Wednesday, April 30, 2014

more paint squirting re: Donnie and Stan Saga

Juan finished his set with the 70s classic song Having My Baby.  He sang the Anka song with all the heart he had put in it when singing it for paternity courts nation wide.  Much of his software engineering wages were lost to child support payments, yet his singing was pretty as it ever was.  You can't steal pulchritude, no matter how many kids it had out of wedlock.

The three songs Juan sung cemented his position as a comrade in the beach commune that inhaled Pacific Ocean germs and irritants.  He had no intention of stealing that Adam Levine guitar.  He had innocently pined only to make music with it, like the way the Maharishi Maheshyogi said 'unposessive love.'    Juan was a social beach crooner.  As he returned the instrument to Maria, an overgown horse shoe crab emerged, standing tall on scrawny hind legs, it's right fore arm held cross its bony, scaly green wet breast plates.

Dribs and Drabs of the S and D Saga I'm sweating over....

A wrapper off a pack of Nutty Bars blew down the filthy beachfront, away from the eight illusory comrades.   Too much flavored vodka, and one of the guests began unraveling.  The mustache, two feet wide and weighing eight pounds, with liquor residue included, was a fooler.  Buttwhack Morgan couldn't hold his liquor any better than an upper middle-class Asian/Jewish second grader.  He was blithering.  And crying, in bouts, when not self agrandizing or else indulging a private sentiment you'll find examples of in the DSM 4.  He's an S and M maven.

"I was in a real, a real, a real fucking comic strip.  A regular main character.  Same as fucking Superman."

Stan was the more sensitive of the two former duplicate key merchants.  "Superman was the more dearly loved of the two, Buttwhack.  You can't do shit about popular trending.  It's what fucked me and Donnie out of the key business."

Buttwhack's former companion in adventure, the young Rod Stsudley, was in the witness protection program, something about a ring of perverts in Albania.   The comic got dropped from syndication.

Back to my Stan And Donnie Saga

If I hadn't got side tracked with the silly rant below, about politics (assholes,) I would have sooner gotten to Juan's need to play Maria Von Findrich's guitar, which had been designed, approved and mass marketed by Adam Levine.   Go Adam.  Damn nice guit-box,  for lite lucre.  It was among Juan's fascinations.

Buttwhack Morgan was the first to notice the stranger approaching, a whole side of BM's giant handlebar mustache pointing to the fatigued intruder, the five dear comrades sharing their variegated afterglows from respective coitus and other treats.  "I think some sumbitch is approaching," he observed.

"Vy ziss good be da' 4th horfman de la apocalypse, by Yeezus!" the three Von Findrich sisters croacked out all at once.  (Why, this could be the forth horseman of the Apocolypse, by Jesus)

Stan and Donnie were two good Americans.  They didn't jump to any rotten bigoted conclusions.    A life together making dupicate house keys in a two by nothing small business taught them to judge not and let people get their duplicate keys.  "Hey, asshole, what the fuck you doing here?"  Donnie called to Juan, as he reached expectorating proximity, as snuff dippers from Harvard might say.

Maria's guitar grew hot and began smoking as Maria tried to play and sing a tune.  "Ouch, Dis ztingking guitar is burning mein fingers off,"  she complained.

Juan snatched the guitar from poor, smoldering Maria Von F, snapped the ax into playing position against his vertical striped  pantaloons, and launched into his Paul Anka songs.  He started with, My Way.

Monday, April 28, 2014


I'll get back to my continuing story of agonizing making-do, featuring Donnie, Stan, the Von Findrich sisters, Empress Cornhola, and Buttwhack Morgan.   But it's time for a circuitous rant about what's fucked about Pittsburgh grass roots politics, if there is such a thing.  On principle, hoards of people whining together about disparate hostilities doesn't alter the conduct of Monsanto, the NSA, the  military-industrial complex  or plump, soft headed legislators with pockets bulging with bribes.

