To the best of assholing abilities I have been neutral and relatively disinterested in presidential politics aside from a gentleman's interest in the evening news.    Centrist Democrat.   Pro civil rights, always and forever, as if that matters a great hairy load.   Doesn't.    I've carped before about libertarian philosophy, and that as the Fed weasels boldly out of DEI,  individuals can countervail this by earning money in the free markets and using it to support DEI privately.    Too, voters can concentrate on DEI goals at state and city level, sustaining coctact with state reps and mayors, city council, the news.  The Fed is going out of business.

 

I am a substandard-ass MF.   Low net worth.    Flying at a fraction of industry standard costs.  Is this commendable?   Environmental?   You should see me in my Rhine stone John Fucking Muir hat.   Not that I'm invited to the Sierra Club billion dollar a plate chow down orgies.   The Clinton Foundation put me on their assholes list.    The Dalai Lama told me to fuck myself.   He has more important people to hang out with, like former Mayor Bill Peduto.   

Doofus' , plural, (how does one pluralize 'doofus?')  have/has been producing good quality news and entertainment on the youtube platform.   Are these doofs not substandard?    Is their budget not duck shit compared to CBS and NBC?  The operating budget here, me, mine, is less than duck shit.   I work on a budget of mere guano.   Droppings.  Tiny portions of bird shit.

Is there honor in being dirt poor?   In hacking out news and info, whatever that dog shit may be?  Or is it oligarchs only?   Do peons matter?  Did poor people ever matter?    Thanks for pondering along.

Word Salad Time... no news worth carping and moaning about...

 He was well thought of among burger flipping peoples where he grew up.  Customers  recognized Francis in polyester culinary slacks, white top with loops and stitched pen compartments.   Our  food industry professionals at the time knew who he was.  That was a lot.   

People taking classes in Erie one summer were taught to watch for people you can trust behind the grill, or with the multipurpose units.   That's the part of the operation that screws up more often than anywhere else.  You just can't break former tool and die workers of storage habits.   Meat  and cable reels are not the same goddam things.  Francis was able to follow directions, and grasped the importance of the procedures that were emerging.  

There were arts and sciences in the food places.  Young hayseeds were easy in accepting a whole new way of life, managing a barn shaped burger joint.   Portly retired men paid Francis a few earthy compliments, usually how lucky he was to be able to take the role of patty and cheese man.  The former zipper town, formerly wholesome, formerly proud of the vacancy that used to bang out zippers, all sizes, but damn it to hell brass and  agri-business hard fabric.   They made zippers sewed into black leather biker coats the local motorccycle club members wore.   Their zippers went up the sides of Beatle and Lawyer boots, sometimes called, in the day, Florsheims.    Francis' alcoholic spouse beating father worked at the zipper factory for a lifetime.   

The year was 1977.   People were blowing their own brains out with antique double barrel shotguns their grandfathers bought mail order from a Sears catalog.  Suicides passed those guns down for generations so everyone could extinguish grief the right way.  No one in Meadville wanted to go on welfare.   Death was way fucking better than that.  We, us, what I was till I moved a hundred miles directly south, were suicidal former farmers who had to get jobs in some other line of work.   Francis blew his brains out with his antique shotgun a few years after the food business failed.    A lot of people felt that he had done the right the thing, since he no longer had a job.  I decided a few years forward of that tragedy to move here.  I deserve this motherfucking town.  It's fabulous being dirt poor here.   People are so fucking sophisticated.   

 

poem reading

mosquito valor 2

BASS, GUITAR, SNARE DRUM, BONGO, GONG, DIGITAL ENHANCEMENT