Wednesday, May 17, 2017

Wednesday, May 10, 2017

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.

Monday, May 8, 2017

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.

Sunday, May 7, 2017

fiction, continued: My Life On Hollywood Squares

I can still pole vault... 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.

Saturday, May 6, 2017

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. 

Friday, May 5, 2017

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.