Being a Happy Horace...

The great thing about a lobotomy is that once you've had one, it's impossible to regret it.  The same, pretty much can be said about a lot of the psyche meds people take.  No matter how horrid your life, there's a pill that either makes you happy or oblivious to being sad.  A third thought is the meds could make people unable to complain about what is happening to them.   There are other ways to defeat cognition.

People have been trained, since birth, to cooperate with the government, which is only people.  Fucked up, fallible people.  People with more money, tools, weapons and co-conspirators than you could possibly scare up, mail order.  Some big, powerful fucks.   Some say, sociopathic.  It's what I think.  Unless they are just oblivious to morals and the best interest of a fat shitload of people.

Secular humanism rewarded people for being dim.   Seems everyone with even a passing relationship with the CIA has had a hand in the process of infantilization, that cooing, babbling cajoling process of turning responsible, moral adults into mindless baby conformists, kept too fucking innocent to abhor being homogenized, like a cosmos of chocolate milk and Oreo cookies.  Infantiliazation robs people of their identity, common sense,  and free will.  And all seems okay.

Well don't worry.  Not a bit.  It's hard to regret having a lobotomy, and totally impossible to regret having croaked.   Sooner or later, all hard feelings will rot in the ground or toast in a crematory.  Cheers!

A New Evolution Proposal, or...I don't like Mondays, either.

Not that I won't try anything once, but I'm assuming it is impossible for a person to impregnate a baboon, except by way of some tubing, a lord and lady baboon,  and an ape Viagra.  A person can't have kids by way of apes, dogs or ferrets.  People are defined as people for the their ability to have kids together, no matter what race the two partners are.  A Brit can knock up an Asian.   Asians can knock up all the Scandanavians they can coax into their conversion vans.   An African person can impregnate an Eskimo.   It is through reproduction that the evolutionary process plays Double Yahtzee with Fate, and a species, such as us, can be identified for it's ability to take the Wild Thing to full term, with babies to prove conception took place, and not a mere act of illegal sex.  This is great because it proves that all races are equally human!  We have only differing cultures to blame for the heat and commotion.

Then, of all goddam things, there's the origin of the species debates, all infinity of them, always going on, though not too prominently in mainstream media.  Seems the birds and bees have never been more hush hush, more a matter  of propaganda and mind control.    That's why I want to share my latest thoughts on evolution.   I thought of this shit all by myself, discussed it with a few pals, and even did marginal research on the internet.  My theory, which, it seems, other people also hatched, is that the human races evolved separately, and that conditions on Earth are prime for evolution of precisely the people, animals, plants and germs that are or have been here among us.  White people evolved in Central Europe.  Asians evolved in Asia.  Africans evolved in Africa.   Once a race becomes advanced enough to impregnate a person of a differing race, it's fair game to say someone evolved to the point of being a potential Ward or June, Barack or Michelle, John or Yoko.   It is evolution that coughed up the human condition that everyone has to wheeze through together.  Mankind must resolve it's many hassles.  If only everyone, all at once, could just get drunk and screw.  I think it can all work itself out.

Learning to twing

I was wandering around a nameless small town in Northwestern Pennsylvania, when I happened to come upon a corner bar beside a tiny branch bank office and a used car lot, with it's block long run of cyclone fence enclosure,  and the bar looked mighty cute, so I went on in.  I just happened to be carrying my new violin, and I had hardly just found a bar stool and a beer when a man turned to me and said, "You gotta' twing that type of fiddle.  You bow that fiddle, it sounds like shit."

The place was packed with gnarled, burly, and even some lascivious Appalachians, and it appeared that most of them had purchased the exact same violin I had with me.   They all immediately recognized the injection molded plastic case, with synthetic fabric cover.  "We all got our fiddles off ebay.   On the computer."  a buxom red head told me. Go figure, that is how I came upon mine.


It seemed that some continued to play their pressed plywood veneer fiddles, while others took their fiddle outside and smashed it to kindling with an ax, leaving the splinters to blend with the acres of volunteering compost.   But they all agreed that if they were to play the violin with the bow that came with the violin, there was no hope of sounding anything but hideous.  These are dreadful, cheap-ass violins.  Thirty five dollars, post paid.  Generic fiddles.  It is possible to make pleasing music pitsicato, as the snob-ass motherfuckers at the Symphony say.  But in the ghettos, so diverse, so colorful and bohemian and rusticated, there appears to be a culture that found it's own way in musical development.  Twinging is lovely, while using the bow to play it is like drinking Drano.  I've been twinging mine, they are, to some degree or other, twinging theirs.  It's like finger picking, but more whispering.  With a light ring to the sound.  Obviously, it's why they found the term 'twing.'

