Teaser. Some thing new on the way.

Great news, all, I'm using a brand new imitation game show host name.    I'm  Donk Bronfman, and I will be hosting a youtube sham, using two camcorders.  


 One contestant at a time.  In a sequence, structure.    I'm not a trog.   Everyone is competing for a plaque.   For a twist, the camera is on another person, probably me, others, too, while who ever is talking does it directly into the back of a camcorder.   It's the cheapest way to do it, save the six dollar ebay webcam, which gives you worse resolution.  People have pulled this sort of thing.   Worse bastards than here.   

It's psychodrama format. Simple.  I'm the Host.  Donk Bronfman.  Just thought up the name about a hour ago.  Will be making video crap.  You'll hoot.

Actually, I will make some attempted humor videos real soon.  Will be pasting here as fast as can.  Cheers.  I'm elated to be another guy.  I'm Donk.  Plan to get into the role.

Poem: Mid-Life

his sand is dwindling
upper bulb empties like a camel voiding
it's twin bulb  accepting his old chairs and velvet paintings
he watches a rerun of Hogan's Heros across the flat screen 
Colonel Klink is shorter, wider
the farce is more encompassing
  

He ceases to watch the evening news for fear of disappointment
food no longer drives him to hit the MAC machines then the store
tasks have a steamer trunk sense of long term storage



dunes precipitate around his monstrous Barcalounger
Morse code of civics awards along the fire place 
chatters out  entropy
 is terminal pancake batter expanding outward
till the edges bubble
the shell turns crisp
he is plated

Poem: Allegory (that's the title)

Allegory

it feels so good
trouser rocket blast off
to alpha centauri
make the sun pregnant
hiss mars fuming hell they no good
neptune chucking the trident in the ass of a satyr
'spread you VD in some other ocean'
the old crab yelled
pulling up on a turtle 

Treatise Bangles in Philosophy

I need to share thought's equivalent of  sleet weather re: the Universal Mind.  It is an Eastern concept, sometimes adopted/innovated by juggling, parading diverse other folk, and usually hinges on opening up to all ways of thinking.  To overcome prejudice, an individual may clear his/her mind of vicious stereotypes posed against interest groups.  One may achieve invention or discovery by first dispelling preconceived notions.   One must dispel the idea it's impossible to invent the telephone in order to produce one.  Here's some free range thingies:

Egg head philosopher Immanual Kant described pure reason as the ability to think independent of what is already known or believed.   Also, independent of cultural bias.  Hint, political activists are mighty strongly biased in their own respective interests.  There is so much shit fuck media manipulation going on,now and for history,  Old Fucking Kant's concept of pure reason may be laughable right now.   Let's see if hot heads on the left and right open their minds to rounder reason any time fucking soon.   Not fucking likely. 

Edmond Husserl, one fucking sharp pops of future phenomenology, flogged his specialty: pre-suppositionless thinking.  Relates nice to Kant's crap.   The Big Edster introduced the kraut utterances  'da sein' and 'mit sein,' which this blogger claims to mean perception is altered/defined by that which people own, or, it may mean a place reference as it affects perception.  Figure:  Dude pulls up in a Benz.  He's rich.  He's cool.  Next dude pulls up in a rusty Chevette. He's a jerk.  Next case:  Guy moves to Boston from Meadville, Pa.  Bostonian dude asks the newcomer, "Where you from, pal?"   The newbie says, "I'm from Meadville, Pa."  Dude from Boston assumes the person is a stupid hick, because most people from small towns are.   Only people born in Boston can have complete social acceptance among fat fuck Bostonian types, and I know this shit because the example happened to me, long time ago, and this blog doesn't waste experience.  One prick said, "There's no such place as Meadville, Pa."  In other words, it's too declasse' to speak of.  His perceptions were caustic.  Bastard.  And he's a complete failure at pre-suppositionless thinking.  But that is in the past, and is only recalled for teaching purposes.  I'm over it.  Time for action.

Take yourself two knitting needles right now, and get yourself  to darning  Kant and Husserl's musings into your broadening, healing, loving understanding of the Universal Mind.   Pre-suppositionless thinking, pure reason and the following more developed philosophies of perception are all star players in a fusion of Eastern and Western thinking.  Too, be reminded that this is the path way to original creative thought.  You have to chase negations out of your head with an illusory baseball bat, and invite in positive energies that fuel the arts and sciences, jolly social activities as well.  I party.  Maybe you should too.  But that's private.  In Buddhism, monks clear their minds of stuff so they don't get fucked over with the past.  That seasons the broth.   Makes for softer landings in the future.  One might not move forward sweetly if one is harboring bitter recollections. 

But now is in the present.  Buddhists are into the present tense.  And the Universal Mind.   Mind the concept of 'the void,' of empty space above, in which all things may  precipitate.  Free space precedes  occupied highrise apartment complexes.  As these ugly buildings are installed, fools assume that the whole fucking universe is as ugly as it is in most Pittsburgh slums.  Not so.  But one must walk one's Universal Mind, let it run free in it's formal equivalent of a dog park, for humankind to get it's pointed head head out of its  dilating ass.  People's minds, these days, appears\ to be crap, and this is why I feel it's timely to wunk out The Universal Mind.   Top of the day to you, one and all.

After thoughts on my goddam politcal theory...

...Muhammad Ali's famous rope-a-dope boxing method.  Graceful, archetypal, eloquent, a poet/warrior such as  Dennis Hopper spoke of  in the  movie Apocalypse Now, the athlete had a talent for drawing an opponent close by faking retreat.  All boxing fans know you then apply the invisible left hook, and your moral equivalent of Sonny Liston goes unconscious for ten seconds, minimum, as is needed to cement your pugilistic victory.  Mulling over Trump's move to make Jerusalem capital of the hotly contested Holy Land,  folks are opining a spectrum of possible results, ranging from pleasantly divine to dreadfully apocalyptic.  

And which bar on the spectrum is this blogger sitting on, with murky espresso and a crumb cake?   I shall re-iterate my political theory from yesterday.   The real reason for the transition from Tel Aviv to Jerusalem is to draw out terrorists and capture/whack their sorry butts. It's a strategy to deter terrorism in the future by inflicting loss, much as possible, on enemies common to the US, Israel, and where ever else people are J.O.ed with the establishment.  It could be a Katie-bar-the-doors military/policing  strategy.  

Maybe not.  Maybe I'm a little insecure.  Remember the book Portnoy's Complaint?  Off topic.  Sorry.  Forgive me for comparing the transitional act in Israel to Ali's rope-a-dope technique.   I didn't  think this shit up because I like Donald.  No one in their right mind is happy or comfortable with what is happening.  This doesn't  mean that critical analysis should go take a flying fuck.  

The opening salvo of brain waves from yesterday re:  my hot new theory is in the post down below, why not read it too.  If it's not too much trouble.   I'm fussing over Trump's decision to name Jerusalem capital of Israel.  Maybe you should be fussing, in your own  unique special way, under your own personal aegis, your own shopping list of agendas, over what may or not be a fucking big deal.  I'm not getting too jizzed  about it, but it's impactful right frigging now.  Thanks again for reading.   You sweet things.

I Am A Disinterested Theoriest, Damn It...