The same hoards have been pretending there is hope for the Occupy Movement.   The late Beatle, John Lennon, on a video interview, said that Flower Power, of the hippie generation, didn't work, and people needed to change tact with regard to social reform.   Flower Power was deliberately neutralized by all the tactics the Fed has up it's sleeve, such as divide-and-conquer, selective subsidies (these bastards get $, those ones don't, thus they hate each other and do the Fed's job of fucking up the agenda,)  commercialization (we have a product or service that will enhance your leftist social status,) and anyone can demonize anyone for any reason, or for no reason, because a major problem with grass roots politics is that people are assholes, irrespective their hopes and machinations, and like much of the middle class, people need to prove they are better than someone, irrespective of any scale by which 'better' can be evaluated.   Maybe they sell environmentally friendly cosmetics, or they read books by famous radicals.  More nauseating here, Pittsburgh is rife with living legacies of the more radical past, and these kids and grand-kids of American Leftist Fun serve as status symbols for people with no connection to a past more exciting and impassioned than now.

Quick answers are dreadful, but can help:  Mass, highly focused, litigation.    Enforcement of existing anti-trust laws.   Expanding definitions of anti-trust law, with timely change in the way monopolistic competition is fought against.  A better case for equality.  A resurgence in generousity, without demanding tax exempt status or deduction.   Less bullshitty NGOs.  And now, for a cartoon....

Monday, April 21, 2014

Last Night at Von Findrich's

With all the commotion of an orgy followed by a group sing along, no one noticed the mysterious stranger treadling the dead horse shoe crabs and syringes littering the filthy beach front.   Good choice of sandals on this mendicant.  Few needles were getting through the soles, and his chances for living into next year were decent.  It was Juan.  Juan was a displaced software engineer from Silicon Valley.   His catamaran exploded months earlier, a jerry-rigged pontoon had filled with some evil gas, and Juan likes to puff a blunt.   His asshole was blown six feet across, and he now wears a bag, inside of a wine skin, but it's a colostomy.

Juan had been told of the music.   He too shopped Kmart, and had lived in Westview, Pennsylvania, at one time.   There is no honor left.  No professionalism.   Only a nation of dirty little snitches with a name tag.  Juan asked, and was gleefully informed, that it was the Von Findrich sisters who had purchased the very last Adam Levine guitar, when that Kmart store discontinued music.    From the day Juan saw Picasso's painting of an old guitarist, he dreamed of sitting on a filthy, polluted beach with an ax like the duffer in the painting.  For decades he rented guitars from mean inner city music stores while he took his lessons, skipping lunch for his hour away from his day job at the leather tannery.  With each new season, the rent on his guit box would be hiked, and he had to stop eating breakfast.  When he completed learning three Paul Anka songs, he quit his lessons, and began his long, agonizing search for satisfaction.   For Juan had been told, through his people, that there was an Adam Levine guitar at that clearance sale, and he rode his sting ray bicycle, prepared to tie the guitar to the basket.   A Levine, for just 19 dollars and change, drives people to do this desperation.   An Maria Von F wheeled her walker into that very Kmart, and copped that Levine that Juan so badly needed.    Months later, he got degree, online, worked like a slave in Silicon Valley,and was let go  so the company could better steal Juan's intellectual properties.  But he was a damn good sport about that.  It was the Von Findrich sisters that he couldn't forgive.

Thursday, April 17, 2014

Virility Hazards

Some of the most virile kids in my high
school class kicked early from heart disease in their early fifties.    It's been reported by talking heads and columns there is a correlation between early puberty and early croaking, so, me, having been a 'wuss,' can gloat freely for having an enviable circulatory system now, and a half bright future, as opposed to none for the more popular, better liked jocks who are now toast.  Some of the decedents had been super studs, while I was still a lisping, puny, weakling on the perifery of social orders too obnoxious to compete in.   The lisp is now deep and sonorous.  I'm taller than most former super studs.  It was an optical illusion, squished in time.   The new evolution is limpid.  

Sunday, April 13, 2014

Stan and Donnie saga...

The barge, formerly rowing in the distance, was real close to shore, and the five dear pals  were almost certain they knew who it was.    So certain, they didn't spare a second snatching up five leaf rakes to shoost aside all the dead horse shoe crabs, straggling algae encrusted acrylic wigs, and shot syringes covering the beach.   As the barge pulled up, boa striations in the filthy sand, from raking, created the illusion of nice-ness in the beaming  red cloacal sunset.