 They twing their violins, plucking the strings like a harp.  The bow that comes with the violin is garbage, and the low grade fiddle can't produce sound as well as a good fiddle.  There is no chance of bowing these fiddles to good results.   But it is possible to pluck it graciously.   The Appalachian folk that meets in that corner bar call it 'twinging.'  As do I.  Now that I twing my violin every day, I am closer to the people who most stridently drawled and boasted truth about twinging.   They named it. I assimilated it.  I learned from those musical ridge runners a hundred miles north of here.  I will resume my  twinging as soon this shit is all uploaded to the blog.

Poison Ivy Meadows

I changed the name of the vacant lot behind the house, here, to Poison Ivy Meadows.  The dirt and rocks the poison weeds grow on belongs to the City, and I'll be fucked if I'm about to buy land off the sleazy, tax hiking bastards downtown, but damn if I'm not pleased to be using Poison Ivy Meadows for my private knife throwing haven.    It's all the shit is good for.  There is a huge dead oak tree, died of natural causes (I think) and is leaving it's lumbering earthly remains to great causes, like the Guit Smash and the Fiddle Smash, which is upcoming.  I did the Guit Smash earlier this  year, and the year previous to that I conducted the Mirror Smasher.  Poison Ivy Meadows is way more productive than any number of local nonprofit cultural agencies that I'm too fucking nice to mention by name.

The new name is in honor of the acres and acres of poison ivy growing there.  I get it once a year, and don't care for it, but it never gets too  bad.  I presume it's helping to repel intruders and assholes in general, who have as much right to be there as I do, but of course my work is more important than anything some jerk needs to do.  That's nature.

Mother Nature manufactures the poison ivy, and I provide knife and ax throwing demonstrations.  Other performance work is done, regularly, in Poison Ivy Meadows.  I feel as though I have married Mother Nature, when  I'm throwing hatchets in The Meadow.   She is an asshole some of the times, case in point, the poison ivy.  Also, mosquitos, arm pit hair, under arm odor, lice, bed bugs, Stalin, Hitler and Dick Cheney.   Mother Nature and I get drunk together and screw once a week, and are pretty much at odds the rest of the time.  Marriage.   What a fucking stupid institution.

Short Comedy

Another Knife Throwing Demonstration

Seedy Locals................a brand new poem

Seedy Locals


oh twang
the money maker
had this hair coiff with lewd tawny flip a full eleven inches up front and backwards with palm-like waves
this was fresh with the discovery of hair mousse
people cut their alliances with past pictures of persons
the width of lapels took minds like thorazine
there had been numinous bow ties worn
stars and supine printed flora
the boy knew how to plant orchids on his haberdashery!
this swine and his brother had the underground business franchise
the one wrapped in burger bags
with their contraband unguents
dispensed in cubicles
where creeps  work

News Update On The Not-Too-Social Hour

Look at all that shit on the official Not-Too-Social Hour marquee!  Some of it actually exists right now, Captain Fire-groin is in production, and I will be adding new characters to the show.  The Singing Diddlies are fiction at this point, but could be filled in, like a cherry pie, with guests who are able to play the musical instruments graciously provided by the Music Laboratory.    Buttwhack Morgan exists as a comic series that I did on paper a long time ago, but now he will re-appear as recurring feature, using a plastic action figure to play Buttwhack   Buttwhack Morgan is modeled after a person I used to drink with.   A jerk with both a serious drinking problem, and he had a nauseating sexual obsession that he talked about, too much, too loud.  I was obliged to dissassociate with the person upon whom Buttwhack is modelled.  Vince Victim will be a very easy comedy skit to put into operation.   Guests will be encouraged to hate and victimize Vince Victim, accusing him of anything fun to hear about, and the guest will then crush Vince Victim, on a thick wooden block, using a bright red ball pene hammer.   

The Not-Too-Social Hour is sponsored, in small part, by the Alice and Steve Fire-groin family, also by Annette and Zachary Fire-groin, all dear close relatives of our own, Captain Fire-groin.  Some of Zack's dysfuntional kids will be working here as key grips, whatever a 'key grip is.'   Doesn't matter.  It's family

.

The Squatras

I discovered the Squatras while performing a mirror ritual in the vacant lot behind the house. A mirror is the shiny back entrance to nasty yet gratifying realizations.  The cast of puppets and dolls used in the ritual were positioned around the broken mirror frame, and I had ignited the sacrificial white male action doll, after  dousing it with a measured half ounce of high test, poured from the holy gasoline container, made of safe, reliable neoprene, into a dropper bottle I think of as 'the grail.'  I use a very special funnel to pour the gas.  No fuck ups.

A 'squatra' is a spiritual plexus that opens up, like a zit, pouring forth groove juice, when you are squatting.  I was squatted down near my outdoor shrine when a few of my inner squatras opened.  Damn, it was profound.  Felt great.  Like twelve tabs of X, all cutting loose at once.  It was a reminder that spirituality is sensuality, and things like the condition of your squatras may be imperative to it.   You'll get off better once you grasp your squatras.