...and not,not, pinky promise, a Trump supporter.  Everyone is rightfully appalled.   I've been suggesting that times have made protesting the Fed, mayhaps, a cheesy proposition.  We may be skunked out.   Capitulation and appeasement, on the part of angry Trump-hating activists, may be a good idea if taking into account that a nutso, totalitarian state can be mighty oppressive otherwise.  Opinions vary. 

 If it is your plan to resist, be my guest.  I am not protesting anything at this time.  I'm courting productive working relations with an enlightened outer biosphere.  This blog is always committed to the universal mind, no barriers to discussion or creative thought, only resistance to people  being pricks to one another.   This is a humanitarian bullshit session.

I want credit for a goddam political theory.  Might be crap, we'll see.  Suppose the reason Trump named Jerusalem capital of Israel is to draw out enemies.  Maybe the plan is to raise a pattern of communications among terror groups, track communications, and pounce on the grizzled, hummus eating scamps.  Readers who enjoy warfare fanfare may have heard that smart warriors might draw out their enemies, who may be hiding from them, by conducting some sort of stunt.  Maybe Trump pulled his. 

Not even a light/year close to expertise on this matter, I'm flabbergasted that it's even possible for the US president to determine the capital of anywhere out of the US, and even then, we supposedly can claim state's rights and fuss about it.  Israel seems mighty conciliatory towards the switch.  Kidding.  That's a given, for the most part, excepting Israelis who don't want the bother of more terrorism.  Guessing there's a presence of Israelis who are happy as can be about it.  Anticipating quite a ruckus.

Disgrace is a highly under-rated state of affairs.   Take Senator Al Franken for instance.  Accused of sexual harassment, he has announced that he will resign from office and remain an activist for social justice.  I have nothing against the dude, he didn't harass me, and his politics are in no way bothersome.  The part  about continuing forward as an activist is mildly annoying.   Why bother, at this point?   Who is he going to advocate for?  Maybe the public will be less responsive to a person who has been exposed as some type of offender.

I propose that people like Matt Lauer and Al Franken change tack.  They may be needing some sort of lucrative enterprise in the future, should they be sued or otherwise impecuned by their victims.  My suggestion is they all form a hospitality business, maybe geared toward the college spring break circuit, such as the one in Daytona Beach.   Drunk, giddy co-oeds could line for the opportunity to get pinched on the ass by a famous lecher.  Media groupies could flock for a chance to do the nasty with a famous, if currently reviled, celebrity.  At this point there's no further point in pretending to have morals above and beyond the ordinary.   A disgraced celebrity is fortunate for the chance to let it all hang out, and get all the hot youth culture action an old news man like Charlie Rose needs to stay whole and happy.

By my reckoning, people may be lucky to be relieved of moral restraint.   Too much of it, and you get closet creeps like the ones we are all hearing about in the news.  This post is a gag, I don't mean a word of this shit I'm writing, but I do think the public should make an effort to close out of consciousness the private lives of media personalities.   They're assholes.  Their sexual behavior is between them and whomever else is effected by it.  

Essay: The Just; The Horny

Friends, I ain't close to being tough, damnit I'm sensitive, horse-whispering, diminutive.   I just want to boast of sufficient fortitude to have never, in all my fragile days, called the police because a broad exposed herself.   And in my time, broads have flashed tits, ass and beaver, in bars, at sporting events, in undisclosed common-enough locations of all sort.   I never sued a woman for ramming a tit in my face.  Recall the chicanery that went on in old haunts like Studio 54.  People are behaving as if people aren't depraved horn dogs, when common alertness begs an off-track opinion.

 Flashing, along with nudging and groping, probably existed from the dawning of glad rags and the libido.    It's a popular mating procedure performed by rock and roll groupies world wide.   Prison inmates of all genders expose themselves to guards and love prospects of equally diverse typings and groupings.   These behaviors are made mention of in the news, in film, literature, legend.  Most currently there is a national backlash against sexual impropriety of all sorts, and holy jeepers,  a ghost ship, analagous to the more famous Flying Dutchman,  the ghost of the Sexual Revolution, looms in vision like an eye-ball floater.  In this case the transparent viscous  mass is shaped like a a giant cock and balls.

For the media to have become the sex deviant haven it is, a flocking process took place.  Perverts who enjoy making films, e.g. Roman Polanski, were drawn to the West Coast media establishment.  The sexual revolution was a popular trend of the 1960s and 70's, and it coordinted divinely with a number of common enough factoids, e.g. sex sells, it draws viewerships, and most wonderful of all, people from here to Timbuctoo discovered sensuality, en mass.   Taboos were wiped off the slate.  Once there was an easy cure for syphillis and gonorhea, there was no reason not to screw one's self into indelible and ever renewable euphoria.  And it was during the same frame that people took measures to liberate the body.  People started getting naked.  It's one of the beefs against Charlie "Mr. Happy"  Rose.  He seemed to think it was acceptable to expose himself.  How times change.  And mice get caught in the disposable adhesive trap.    Allegations of sexual misconduct are a sticky political aparatus.  Always were.

But something new has been added.  Smearing a politician by any means possible is old hat, but currently any media figure at all known to be nasty is open to  controlled career demolition, and in this round of the Social Olympics, it appears women may be trying to open jobs for women by getting men fired.   Could be mass cashing in on law suits.  My sermon on the crap here will gently critique the 'Me Too' campaign, no big deal, but it sounds childish, might instigate false allegations, frivolous litigation, may be extortionate, as well as may  yield   safer and healthier work places.  

The 'Me Too' campaign could be criticised as being a case of mass infantilization and soft core extortion.  There have been ethics problems in the past with intensive reform movements.  Compare it to the slip and fall business.    It tends to streamline litigation while hiking the cost of doing business across the board.    Companies have to eat the cost of being sued and interceded upon.   Reminder: this isn't the first time status as victims was established and recompense was obtained.  

Let's talk about the weenie wagging of one former news man, Charlie Rose.  Some feebrile, quavering apologists could opine that professional assistants and support staff, in many locations, e.g. hospitals, spas, massage parlors, may wind up viewing tits, ass, cocks'n  balls, snatch and all related appurtenances.  It could be further opined that Mr. Rose's support staff ought to be able to deal with some nasty.  I don't recall the media establishment ever being a moral wonderland in any capacity.   If getting naked falls under 'community standards,' it could follow that the hired help will be viewing some dicks.


Sex crimes can be prosecuted, civil offenses can be litigated, and everyone in the respectively prim and horny US is at liberty to communicate complaints and concerns, using the internet, from hither to Planet Uranas.  Add that the 'Me Too' campaign could be a lynch mob mentality in popular format, it's probably wise to keep the trousers up, the mitts in one's pockets, and watch one's frigging mouth.  Seems people are being put on alert.  Point isn't that one side or other is right or wrong, it's another disgusting popular trend with possible shit consequences.  House policy is to encourage positive social relations across the board.   I'm just too faint of heart to get in the middle of a gender conflict.  People should be resolving conflict, not generating it.

Fiction: Primitive Slumdwelling

The English walnut comes in a husk so thick and vile we are forced to lie to the children.  We tell them that the burning they feel as they harvest the nuts will speed their arrival to someplace a great deal nicer than here.  We are primitive, our agriculture is entirely passive, the climate here is aggressive, and our soil is like a locked ward at Atuscadero.    When there are hoards of little gridders dancing everywhere, and all the grown ups are dead or  in jail, the production of food can become Dickensian.   We are there.