Empress Cornhola, and Buttwhack Morgan, both from Rhode Island, originally, were saluting on deck of their barge.   Assholes went the whole way around the Cape of Incomprehensible South America, near where Mengele hid out from the Israeli  secret police.  Scenic.  Frugal.  Nice way to travel when jobs are scarce.  Plenty of eats in the ocean.    Everyone on the beach rushed to the boat.  A couple hundred slaves poured out the back and took a piss against the side of the barge.  Everybody hugged.

Buttwhack was a notorious S and M personality, used to be in a comic strip, it was dropped, he became parapetitic, not unlike Stan and Donnie.   The Empress, too, had a mean streak burried under the Queen's formal manners, running a twelve step program for junkies.   It's where she gets her slaves,   She gives them a bottle of methodone, they agree to row the barge.   Works better than an Evinrude out-board.  Right about then her slaves were all working on number eleven in the program they were forced to adhere to.  Soon they would all get a certificate.

Naturally, there was instant group singing to the thrum of that little First Act Adam Levine six string, and later, there was group sex.   By superb freak of genetics, one of the three sisters, identical triplets,  liked flagellation, and Buttwack was there for her.  The other two loved to watch, and I'm leaning to the view that this is a healthy deviation in their trebbled gene assemblage.  The Empress whipped slaves, while Stan and Donnie busied them selves in a variety of supportive touchings.   They kept a book about massage in the van, under the boxes and boxes of Nutty Bars.  Soon, both men recovered their long lost libidos, long ago weakened by a diet of Nutty Bars,  and the females present were all too happy to  let the two displaced, marginalized comrades hop on top.  Then more singing to that sexy musical instrument from Kmart.

Saturday, April 12, 2014

Donnie and Stan were getting morbid about their loss of now long ago.   "We coulda'  made a shitload off the burgeoning self-storage industries, if Walmart hadn't done what it did to us," Donnie balked.  Like every night, piles of synthetic costume wigs washed onto the sand so enriched with motor oil.  Sea gulls pecked at landed sickly sea life.

"Fucking aye," croaked an inebriated Stan, the Von Findrich sisters doing their evening stretches, beachfront, geriatric, formerly flying trapese wonders.   "Them people lose billions of keys to their storage units."

"And we pick up at the back end."

"But we got put out of the duplicate key business."

Hoping to take the two broken men's minds off the cruel past, the sisters, all at once, changed the subject.

"Lookee there," Lillie Von F began.   "Von aff dosse ermit grabs hasss ezcaped from a vig."

Translating, that means, 'One of those hermit crabs has escaped from a wig.'   Happy days, one had, and a re-invigorating hermit crab that was, whether  male, female, of transgendered.  It began to help the two mooning poor travelers see the sunny side of life.  Stan quit looking, balefully, antisocially,  at the dead crab with the syringe in it's arm, took a breath of musty sea air,then lit it out.    The live crab had a faint glow of victory.   Maria Von F went in the bungalow and came out with her First Act Adam Levine six string guitar that she bought at a clearance sale at Kmart, for nineteen dollars and change.  Everybody sang.  Another one of the hermit crabs expired.  A barge was being rowed towards the filthy, greasy, flotsam littered beachfront.

Saturday, April 5, 2014

Spring Nate Harper

People get the book thrown at them for crimes.   The law book, in court, whap,like a Sister's wood ruler at the religeous private schools.  But there are a few arrant secular humanists hobbling in the 'Burgh, and these freaks often recognise this aerosol cheese called 'the social process.'  Criminal justice might be a social issue these doddering old hippies can handle.

There are works of fiction that are also books.  The one being winged up and out, today, is Harper Lee's work, To Kill A Mockingbird.   It's pages overlayed too many real life tragedies to waste your time with, but there's a whole new dance step to twist to:   It's bothersome similarities to the Nate Harper conviction.    The former police cheif is going up the river for nothing I call heinous.  I think he was used as a fall guy for our former mayor, and his sentence should be commuted.   Using someone as a fall guy is worse than any crime Harper may have committed, and advanced rusticated urban sharecroppers don't allow this type of injustice to go uncontested.