Further Notes On Music Creep (this is semi-fictinal,based as close as shaving with a Norelco, to some creep I once had dealings with)

There's been the same cultural carnage back near New Hope, Pa., as there has been most places, with houses rotting to the ground, arson waves, and Levitt Town construction projects.   There was the exodus of attractive, talented people, and the inflo of half way facilities, for people playing with half  the preferred card count.  You can measure time in clever bistros that opened in closed inside of a blinking city block of similarly transient store fronts.   The morphology on the artificial finger nail salons, alone, explain a thousands times more of ethnic drift than you could stuff your mind with at an Ivy League school.  Small restaurants are the mayflies urban renewal.

All places become an attractive nuisance sooner or later.  People move in and become a pain in the ass.  They colonize, with the benefit of professional help, like medically altered ants.  More assholes move in.  You get urban unpleasantness.  This tends to erupt from the surface, like an insect bite, on the the surface of a gentrification initiative, in all cases initiated by a sector of the middle class that is best able get public money for it all.   These creeps always profit, because the money comes from the taxpayers.  There is no such thing as being culpable.

 I met this scum bag guitarist in the aforementioned town, and this prick helped to distinguish the place from all the other locations that went down over the  embittered past thirty two years.  When I moved into the rooming house I was calling home for about a year, The music assole was living in the room directly across the hall.   At first it seemed almost normal that he was overly friendly, always knocking on my door to ask a small favor, or express fraternal interest, which is one of a jillion deviant social skills free for the picking, in the garden of earthly creeps and perverts.  I was much younger than, and rather oblivious to the whole business of stalkers.

In the day, Mr. Scuzzbuckets was a featured regular attraction at what was then The Cable Car Theater.  It was a fuzzily venerated small theater, formerly all stage productions, currently a movie theater with featured side shows like Mr. Scuzz.  He would do several short sets a night, before, at intermission, and at closing of the arthouse films the joint specialized in.  Here again, sic transit gloria bullshit, the sector of the middle class that had enabled this type of venue fizzled away before the dot com economy shitstormed in to preplace the old middle class establishment with the New World Order, in oblong cans containing a hard drive and screen, like canned fish, only sorely more influential.  To shorten history, the old hippies who still had jobs in the early 80s are mostly dead.  And the guitar wizard is still alive.   So I've decided to share his memory, or my memories of him, with the dysfunctional family form, in series form.  If want more of this prick, it's coming up here.

Scuzz Googling

I'm not out to hurt the poor asshole.  I met the bossa nova scumbag in a New England capital city, in a rooming house.  He was a food thief, eventually caught raiding the communal kitchen.    He was also a young pervert, at the time, and I have a feeling he still is, after thirty two years.

The stretch in the twilight zone was during the first half of the 1980s.  The attempt on my part to assimilate a new culture had its moments and pretty much failed, considering I  went back to the jerkwater town I came from, mentally worse for wear.  Recalling a disturbing twelve months as a neighbor of the musical scum, a google search finds W.B. alive, possibly in good health, possibly well regarded by a few people on the fringe of society, unless the exceptionally tall, gangly freak changed to a huge degree for the better, which I doubt.

His picture show him aged, arguably distinguished looking, and he had capitalized on a long, drawn oily face as twenty-nine year old wonder boy..   Scumbags are usually true to their scam, so he must still be a gnarled, pock marked guitar genius, a permanent babe in the woods, always looking for a victim.   He liked to play sick head games against his victims, standing outside their doors, as he would do mine, eaves dropping.   His room was right across the front hall in a huge Victorian mansion that had been cut down to a jillion single rooms.   It was diverse and charmingly monastic, the jazz creep being one of a few notorious criminals that lived their.

I learned from his 'Linded In' page, and this is public, so I wasn't intruding, or at least not wrongfully, that he is trying to form a bossa nova band, hoping like Helen Keller's speech instructor meet up with professional musicians, like the ones Antonio Carlos Jobim tripped the lights with.   He was a total parasite, when I know him, always seeking out people he can borrow from, or take sexual advantage of, or who he could perpetrate sick pranks against.   He told once, with avuncular frankness, that he was a voyeur, liked to window peek, and to spy on people by any means possible.


Anyway, great to see he's still going.

New Character

Haven't invented anyone new lately, and then there is newness.   Something came to mind, and it's a person.  A fella'.  His name is Captain Fire-Groin.  He micturates gasoline, and is able to ignite it, using a spark wheel well placed near his glass dick.    There is a rubber squeeze bulb hidden behind his ass.    It's a crude gag, but it's always fun to start a small fire someplace sweet.  

Captain Fire-Groin will turn up in my serial micro fiction sagas.   There is one, in progress, about two men who live in an old conversion van, living on Little Debbie Nutty Bars and generic fruit soda.  Other characters include Buttwhack Morgan, an S and M maven, and the Von Findrich sisters, three Romanian triplets, formerly a trapeeze act, currently disabled from three cases of identical bursitis.