The English walnut grows wild here, in abundance, enough to feed most of us.  They are also scarce enough to impose famine on weaker community activists, such as live a block from here.  The children must work quickly.  We give them disposable rubber gloves and yell, "get the fuck out there and fill these fucking crinkled grocery bags.  We'll die of starvation if you fuck this up."

Days of hard labor follow the gathering portion of our bifurcated life's ethic.  We need all the nuts there are to stay healthy.  Few people over the age of eight believe our bullshit story about the afterlife.   It reduces the work force.   Getting the kids to hammer the meat out of the wrappings has required us to install wide screen televisions.   We tell them that they will get double rations in the next world if they get all eighty tons of walnuts processed before we all have to grab a bat and chase off invading suburban nomads.  It is hard to find food, and rigorous to keep it away from everyone else.  For this reason and many more, we are polygamous.  Though we are not the world's brightest people, we don't let facts fuck us over.

A Horny Dialectic

Sexual behavior has charged like the Light Brigade into the cradled, mewling leftist strategy known as dialectic materialism.   The allegations of horny misconduct schwinging in the faces  of  Harvey Weinstein, Al Franken, Kevin Spacey, and Bill Cosby, on illusory horseback, will, I postulate, serve to displace men in the media, and replace them with women.   Might think of the process as yielding, at the end of the day,  one less Matt Lauer, one more Mika Brzezinski.   Leftists are known to believe all people have equal skills and flairs, and can be interchanged like hankies.  Maybe so.  Too, leftists have been using gender politics, in oh so many ways, to force their generally self serving agendas. 

Assuming so, it makes royally glowing sense to assist historically oppressed interest groups by removing nasty members of the ruling elite and replacing said same with someone belonging to the oppressed interest group.  Leftists talk a lot about gaining control over production, in turn they build political power, and if all goes well they infiltrate government, all the while kicking out oppressive, shitty guys who bother women, shit up the environment or are cruel to animals.  So the grizzled Russians discussed, whom ever controls production controls the people.   Any clever radical should know that he/she/it can serve their cause by learning technology and obtaining a market share of it. At the end of  that ideological day, the left owns production and controls people. 

Some, and surely not all, socialists still attempt to realize dialectic materialism. The method, of late, is to foment a shit storm of allegations against prominent figures in the media and elsewhere, get them fired, and redirect cash flow to women and minorities.      Hope it works great for all.  All human phenomena is groovy, if not in the moment, then over geologic time.  The old watch word was 'it takes a village.'  Now it takes a shit storm of allegations. 

Fiction: Local Cultures

I am alone with my wife, Harumpafa, and we are engaged in a dinner production.  People will pour in, soon as Harumpafa whacks the  forty inch diameter gong  with her long stainless steel spatula.  Stews are stewing, organic spices slough off their unguents, persimmons are arranged in a row of bound hajibs, to prevent excessive rolling around.  We get nervous.  Angry neighbors hurl osage oranges through the kitchen window, hoping to land one in the stew and poison us.   "The unbound food item kills," my wife often reminds us all.  

'We all,' as Harumpafa refers to us, are some type of ethnic group, doesn't matter which. There is no immigration status in this occupied territory.  Only rancor among disparately configured folk.    I and mine are tall and willowy.  The wife and I wear the exact same size clothing, and it saves us a fortune in haute couture.  We are despised by short, squat built quazi-keffir types, and the taller obese Fellaheen all think bigger is better, hence my people regard them as pricks.  Both outsized rival factions resent us for being so motherfucking elegant.  We exude musky charm.  We are asked to pose for a spread in this year's athropolology text. Envy drives the lower classes to rioting, like always, when nothing more was done to them than passive excellence in the pesence of their active repugnance.  Persecution is not reserved for  only the poorest pieces of shit.

There.  Another osage orange, intriguing, crenelated, unappetizing and toxic,  trespassed  into our wholesome kitchen, in another attempt on our lives. Harumpafa grabs her street sweeper and fires round after round of bird shot, hoping to alter reality.  We hear the runts fleeing through our azalias.  I say to my wife, "I think this is where we strike the gong."  Our people were tired of lilting in the front yard.  They needed some eats.  

Our foods distinguish us from individuals who prepare and consume differing meat and eggs.  Attempts on our lives during meal times prove that world peace isn't too fucking anxious to come galavanting out of the walk-in closet.  This places our divine Cadillac in a flagging chicken run facing off with the profane souped-up pimp mobiles of the lower classes.  Each time Harumpafa feeds our encampment, she presses the  foot brake just a little bit.  The vehicles slow down for a few sane seconds, before remembering to hit the gas.  Some day the garish muscle cars will collide.  But for now, stewed persimmons, as only my wife can make.

Essay: The Late Michael Jackson's Nose

Megablocks of material is available on the internet about Michael Jackson.   An amazing performer who suffered a Greek tragedy style downfall.  He faced nasty, nasty, nasty allegations, and had, maybe, drug problems, health problems, public image crap, the man was probably pretty through the wringer when he bought the business off a sleeping drug.  Sad.  Tragic.  There are moments of inspiration.  People throw fits.  There is dancing. Recriminations.  And nose synthesis.

Early in Michael's teen years the inestimable talent began showing a cosmetic bugaboo.  His nose was getting larger.  Something similar happened to me.  I never had surgery, and still got  a big one.  Mister Jackson took a series of treatments on his large proboscis.  You will see in the embedded video that at that juncture, it was medium sized, very handsome, I'd pay a few bucks for one like it.  Subsequent surgeries over his salad performing years yielded incrementally smaller noses.  It did not, as some pundits may logically conclude, reduce in size to nothing.  But it was purported to be at risk of necrosis.  For non-medical types, the organ of scent was dying on his puss.    And then he finished the job, with the help of his since convicted not too fucking good personal physician.  His doctor killed his ass with a sleeping med.  Very fucked up.

His nose, at it's zenith, defied nature.  Neither Zeus nor Zoroaster could produce a nose as cool as his.   He had the only model that looked like that, and maybe the whole process was worth it.  Combined with immense talent, it intrigued all hairy, horny hell out of the listening, viewing public.  It was fucking magical.  Maybe we should all get our nose fixed and have a few sleeping pills, to commemorate the late, fab Michael Jackson.

The Bat Robbins Show: a pen name project

Why do mainstream news reporters need to be attractive?  Isn't it enough to get the news?  Might our piggy American minds be getting cognitive diabetes from watching too fucking much eye candy?

Back in the day, news anchors of both genders had large hairy moles and long nostril hairs.  Some had the Hanging Gardens of Babylon growing out of their old, gnarled ears.  People were homely, yet more wholesome and better informed than newspeople of now.  I'm resisting trends, like a motherfucker.  Please fucking watch my latest video presentation, posted on youtube under my nom de plume.  I'm ugly, ill informed and fucking proud.  Watch the video.

more youtube productions using a webcam

Isn't  that lovely?   No?  Shocked. Shocked.  I had so hoped for a more favorable outcome.  My dick is in the wind.  And it shouldn't be.  Ask the police.  They'll tell you "reel it in, Buster, or your up the river for indecent exposure, you creep."   And the officer will be right to say all that, if you walk around with your what-not hanging out of bomb bay.   Mine's been where it's supposed to be, no place I can be arrested for, it's mostly at home, far from anyone who might object to it, not that many people would.  It's a nice old unit.   Check out my latest short subject video.