Spring Nate Harper, and give the dude his pension.

ya' gotta scroll down to the first part of this saga if you didn't read it already

Go ask a shrink. He/she will tell you it's stupid to get crinkled about the past. Remembering it is asinine. Get shock treatments before you get blue about the Lindbergh kidnapping. Bruno did it, he was executed promptly, quick as the matter can be dropped. And that was back when people worked with pencils, and rendered ECT more liberally than now. Donnie took some treatments during a leg in his long journey, and he cut a lot of keys since getting jolted sensible. He had gone bejeevers.

Stan was better able to tolerate the LSD given them by evil hippies. Soon he adjusted to his new role as care giver to his best friend, who for the nonce, couldn't pick the lock on Cinderella's plether diary. And now I'm sick for remembering.

People don't know miserable till they see a horse shoe crab struggling for breath with an insulin syringe in the crook of one of its puny arms. Every morning a fresh, fragrant wind waved in an armload of used shot syringes and acrylic wigs. The crabs washed in, too, often working like gauchos to escape from the noxious jetsam. Four feet from the reluctant crustacean junkie, one of it's kin folk was trapped in a hair shirt made of a white slave's accessory lost at sea. 

It didn't take Donnie and Stan no time to unload their few belongings and settle for a visit with the Von Findrich Sisters. The retired identical triplet trapese artists from Romania were too happy to oblige the men. They, like many, had had keys made. Famous in the 1920s, the spinsters contracted identical bursitis one day, and quit performing. 

...the Sisters didn't let bursitis jack roll hospitality. Flavored vodka was out like a Rolling Stone's ghetto chic trousers. All five retirees were plastered in no time. One of the horse shoe craps expired. Stan and Donnie took a couple long turns, each,in the Von Findrich Sister's powder room. Months in a van,and fellas get ripe. 

Hearts should bleed for the way Ronnie Spector suffered under the crazies of her talented maniac former husband, Phil Spector.     If Phil was here, in this room, I could only be thrilled for the chance to talk with someone of such singing accomplishments, no matter what his pathology was.  I'd like to know more about it.  Still, Ronnie was victimized.   Phil's in a penitentiary.  I'm at a total loss for conversation. 
It wasn't just Ronnie who was used and wrongfully enthralled.  The stunning Ronnettes were hurt because of the way Phil was.  People with exceptional talents are assholes, same as assholes with no talent.  There are a few concert violinists who don't rate as narcissistic, antisocial, or manic, and I adore these marvels of humanity, but there are usually a few rat fucks in any municipal orchestra.   If you have a copy of the DMS 4, you can tear out pages, lick the back, and slap the fucker on peoples backs.

It is tragically simple to point to celebrities for cheap moral lessons, from the peanut gallery.  Along with the pile of used shot syringes that washed, ocean tide, onto the beach front owned by the Von Findrich Sisters, there came this heap of wigs.    Brunette acrylic wigs, formerly bare clavicle length, currently tangled in sea weed and fiddler crabs, brought visions of the women, or men, who cares, who once looked stunning in one or more of those cheap acrylic wigs.   Scuttled merchant ships, alien disappearances, white slavery, who cares, the wigs were reminding Donnie of Ronnie Spector and the Ronnettes.   Mixed metaphors of hardship sauntered on the water's edge, in sand helped to regrouping with motor oil.

Fresh as daisies from the powder room in the Von Findrich bungalow, the two van mates remorsed the loss of that horse shoe crab that took a hot shot from a discarded syringe.   As the shallow waves took long artificial hair back out to sea,  the two men broke open a new box of Nutty Bars, and eulogized.


Friday, April 4, 2014

social aftermath saga

An awful way for two senior citizen comrades to live!   Stan and Donnie are down to one half of one Nutty Bar per day, each.    Neither man will have to shop for food, though, for months, because they are old school.  They kept  a formerly Amish Dutch Fort Knox in Nutty Bars, in their cellophane twin packs, boxed right for stacking in the back of a vehicle, because they knew their days in the key duplicating trade were popping like flash cubes on Andy Warhol's SX-70 Polaroid.  Wonder what happened to that chatty, kiss and tell camera?  Stan and Donnie have a scrap book of pictures of a storefront, no bigger than a weenie stand, where they took turns making house keys and running the cash register.   Cost 68 cents to get a duplicate for your trailer. Went to a buck ten for a car key, sometimes more,if you had, say, some retarded old truck no one makes anymore.

