Mostly I am on my other blog lately, http://theelvesattic.blogspot.com and my site where I am pounding out my late3st book, http://wakingupjesus.blogspot.com
the storefront we are moving into...
Thursday, June 30, 2005
Saturday, June 25, 2005
ASSHOLE OF THE DAY
On days when I have nothing to say and probably should just do something else, I am going to start, for the sake of checking in here everyday without making a complete and utter fool of myself, pointing out ASSHOLES OF THE DAY. The lesser evils will be HEMROIDS, of course.
To begin this possibly going to be followed tradition... I offer you a man who kept 11 big cats and a bear caged in his house because he could, legally.... in this world where up is down and creationism is on the rise, the Big cats, a lion and a tiger, will be put to sleep for acting like huge, predatorial beasts at the top of their food chain. The ASSHOLE WILL GET TO LIVE ON, AND KEEP HIS OTHER ANIMALS... until the inevitable lawsuit makes himsell everything he has. Hopefully, now that the san franciso media, which is very cool, is in on the schazmeel, they will make sure the owner does right by the rest of his animals.
A special plea to all you true psychos. You guys who are just going to kill anyways? You know who you are....
Well, if you are just going to kill anyways,m then why not choose a guy like this? I'm just saying, your parents would be a hell of a lot prouder of that then taking out that kindergarten down the street. Think, you, think.... you know I am right. So, if you can just wait to kill next until you track this guy down, do please stake him out (use those metal tent stakes -- easy to get, and hard to trace (which I don't have to tell you is a big part of your continued success)). Put them stakes in both his spread hands and . .. you guessed it... both feet. See, you didn't need those special classes? Then all you have to do is rig a rope to open the cages for the tigers and lions and bear, and let them feast of his sick, sick mind and body... and no, I don't mean they get to eat everything -- take your trophies first though. Afterwards, you reall y should blow your brains out. You know its past that time... and blowing out those silly brains of yours will make your story more interesting to the press... and get your parents and ex freinds book deals and stuff. You know, you haven't exactly been the best kid, so this will make your funeral sure to be attended by at least someone. (and don't think you can come over here for me to videotape the spectacle for a live feed... no, not in my house anymore... those fucking blood stains on the ceiling really look like shit and I am just too lazy to clean them off... oh, I hold the cat up so he can lick at them but the stain needs more... so much more than I can give right now).
REMEMBER --- Don't forget to blow your brains out afterwards!!!!!!!! And if you should have somehow made a kid... someone you raped who was too religious to abort your demon seed, you really have to take them out before you go. They are still innocent now, so killing them will assure them a place in heaven. Now, you are going to hell, but you would not have if you had died young... like your kids will... unless you decide to neglect your role as a father and allow them to live... I mean, if they are girls, you know they are just going to be whores, like those prostitues you had to kill (hey, who am I to argue with the voices in your head?). Boys will get raped in prison, like you used to.
In those vital days leading up to the final murder of this asshole and then splaying your own head with lead, you should probably just ride a meth and whisky high off into the sunset on that big old horizon...
Boy, 10, Critical After Tiger, Lion Attack
A 10-year-old boy was attacked and critically injured by a tiger and a lion that were among a dozen large animals kept by a businessman, authorities said.
Russell Wowsie was injured Wednesday when he and his father visited Chuckles the Smooze, who authorities say is the owner of 11 large cats and a bear. The boy was in critical condition Thursday at the Hennepin County Medical Center in Minneapolis.
Chuckles the Smooze opened the door of a cage and a tiger pushed its way out to attack the boy. When the owner was pulling off the tiger, a lion attacked. Smooze, the owner of Best Buy Butt Plugs, did not immediately return telephone calls to his home and office Thursday. He has registered 12 animals with the state ? 11 large cats and one bear. The sheriff Wetwilly said he thought Chuckles kept the animals as "a novelty."
"I don't think anyone should have them," Wetwilly, said. "Just because you're legal doesn't mean you're safe."
To begin this possibly going to be followed tradition... I offer you a man who kept 11 big cats and a bear caged in his house because he could, legally.... in this world where up is down and creationism is on the rise, the Big cats, a lion and a tiger, will be put to sleep for acting like huge, predatorial beasts at the top of their food chain. The ASSHOLE WILL GET TO LIVE ON, AND KEEP HIS OTHER ANIMALS... until the inevitable lawsuit makes himsell everything he has. Hopefully, now that the san franciso media, which is very cool, is in on the schazmeel, they will make sure the owner does right by the rest of his animals.
A special plea to all you true psychos. You guys who are just going to kill anyways? You know who you are....