A Spoken Word Video

New youtube video: Spoken Word Piece About The Mass Shooting

Shitty Values At Large

 People may be in a relatively weak position within their communities, as if there is such a thing, and at the same time there are philosophical and pragmatic universals.   Individuals have always needed protection of one sort or other, kicking it off with trogs fending off rival trogs using sticks, woofing forward to the nuclear arms race.  If everything was really hunky dory 'round about WW2,  Hiroshima and Nagasaki might still look like black and white pictures taken in the 1930s.  The latter doesn't matter on this blog entry, because this entry deals with a further  backward fact of life.  One can always pay people to protect them, e.g. body guards, security personnel, goons, ex convicts, gee whiz anyone needing dough and  able to guard you and yours.  Including things you own.

Let's us suppose some fool holds great hope for the future of a pile of dog shit.  He has earned, stolen or inherited great wealth.  Enough to keep a time share unit in Vegas for a lifetime. Maybe the creep won the lottery.  He may be mental, and think his pile is of great value, but he can afford to pay an A-team of professionals to keep his crap safe from thieves, saboteurs, copy cats, stool pigeons, et al.   He is at liberty to take his precautions, even if he is a complete asshole.  If there was such a thing as a free market economy, one could say, " Holy fuck, that asshole is doing nicely for himself.  He has a groovy little spread out in the flats, goes to church, and he's paying a posse to guard shit.  That fellow is a motherfucking pillar of society."

He is a pillar of society.  A bunch of people are on that jerk off's payroll.  Last I heard, that fine motherfucker was in compliance with labor laws, and in parts of East Buttfuck it's legal to taser people for trespassing.   If no one was there to zap thieves with a stun gun, the bastards could rob people blind.  Why, fuck it, it would be damn near obstruction of justice not to do something to people who fuck with your personal garbage.  Thanks for fucking reading.  It's fucking decent of you.

 

here's a project: I'm writing a song, lyrics below, and will work on the tune right here, work in progress...

Over-stretched

it'll hurt worse tomorrow
for now I don't care
it's too platinum
vaulting ten feet in the air
it feels like nitrous oxide
gives you this waxy stare


shiny metal like grannies diamond ring
sun spots flying when you stare deep into those things
 magic buttons go bing bing bing

it might get better in a week
for now I still don't care
minor altercation
rolling down the stairs
it feels like perfect love
everyone's glaring

shiny metal like grannies diamond ring
sun spots flying when you stare deep into those things
magic buttons go bing bing bing

Why bother writing haiku?

Haiku is to prose what chicken wings are to a rack of ribs.  It is smaller, less filling, yet tastes phenomenal and alters perceptions of boredom and ugliness for the short span of time while you are munching it down, or in the case of a poetry reading, listening to sound and content.  There hasn't been a poem written yet that cures acne, while KFC is fucking near famous for causing clogged pores, pimples and blackheads. Yet demand for fried chicken far exceeds demand for anthologies. This is part of a far greater celestial force, best compared to the main stream media, which is turning fucking near everyone into a drooling idiot.  The stars can tell us all facts under the sun, but leave it to us to not read the instructions and fuck everything up completely.

For these reasons and more, I plan to continue, with a small nose-gay of conviction, to compose and present the not-too-fucking-world-shaking media call 'haiku.'  I dumped one in the space directly below this blog entry, on the subject of haiku.  I will be posting more opinions about the humanities, in general, as all media impacts our great and small, grand and hairy lives.  Thanks again for being you and for being here.  You're peachy.

Haiku-a-roo: Why Break Things?

Why Break Things?
by Bruce Reisner


the Ming vase becomes
garbage when it hits the floor
the sound is worth it

Testing voice recognition on the blog

Oh my jeepers goodness I am using voice recognition software again. It's working. I'm talking. Words are shaking onto the paper. I'm going to try to write novels using this voice recognition software. This right here is a test to see if I can use it on the blog directly, and it appears that I can. Willie bully for us all. Thanks for reading this test.

Birth of a Salesperson

Death of a Salesman was last year, in the sense of being untimely.   Arthur Miller's brilliant play was about the last things in the life of a failing salesperson, Willy Loman.  At the time, people were critical of capitalist, beourgois America, and believed that the family unit was beleaguered by brutal economics and hostile/aggressive values/behavior.  In yesteryear, people were exhorted to protest against acts of inhumanity, what ever they may be.

Over time, mass public protest became more specialized.  Like everything else. It's conducted on the pretext of human rights.  The protesting is routinely ignored by it's target, usually the government, sometimes, rarely, a corporation.  Like the play Death of a Salesman, the business of protesting has become old and obsolete.   Like Willy Loman.   People have lost their salesmanship to big box stores.  People buy what they want at the lowest possible price, and no longer need professional pitch men.

American salesmanship is at an all time low, and we need to scare it back into existence.  Rather than protest against the federal government, the public needs to sell a plan of action, e.g. single payer health care.  

Links and embedded youtube articles for discussion:

Reaching elbow far into the Great Primordial Poo, over my meager monthly limit for free news articles in sixteen online news rags, please watch/read the embedded news video, then use the link  below to read some jizz printed in the Washington Post.


There's some disturbing state's rights shit omitted from discussion.  Only the Fed can print money.  Poor shitty Pennsylvania can't solve it's many financial Scyllas and Charybdises by counterfeiting, sensible a move as that would be.  Also, states should legalize all pleasure drugs, for the tax dough.  The flap about repealing the Obamacare isn't being resolved to any good effect so far, and it remains my opinion the Fed should print the money needed to fund single payer health care, charge the public a graduated tax, and, conversely, force states to reduce public expenditure, also force states to earn money, such as by growing and selling weed.  Trumps dilly-dallying methodologies could be some spare change in the larger cannon of free market economics.  In theory, each state is responsible for public health care management.  The Fed should be funding an efficient system, and isn't.  What's a big guy supposed to do, huh?

Here's some meat:  To be better free market personage, we have to be better socialists, first. Socialized medicine in necessary to enable growth and earnings in the private sector.  The burden of health care should be removed from employers. It's none of their fucking business, and if the Fed operated a national health care service, single payer, entrepreneurs would be a greater liberty.  As theory goes, jobs are created, taxes paid, less poverty/squalor.  So we fucking hope.

I'm not a dear friend of the White House.  I'm trying to be as disinterested, as possible, in politics.

Meanwhile, partisan news media is being an asshole, collectively.  All politicians are equally glib about the poor outcomes they all tread water in.   Everyone swims in a murky lake filled with uncertainty.  And one's swim togs have to look presentable.  We all have to talk like we know where we left our ass, when we don't.  Sometimes people open their hymnals and engage in a church tune.