In come Walmart, and Stan and Donnie have to live in the van.   Some rusting truck owners were screwed.  Walmart doesn't specialize in old boxes of blanks that'll fit heaps and junkers.   Two ex-ex key cutter operators ain't in a position no more to provide you such keys, because of what has happened to them.  Being overly, perhaps insanely, sentimental, I'm going to helping the world better understand these to aging personage, alone together in a Dodge van, living on crap.   It's my burden to write their saga, so look for more of it, here.

Wednesday, April 2, 2014

fiction: Pitiful State

I don't consider myself an emotional swain. Reactionary, but for cause. I can control myself. For
the residue of animal nature in man, there are inanimate objects that keep me from hanging by
my tail, or attacking a brother monkey.

 The Ten Commandments are pragmatic. Absent of a permission slip from the NSA, the first
commandment is a show stopper. The rest of the rules speak for themselves in most cultures,
whether read from the black book in a Midwestern church, or evidenced by a spear attack, for
cuckolding a fellow tribesperson in a New Guinean thatch hut. Not all cultures are as persnickity
as Americans about homicide. Adultery, in some spots, rates a pass for doing the big one. I
don't do violence, and I don't take my misery to a preacher. I sublimate. Using a device.

You can't hear it, for true, but probably know the sound of the gong. "The gong." As if there was
only one in the universe, or all the millions (?) of gongs in use are all one thing, collectively. If
you own a gong, it is the same instrument I have been relying upon for auditory recompense.
The sound is complex, when struck. If it was sight and not sound, it would be a hall of mirrors.
But the carnival of timbre and tone, metalic and musical, crass and fascinating, keeps me from
getting more angry than status quo. The gong keeps my mind off of Timmy Long. I was thinking
about Timmy moments ago, thus I struck the gong. Ka-bong-bing-bing-bing-bing. So resonent,
so many ways sound can play gin rummy.

Timmy was into the samba the way I'm into the gong. He got his thing from watching an old,
maudlin French flick about two elder gametes making love. The suave Frenchman, at the same
time scoring with Miss French Mystique, is having a love affair with the samba , a form of music
that converts to Musak easier than catching fish with M80s. Timmy was one of those creeps
who look cool wearing a beret. Plays a nylon string guitar, needs his head kicked in. At the time,
back at school, people were desperate to prove their mission of equality, e.g. "I'm more
egalitarian than that low-life idiot."

The reason I hate Timmy is because he sabotaged what should have been the love of my life.
Timmy told Sally that I called Susan B. Anthony a dyke. I never said that,or anything like it. I
referred to some other famous darling of the avant-garde as a 'mustachioed dyke.' It was
rhetorical, and everyone at the Witty Campus Bistro knew it, at the time. Timmy is a slandering
low-life samba poser, and it is pure tragedy the way people believe what they are told by creeps
who traffic in deceitful fascination. The purity of the gong sound is honest fascination.

Now before you go postal about a mad fella' winding up like this, Timmy is safe from me. I
wouldn't crush one single ringlet on his Jello mold of blond hair, with highlights. The bells in the
church tower sing of peace and love. Spirituality, if you have to squeeze a boil to exit the puss.
Zen masters are into whacking their gongs. You don't see them going postal on guys who did
them dirt. So what difference does it make how you keep yourself restrained? 

news comments

Just read an article in the Post Gazette about a maaaaah-maaaaah who drowned a kid the other day.  Seems she had a rap sheets like Pretty Boy Floyd for sado-nuts child abuse.  Not the blow hard I once was, a vacuum cleaner bag of New Years resolutions bulging inside, there could be some sort of advanced semantics that will come closer to Snow White when it comes to whapping on a bright yellow smiley face.

There could be such thing as a secular evil force.    There are such people as Superman and Batman.  Alfreds the Butler are a dime a dozen some where in Dubai.  The confusion this causes me results in being irritable,but in other individuals, such as Ms. Nuts Who Drowned a Kid, shitty self-evidence raises green burping sympathy for people too fucked up to be held responsible for anything from buying crackerjacks to having kids.

Evil forces have been messing with minds through our televisions since Leave It To Beaver.  There has always been the nutty, the dangerous, the should-have-been-more-closely-watched.   Somewhere in too warm heck, science mixes these substances in test tubes, and things get worse.   Over and out.