is the more dexterous of the two.  But someone had to  attach a moral judgement to social science, and I feel cheap.  Critics.  They're always people with a bachelor's degree, and they think their shit doesn't stink.

Well, for anyone who can see  under the green tarp from Home Depot, there's a florid herb garden in the shade.   My readings and viewings are not limited to wholesome family mental hygiene.  And it's not all chilly clinical observations, with greasy notes on yellow legal pads, nervous diagrams stored under an army cot in a grudging comrade's basement, old coils of wire strewn about.  I have been studying the human condition, on the Internet.
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Praises to Youtube.com.....to Hulu.com...to other dot coms that have media about women like Ailene Wuornos.  Ailene died a complete person for having pathological convictions, thus she was  better than a spineless person who doesn't know what he or she wants, even if it's someone nice, because people like that bore me.  I used to drink in dive bars, had occaisson to get smashed with people not completely unlike Ailene, though these were usually men, with long hair like hers, long arms, a long history of abuse and violence and alcoholism and razor-wire frailties, and dare I postulate that  an abused antisocial has commonalities.   They form relationships with other losers and marginalized deviants.  Well I have feelings towards the Family Of Man.

Ailene was a victim of abuse and neglect.    Unlike most women, her response to it was more typical of men then women, if you look past the prostitution, which is a tactical disadvantage for she-killers.  Sick-ass homicidal  men get better paying day jobs, in construction, can afford a pick up truck, and can pay hookers, like Ailene Wuornos, so I have to give her bonus points for adaptation.  She was the Helena Rubenstein of random homicide.

 She resorted to violence with more conviction than a mere cat-fighting drunk biker chick.  She did the things men do when they are like her.  I must report an impressionistic observation I had after watching Nick Btoomfieild's humanizing, wonderful documentary about Ailene.  She reminds me of Ted Nugent.  Had she been graced, as a child, with  proper love, care, and a blue Fender Mustang with practice amp, she would have become a rock star and not a serial killer.  She would have had a normal career in a bar band, doing covers of Wang Dang What A Sweet Poontang.

In the 1980s the God of Literary Humanism, Raymond Carver, got famous for his book What People Talk About When They Talk About Love.  Being, sadly, 2014, far and wrongfully  advanced from past hope, people talk about love among the atrocities.  The love of Ailene's life ratted her out, soon as cops showed up, and the hard drinking woman of Ailene's dreams also got a cut off the proceeds from books and flicks about Ailene.  Boo, hiss.  Still, that the killer loved and pursued personal ambitions should be affirmed by secular humanists everywhere.   Believers should like that she found religion right before her execution.  And, to this amateur gynecologist/head shrinker, the woman was a unique and accomplished American.  She went out with optimism.  I've known a lot of de-socialized, kooky spent cartridges, and few were as dangerously interesting as she.