The link below will schlong your attention to a heavily biased news article in Washington Post.  The media appears devoid of any constructive input.   It's a world of doltish propaganda.


https://www.washingtonpost.com/politics/its-an-insane-process-how-trump-and-republicans-failed-on-their-health-care-bill/2017/07/18/dd4d6e02-6bce-11e7-9c15-177740635e83_story.html?utm_term=.e2c88bf734fc&tid=notifi_push_breaking-news&pushid=596f6603f1dad71d00000030

End the War On Drugs While There are Still Names Left For Drugs Used To Treat Addiction

Never mind the misery, crime and mass incarceration, we need to end the war on drugs because big pharma is running out of names for its opioids and addiction treatment meds.  There's Narcan, the shit that stops people from croaking from too much skag.  Suboxone is used to manage the jonesing  and other withdrawl  symptoms common to drug addicts.

I was riding the bus when I saw a poster advertising a paid clinical drug trial for people addicted to opioids.  Have you tried Bunavail?  I haven't.  It's really a medication, and it's name is really 'Bunavail,' like a compound word for a  drug-addicted prostitute of either gender.  It sounds like it's given to people who sell their ass for a fix.  Maybe patients have to take it up the ass to receive Bunavail.  I think modern medicine is run by horny doctors.  People have to avail their buns or no more oxycontin.   Buprenorphine for you?  Bend over, Champ.

Anything that cuts the cost of medical care is fine.   If you need any kind of medical care at all, just let your care professionals fuck you up the ass.  Small price to pay for health care.  Insurance doesn't pay for it, just let the doctor have his fun with you.

Article in the Washington Post says Louisiana is getting radical in a good way.

In a desperate and possibly purposeful attempt to increase readership, I'm adding links to mainstream news articles to my digital media tent show. The link.... look downward, angels...takes you  to a dilly of an attempt to reduce the cost of medical care.   But first, a plain burlap sack of ideas.

 Single payer, run the the Fed, would be the best option of all.   But it isn't happening, so there are wee tinier options.  Tort liability crap could undergo a healthy downsizing.   Maybe the slip and fall business should be fed to hungry pigs, like in a horror flick.

I think the Fed should go nuts with a swinging new wave in anti-trust action against both insurers and providers so to force free market competition.  

Certain regulatory agencies could be given the old heave-ho in favor of community clinics that provide affordable medical service.  The free world could re-introduce private practices, complete with wrinkled, chuffing cigar smoking general practitioners.  With a nurse in starched white linen.  In the mean time, folks in Louisiana are demanding that the Fed sit its fat ass down on the cost of medicine.  By George, I think they may be on to something.



https://www.washingtonpost.com/business/economy/louisiana-considers-radical-step-to-counter-high-drug-prices-federal-intervention/2017/07/03/456b99f6-4a59-11e7-a186-60c031eab644_story.html?tid=hybrid_content_3_na&utm_term=.ab1566c80c25


This article is encouraging.  More people should demand the government force the price of medicine down.  

https://www.nytimes.com/2017/07/11/us/politics/russia-trump.html?hp&action=click&pgtype=Homepage&clickSource=story-heading&module=a-lede-package-region&region=top-news&WT.nav=top-news


this is a test to see if people find my blog through these two links to New York Times news articles


https://www.nytimes.com/2017/07/12/us/politics/campus-rape-betsy-devos-title-iv-education-trump-candice-jackson.html?ribbon-ad-idx=5&src=trending&module=Ribbon&version=origin&region=Header&action=click&contentCollection=Trending&pgtype=article

poem: A Hard Spirit

seeking grace on a spine on a cactus
a shrike put me here and I am animated
alive as a thousand legger
crudely hairy as the silverfish
my books spindled chock-a-block up the cactus shaft
vinyl fashion garments on this coat rack
a collection of hats on the arms of the agave
alive and watching approaching dune buggies
the family approaching 

Free Market Economics blithering...belching up thoughts

Damn straight Milton Friedman was a peach of a free market economist, and I'm preaching the gospel of his mostly unworkable yet purposeful philosophy.  I'm also pitching my own philosophy, which is heavily spiked with Milton's intoxicating contributions to the law of supply and demand.

Milton earned his place in socio/political discourse (a dark, dusty corner) by connecting the rudiments of supply and demand to the supposed Constitutional freedoms.   At the top of my list of relevant thoughts here, Friedman argued that free speech was  protected to allow individuals to conduct business and protect private property.  The right to privacy pertained to proprietary information.   At the time the Constitution was written, the fuzz could enter your house without a warrant.  Constitutional privacy didn't pertain to cops enforcing the law.  It protected farmers and business owners from oppression and piracy by government or others.  Friedman discussed the principle of independence as being independent of government.  Most important, Milton was all about the simple fact that people are  responsive to money and to assets of all kinds.   People may cite ideals all they want, when the blue light special goes on at Kmart, shoppers buy crap in response to the price of goods.  

Returning to a philosophy kind to independence, free market economists, or libertarians, if I may take liberty here, tend to believe that an individual's ability and freedom to earn through production of goods and services enables him/her to live independent of government.  Conversely, socialists believe the government controls production and distribution,  and, supposedly, through dreadfully rose glasses, comrades (peons) enjoy freedom from capitalist exploitation.   Libertarians regard that socialist model as 'slavery.'   While socialists refer to workers in the free market economy as 'slaves.'  This may raise an outside thought, 'does the Constitution really guarantee us (peons) freedom, as in 'free society?'  

Libertarians lean toward a philosophy of financial strength, and of bargaining position.  While we all enjoy constitutional free speech, the dude with the fatter attorney will probably win the case.  People may be, supposedly, equal under the law, but bargaining positions are relative to wealth, status and access to resources.   People on welfare are limited in life to what the government affords them, and they must cooperate with the government to receive benefits.   A business owner can sell anything he is able to procure, profit from so doing, and use the proceeds to fly his fat ass to the moon.  Few welfare recipients can afford to join the fat fuck. Burp.  I sick of talking.  I will think up more shit on this subject.  Look for it here. 

 

I'm a writer, too, you swine

I wish I was a lesbian.  If, and then, I'd partner up with significant others, write about experiences, and  share it with my women's writing group. 

I'm a guy, and there aren't any men's writing groups.  The only thing secondary to a women's studies program is both genders (both and more) simpering and bickering in a mixed writer's workshop.  As the plot worsens, I'm hetero.   

Gay men also don't care if I jump off the Tenth Street Bridge.   I could write about how the Pittsburgh gay community is doing a bang up job of squeezing people like me out of the big picture.  A pervasive no-fraternizing policy is clearly in place.   For those of us who call ourselves 'poets,' it's like dealing with a hostile and discriminatory environment, as defined in affirmative action guidelines.

There are some activists on the political right barking, on the Web, of 'white genocide.'   Icky, I shall concur, but it's not completely BS.  There are agendas at large to harm male milk-heads.  Sounds crazy.  So does bipolar illness.   It exists and it's pernicious.  There is a formal agenda, at large, to establish the importance of women writers, and I sure as fuck don't begrudge this.  Wish they would share the glory.   They think all white (and off-white) men are assholes.    Many are.  But consider the lily-white politically correct horse-whispering types who are supportive of feminist goals.  Try not to fuck us good guys over. 

 I don't wish to repeal  the feminist-gained  right to vote.  Some honky breeder stud-cakes  actually want to engage in positive social interaction, also business relationships, among people of all preferences and genders, all six or eight of them, now that 'transgender' means polymorphous more so than yesteryear.  There is advocacy for people who used to be men.  It would be real sweet if there was advocacy for guys who still are.  Poets.  In a hostile shit-storm of gender politics. 

Fucking Sage Bullshit

Branding and the American Identity Crisis


Fuck, fuck, fuck, you've heard of it in one dialect or other.  The Identity Movement. 

I'm not one of those stupid fascist pricks who demand recognition as Ubermensch.  I'm humble and generic.  Unlike me:  There are white supremicist groups like the KKK, Nazis of all genre, Daughters of the American Revolution, and white trash everywhere, and all may agree they are entitled to and have been fucked out of an identity.  I'm not into that shit, and I'm not pro-Trump, so don't bust a zit over party affiliation. I am sharing an idea.  Maria Fucking Montessori her fucking self would have smiled at this  wee act of self expression.  I have a motherfucking little thought.

I'm in pale-faced, anemic sympathy with a view that affirmative action has marginalized low earning non minority men.   Political agendas such as feminism has come at the cost of men who didn't beat their wife.   Agendas favoring minority groups has had a toxic effect on people who are excluded from them. Again, Trump and his pals can go play in the traffic, but Trump's concept of branding may provide individuals a substitute for the sense of self that social politics has destroyed.  Don't be a white supremecist.  Be a name brand on the goods and services you provide in a free market economy.

  Sure, it's like saying, "I'm not a man, I'm an Amana freezer."  But it's more like saying, "I'm Bruce Fucking Reisner and my identity is in the brand of shit I produce.  I'm cool, my widgets and services are cool.   When you buy a Reisner widget, you help cement my identity.  All five foot ten, one hundred forty pounds of it.   An American is their brand of stuff.  We are what we do.  How we became Americans, is, at this point, not worth sweating.

Modern Mythologies

Fuck Odysseus.   Fuck the rest of Greek and Roman mythology, too.   Old.   Trite.  How the fuck are people supposed to relate to ancient garbage, when shit none of it currently resides with us in our condos and homeless shelters?   I'm a modernizing ass motherfucker, and I aims to update myth.

 Like the myth of the horse whisperer.  It was the title of a popular book, but, worse, it's  become a meme for people who are more sensitive and intuitive than ordinary boors and slaves.  As the name implies, horses feel better about themselves and are more cooperative when the limpid, pulchritudinous  horse whisperer whispers to it his/her intuitive genius for making horses feel good inside.  Exactly what the bastards say to the horses is private, hence whispering, but it must be something fucking prophetic on the part of that horse-whispering POS.  Great for horses, I suppose, not calculating any hardship this poses for people who don't have extra-normal  relationships with animals.   It makes it seem like the general run of cowboys are a bunch of stupid, rotten pricks.

I don't hate horse whisperers, I am dismayed that people are responsive to this stupidity.   There is always demand, in society, for people with special talents, like sword swallowing or yodeling.  Please, though, don't bother convincing me it makes greater sense to swallow swords or yodel than it does to get drunk and then laid. 

 So far, I never met a horse whisperer I would care to keep as a friend.  You can't walk into a bar with one without some asshole reminding you that your friend talks to horses, and you don't.  I don't even have a fucking horse!

Micro teensy manifesto

People keep giving me the razz.    Supposedly, I didn't do anything to help during a fracas.  Not the first time I've been maligned for doing nothing.  Recall the words of Paul Newman in Cool Hand Luke.  "Sometimes nothing's a real cool hand."  So true, and true again I did nothing to prevent a non-fatal violent incident from going on longer than it did.  A ninety pound little gridder attacked his mother (or legal guardian, auntie, what the fuck ever) and they locked in one of the meaner strangle holds I've had the case load of observing, like six feet away.  There was a three person struggle to get the screaming brat under control.   The reason I stayed still and minded my own business is because if I punched the old broad in the face, she'd counter punch, and I might be injured.

Fuck people who think I should have done something about it. The bus stop is like the hair trap below your bathroom sink.  We can discuss ways to remove obstructive masses of hair, so the sink drains, but we can't stop shedding hair from forming an obstructive mass within the plumbing.  You can't pour Drano down the sink every time the water foams and gurgles  sluggishly.  I've attended classes at a liberal arts college.

Conservative isolationism.  Works great.

So what if life is getting really really dull?

I've been living just south of an adorable little flood plain for sixty years.  If Shirley Temple had been, during the Great Depression, a flood plain, she would look exactly like here right the fuck now.   I have a view of this trailer park from my living room window, and the floating aluminum siding, insulation materials and lulling dry wall slabs remind me poor planning nets bad results.   If it was possible to predict getting hit by a meteor, the one poor shit-head who got hit with one, in recorded history, might have stepped out of the way and not got hurt.  Yet I don't hold the poor prick responsible, because it's very freakish to be hit with a meteor, and fucking near a shoe-in that French Creek will flood.  It's been pulling the exact same shit for centuries.  

Stupid people are a danger to themselves.  And others.  The Keynesians might be right after all.  People are too fucking stupid to avoid catastrophe.  Like by keeping their trailers farther away from French Creek. 

 There needs to be more institutions.    Subsidized high rise apartments, placed brightly above sea level.  A shiny new state hospital some place dry and quiet.  I'm changing my mind about organized religion, anything that keeps people busy is better than watching the assholes wander around with their thumbs up their ass, unable to understand why they are morons.  We need to construct more YMCA-like oblong brick buildings .  To put people in.  The process of socializing a barbaric hoard is a highly material brick and mortar type of initiative.   Note popular trends in prison culture.  Note how it's made the world safer.

fiction: You Need Nocroaka

I had been doing this act where I walk on stilts and juggle chainsaws.    There was an accident.  Chronic pain.  I'm retired to a cabin near Pymatuming, the power chair, the fishing poles.  I like to joke that floods improve my chance of fishing.  Some people get pissed.  Some dear one's bungalow might have washed into French Creek.  By now, their floor boards are clogging up the Sesquahanna.

 Had they never thought of putting a trailer farther away?  One marvels at how mobile homes transform first to a house boat, and then a submarine.  At times I think the Law of Occum's Razor is an Avon Bottle.  

Either people set bad priorities, or they don't have need to establish any.  A fern is not able to ask the government for fertilizer.  I'll cut any soul a wee inch of slack if there's constitutional barrier to simple common sense, like choosing to get the fuck off sea level in Pymatuming.  Still, the simplicity I live by is not on the menu in some of dumps up the pike.  People insist on sustaining the standard of living that made them obese and diabetic.

That's really enough crying about man's inhumanity to his own dim-witted self.  I'll spare comment on the way they pump their own nervous  incapacity to comprehend into my carefully attained certainties, like I was being hard to get along with.    I became a hermit for this and too many other reasons.

I'm talking about chronic pain from a stilt juggling accident, and the pain doesn't go away, it hangs out and uses up your stash, leaves dirty dishes lying around, makes snide remarks.  The only thing that helps each and every time is a double shot of Nocroaka.  It has just the right shit in it.

fiction, continued: My Life On Hollywood Squares

I can still pole vault...

...at age 97 because I've been using Nocroaka Tonic for the last seventy years. A native American gave me the formula. Nice guy. I was puking my guts up on Rodeo Drive, bad acid trip. A wee slug of Nocroaka and I was back to normal as it gets. Exactly what the shit is is still a secret,mine, formerly the Native American gent's, too, but he got run over by a green Peterbuilt trailer truck. I'm sure he'd be here among the living at age 120 if he hadn't incurred misfortune.

Nocroaka prevents you from dropping dead. You still have to look both ways before crossing Rodeo Drive. A shit load of vital nutrients can't hold your hand and burp you. They go organ to organ working miracles. They start in the tum-tum, migrate to the liver, swing a louie to your heart, then all the vitamins and minerals take a jaunt to your brain, and do a nice old job of shoveling out the stables.

You take better craps on Nocroaka. 

fiction: My Life On Hollywood Squares

I know this can become tiresome, some person's private reflections, like radar beeping across a web of B-list Hollywood personalities, but I'm in a protracted emotional  choke slam with memories right now.  I need in the worst way for people to listen.  And to care.  I need people to care about this a fuck-load.

I need to tell everyone that it was straight talk only between me and Wally Cox.   This was in the 1960s.  Two men didn't talk about things unless there was a ritual, a code word, you know, guys would keep a cheap ass wedding band in their wallets, and whip it on when some asshole was about to say you were not heterosexual.  Two guys wanted to blow each other, they'd give this hand signal.  It was no problem.  I was straight, and Wally and me didn't do the hand signal.

The four months I was a regular on Hollywood Squares were like four miles of psychic I.E.Ds on a country lane in Libya.  There were innuendos, vicious rumors.  You have to be ready for it when you wear a tawny fright wig and novelty glasses.  They made me hold a little guitar with sequins glued all over it.   So what if Wally wants to talk to some one  about the inside track on what could have been some really outstanding entertainment vehicles!  Wally was a brilliant individual.  And an outstanding conversationalist.  He was the kind of man who doesn't have to agree with you.  I admire that.   Paul Lind was the type you're always agreeing with, because he's picking up the check.

I still wear a fright wig.   The novelty glasses still release two spring loaded hollow plastic eye balls.  Unlike some famous health gurus I could name, my health care products actually work, which is why I'm wiggling close to age 100.  I sold this health potion for decades after that star dust four months I spent as a regular on Hollywood Squares.  I'm a survivor.  I will survive.  97 y/o and I can still pole vault.   And there was nothing between me and Wally besides normal guy talk.  We didn't get queer with each other.  It was innuendo. 

I Love To Make A Fuss When I Must

The coffee smelled like a studio wrestler's undergarment.  Names of offending eating establishments are always omitted because I'm too fucking nice to inflict harm, such as by describing the food, but you can't be sued too easily for suggesting the places on Wood Street, downtown, serve coffee that can etch glass, like Theresa May's pee.   

Caffeine  is at least one of the four food groups, by necessity, much in the way opioids become a food group to people hooked on them.   There's only one bus route that can possibly kick off a longer bus ride anywhere outbound, from my slummy home turf, and it dumps my ass off on Wood Street, where coffee is like a compacted world of underarms on a dog day.

Shit like this happens to locals who live in the outer urban boonies, the bus trips have the property of defining people, in the fresh coined memes one hears in a slum.  I often stop for coffee, no matter how bad, first thing off the bus from my hell hole in Perry South to where ever.  When doing so, virtually no one can not be struck by the Invisible Pendulum, just like the big brass bastard in the flick 'The Pit and the Pendulum.'  Or like the huge pendulum in the motherfucking book.  It swings back and forth from above, and eventually hits you with the fact that you drink putrid coffee in putrid places downtown. 

Seen from above, like in a helicopter, the streets downtown, in heavy traffic, with its swaggering dyskenetic flow of pedestrians,  buildings clustered like quartz, are laid out in  a pattern that resembles a line drawing of Lou Reed shooting smack into the crook of his arm. People live and breathe on a map, and the way they get around defines them.  Bad coffee  is like drinking a slum. It becomes part of you.   We are what we ingest.  Life is putrid.

Beefing. Beefing.

I wear exactly the same clothes as the character on the show I'm watching now, while typing like a chicken eating corn kernals.  I've watched the show several times before, starting at least three years back, maybe more, forget,  was still enjoying it last night, or early in the morning, as we all prefer, when I wanted a black bomber jacket like the one the character was wearing.  I almost clicked screens over to online shopping outlets for the gratifying impulse buy, hesitated, let my mind continue clouding, then noticed that I was already wearing a black bomber jacket exactly like the one the character was wearing in the scene I was watching, and I bought the accessory while watching the same episode of the same series at least a year earlier.  No bother.  I'm happy.   I have what I want. 

 Mildly disturbed that perception of having something can suck a big fat cock.  In the future I'm going to try to overcome this toxic effect of media and materialism, mind control, patterning, profiling, being an operative in a city full of flesh robots.  Don't bet the farm on my luck with this shit.

Poem: Stuck Here

Stuck Here


hold me back, Matilda 
a bud may get awfully bothered by sounds like this
this was pulled against a classic hero
with piney  outcome
they lulled the old sprout
now here's:
schools of herring and birds harmonizing
plantation chairs filigree  striking wicker 
gold lame' curtains folded for pungent mystery
tiny cups of yogurt in
a pressurized court yard people can greet in
they're getting:
enshrined sweetened whole grains in bubbly glasss bowls
I never saw anything like it
nondairy creamer
aerator making bubbles size of bowling balls
I barely just came into the place and a person 
sits on my lap 
jumps up and down
folds the yard long  balloon into a dachsund 
I would like to escape from this excess of kindness 
Possible
but it isn't possible 
the sound of organized compulsions gets hypnotic
once the curse is set
 there is no going home to the uncles 

fiction: My Position in Life

(this is total BS.)

Paul was hostile and inebriated. Hours earlier he was charming. Handsome, in a camp group of mannerisms composing the finest Hollywood Square who ever lived. I've come to believe in destiny, like the moon is some type of luck fob. One of the reasons I remained a friend to Paul, even at his worst, is because I know what it is to be on the B-list. And I only know this because when people fall out of it, they wind up seeking emotional support from people two or three notches below the A-list, which is like saying I'm dead and still able to speak. Once you accept your own social death, it is possible to make yourself useful while living with everyone else's stardom.

You can't let on you have feelings when a man like Paul Lind shows up at your apartment drunk and angry. I just pretend I'm a professional of some sort and let people like that make snide remarks. He paid for meals and drinks, like he was paying for mental health service. There were some good times, between us, and it meant something. When I tried to explain that Wally Cox has been able to accept his position in the industry, Paul snorted an expression of scorn. "This isn't about accepting," he retorted, "it's about being."

Everyone is an existentialist when they feel like a snubbed genius with a hare lip. You have to remind a lot of people that they are celebrities, and fame is the Scylla and Charybdis so hairy to fall into when you are drowning in the River Styx. No one can be a Hollywood Square without fighting with these sorts of feelings. I went through it when I was a Hollywood Square. Now I'm back to being a folk singer. It's how I started. A producer saw my act, we had an affair, and I got what I thought was a break. Ha! Four months of celebrity then nothing.

Nothing's lower than folk singing. You can't explain a thing like that to people like Paul Lind. Fame is worse than Michael Row The Boat Ashore. You have to suffer through it, knowing other people benefit from it. It's not your song. It's theirs. Your job is to support the values other people wallow in, like pigs.

Desperate Fiction: Monopoly on Ventnor Ave.

(Some explaining is in order.  Writers are sometimes at a loss for meaning.  There may be no way of coming terms with the times in which we live.  There may be answers,hopes or methods, but the laziest way of dealing with the problem is to take banal BS and fabricate it into a story that the writer hopes will amuse you, and thus justify his/her lousy little existence.)

Monopoly on Ventnor Ave. 

Christopher Lee and Vincent Price stopped by, and we wound up looking at each other in my bungalow, like we didn't really belong together. I'd heard they acted the same way at Charles Nelson Reilly's place. Really. This was before I became a regular on Hollywood Squares. I still had my place on Ventnor Ave. People were giving me short shrift.

I was in no position to make them leave. Every time one of them would roll the dice, he'd pull the old hurry up and wait, rattling and stopping, knowing how I am with anticipation. Christopher is the worse of the two when it comes to probing for weak points. Always saying that people from New Jersy are common. He would have to rethink that. I know he did. I was a regular on Hollywood Squares for four straight months.

But I was still on Ventnor at the time. Still playing board games with the B-List. It's no different than being on the A-list. I don't think it is.

fiction: Friendship Pills

Bastard told me it was X, so I handed the portly young neck-beard my twenty dollars, and I couldn't stand waiting, so I popped the pill at the bus stop. The salesperson stands up the block from this lovely antebellum funeral parlor, where all the gang folk go after a shooting. The older I get, the less this differs from playing bridge at the nursing home just another block down the pike. I'm planning to retire there. Then croak. But for now I have few lean battles left inside the rotting, worm eaten Trojan Horse of flesh.

Took a while for the crap to kick in, and it sure as hell wasn't X. I was watching my shows, like I always do. Sometimes it's a biography of Del Shannon. Or it's a true crime show in which the Unibomber brings one home again. Same bombs against the same alma maters. I mostly watch half hour biographies, as if people from What's My Line are just as important as George Washington or Chairman Mao, who also does a nice half hour biography. I was into my third half hour show when the crap kicked in. I'd seen the show before, and this time it came clear just how beneficial illegal drugs are.

This time I know Paul Lind, personally. I already knew the story. Great character actor for sit coms. Fantastic panelist on Hollywood Squares. ETOH abuse. Some mental problems. Repressed animosity about being a B-lister. This time I was in his apartment. We were sort of like friends. More so than when you just watch the computer screen. He paid particular attention to everything I said. Makes sense. Sometimes it's best to listen to an outsider. Your closest friends might be blowing smoke up your ass. The word 'friend' seems to have changed from red to green and then to blue and yellow over the last sixty years. Paul and I are in the yellow zone for now. There is some type of relationship. Hope the neck-beard is at his post next time I head out by the funeral parlor. Hope he has more fake X.

A Jizz Moment Can Mean So Much

I was obtaining a kielbasa treat at a popular gas station/convenience store near a big grocery store in a part of town that is like a baboon's ass.

Am I distressed it is ugly as a thirty foot column of dog shit?  No.

The condiments there are excellent and diverse, canned sour kraut and relish in institutional style serving fixtures, the chili sauce dispenser, the cheese jizz dispenser, upside down plastic dispensers of sauces people didn't know of in 1998, as if people less than age twenty five could die of substance abuse without exhausting all his/her food choices, and the coffee there is outstanding.  I will attest of great sanitation, weenie buns cum in a safe-like oyster case, the cock shaped kielbasa units are always fresh and flavorful, fuck it all, that convenience store/gas station is a motherfucking lark.  I was riding my bicycle ten miles plus outbound followed, right the fuck then, with another ball buster in, when it got to be kielbasa time.  That mini plaza, ugly as duck shit, is an oasis.

Twas there that my best moment of the day, of the week, of how ever long I wish to claim it's giggling giddy memory, that two cashiers made my day.  As one lithe exotic beauty was ringing up my weenie purchase, so heavy with kraut, chili, lots of other garbage, her comrade cashier and she conversed in sweet voices, sweet, sweet laughing, feminine voices, the woman to the left saying, as I approached the check out, "they must get a lot of nookie in the back seat of them things."

As the other tall woman tapped the cash register keys, she smiled so radiant, so priceless,  glory of  pulchritude working like a one armed paper hanger, "Yeah.  There was jizz all over the apholstery."

That was absolutely all I overheard of their conversation, and it made me laugh.  It made me laugh most of the way home, which was a hairy six miles, if I felt like pushing the bike, but I lucked out superbly, decided to use the bike rack on the bus, caught the thing, and glory be, the cash box wasn't working so I got a free ride home, with the bike safe as milk on the carrier.   I guess I will content myself they were talking about a limosine, or other public, or private, conveyance, vehicle, bus, car, SUV, Humvee, who cares.  Any vehicle that has jizz all over the seats is living proof of vitality, of one kind or other. Or else there may have been a sex crime, and of course I hope not, I abhor that brand of misconduct, but as long as it was consensual jizz, I'm happy for everyone who had fun.  It can be wonderful to have sex while driving.  And it can take  two cashiers at a convenience store/gas station to remind you.  What could possibly be more life affirming?   A free bus ride, some rip-snorting good kielbasa, and edification.   The North Side.   No where else.

Edification Can Be A Real Big Pill

How concepts wander on the low chaparelle.  Like a bunch of fucking crack heads!  'Twerking' is an internet meme, some famous Barbie Doll either invented it or did it on orders from the Stalinist/Satanic West Coast leadership, and I had hoped not to hear of it again.  No such luck.    It's buttock emphatic, with practitioners hunching forward, ass out, working it.   Initially, it was done to music, but eventually people were able to eliminate expensive and inconvenient sound production.   Screaming and breaking windows is cheaper and easier than playing Bach on your digital cello.  Extending a huge monumental ass and shaking it to and fro is called 'twerking,' and it is growing in popular usage.  I was watching the Jerry Springer Show.

Transgender women were beating the fuck out of each other on stage.   One of them was scary large, another one lithe, over-confident and vicious, but they would converse about daily life, with the security staff at ready, then they would set to slap boxing.  Also fists.  The larger of the two women had a boxing stance unlike most professionals, but was fantastically intimidating.  Heck, I'd pay up if she said to me, "Where's the money, milkhead?"  Security staff had to intervene often.

Finally, it was time to get some audience participation going.  It was a relief.   Some wise soul suggested into the hand-held phallic microphone that the two combatants settle their differences with a twerk off.  The two individuals agreed!  Winston Fucking Churchill couldn't have worked this the fuck out one fucking teensy weensy bit better!  The two fine ladies needed to prove to themselves, each other and the world that their ass was as real as any woman's ass was.   They were women.  Not men dressed like women.  And the truth was in their ass.

They turned away from each other, then back stepped carefully, each leaning forward, hands on the knees, the ankles rollicking to a drum beat.  The two asses engaged at center, no talking, no senseless debate over ethics.  They both worked their ass, cheek to cheek, with comparable conviction and power.   With equal gender experience.  Parts of the audience was overcome with sensuality.  They remained locked at the buttocks for a full minute, both working their ass, nay, I say, 'twerking,' now that I'm ready to call it by its rightful name.  The two transgender individuals were twerking, and when they finished twerking, I felt certain they would be able to resolve their differences and become better transgender women who twerk.  And I'm glad I saw it all happen.  Thanks for reading.