Well, if you are just going to kill anyways,m then why not choose a guy like this? I'm just saying, your parents would be a hell of a lot prouder of that then taking out that kindergarten down the street. Think, you, think.... you know I am right. So, if you can just wait to kill next until you track this guy down, do please stake him out (use those metal tent stakes -- easy to get, and hard to trace (which I don't have to tell you is a big part of your continued success)). Put them stakes in both his spread hands and . .. you guessed it... both feet. See, you didn't need those special classes? Then all you have to do is rig a rope to open the cages for the tigers and lions and bear, and let them feast of his sick, sick mind and body... and no, I don't mean they get to eat everything -- take your trophies first though. Afterwards, you reall y should blow your brains out. You know its past that time... and blowing out those silly brains of yours will make your story more interesting to the press... and get your parents and ex freinds book deals and stuff. You know, you haven't exactly been the best kid, so this will make your funeral sure to be attended by at least someone. (and don't think you can come over here for me to videotape the spectacle for a live feed... no, not in my house anymore... those fucking blood stains on the ceiling really look like shit and I am just too lazy to clean them off... oh, I hold the cat up so he can lick at them but the stain needs more... so much more than I can give right now).
REMEMBER --- Don't forget to blow your brains out afterwards!!!!!!!! And if you should have somehow made a kid... someone you raped who was too religious to abort your demon seed, you really have to take them out before you go. They are still innocent now, so killing them will assure them a place in heaven. Now, you are going to hell, but you would not have if you had died young... like your kids will... unless you decide to neglect your role as a father and allow them to live... I mean, if they are girls, you know they are just going to be whores, like those prostitues you had to kill (hey, who am I to argue with the voices in your head?). Boys will get raped in prison, like you used to.
In those vital days leading up to the final murder of this asshole and then splaying your own head with lead, you should probably just ride a meth and whisky high off into the sunset on that big old horizon...
Boy, 10, Critical After Tiger, Lion Attack
A 10-year-old boy was attacked and critically injured by a tiger and a lion that were among a dozen large animals kept by a businessman, authorities said.
Russell Wowsie was injured Wednesday when he and his father visited Chuckles the Smooze, who authorities say is the owner of 11 large cats and a bear. The boy was in critical condition Thursday at the Hennepin County Medical Center in Minneapolis.
Chuckles the Smooze opened the door of a cage and a tiger pushed its way out to attack the boy. When the owner was pulling off the tiger, a lion attacked. Smooze, the owner of Best Buy Butt Plugs, did not immediately return telephone calls to his home and office Thursday. He has registered 12 animals with the state ? 11 large cats and one bear. The sheriff Wetwilly said he thought Chuckles kept the animals as "a novelty."
"I don't think anyone should have them," Wetwilly, said. "Just because you're legal doesn't mean you're safe."
Friday, June 24, 2005
johnny pain e books....
Watch your women, hide the wombats, and grease down the squash.... Johnny Pain is going to start putting out e books. I have three entirely written. One War, my experimental novel about a CIA agent, a think tank, and a poet; another of my short stories; at least one best of this fucking blog--with an emphasis on comedy and atheism and having all the different themes and narrations in here compiled together....
I always sort of dreaded the thought of self publishing. Thought of it as something bad writers did. Even though this is how leaves of grass and many, many memorible books began, it is not exactly as encouraging as having a publisher believe in me enough to put up their bucks....
Still, better that I throw my voice into the areana, rather than sit here silently pretending everything will be alright without any effort on my part... because for one, there are not enough books from an atheistic perspective. I fear a time when everyone follows the mystic mind fuck of some religion or another. Humans have been desimated from times before the reach of memory by this or that version of nationalistic/church/personality cults, all in the name of propping up their mania no matter who has to die.
The fucking self help books clutter the shelf with plastic religiousity -- in forms with gods and without, ranging from subculteral induced manias to psycho-rabble. I figure as long as my book can keep ten thousand people from sticking their heads up their asses for good, I will have accomplished something extrodinary with my life.
I want to be literatures atheist... one of the voices which is not addled by the fleeting viruses of his time... yea, right...
Anything I can do to help destroy the boof belief that the only way to have a meaningful life is to lie to yourself all the time every doggone day for all your life...... I will do.,.. if it is easy. Very, very easy... because I suck.
I always sort of dreaded the thought of self publishing. Thought of it as something bad writers did. Even though this is how leaves of grass and many, many memorible books began, it is not exactly as encouraging as having a publisher believe in me enough to put up their bucks....
Still, better that I throw my voice into the areana, rather than sit here silently pretending everything will be alright without any effort on my part... because for one, there are not enough books from an atheistic perspective. I fear a time when everyone follows the mystic mind fuck of some religion or another. Humans have been desimated from times before the reach of memory by this or that version of nationalistic/church/personality cults, all in the name of propping up their mania no matter who has to die.
The fucking self help books clutter the shelf with plastic religiousity -- in forms with gods and without, ranging from subculteral induced manias to psycho-rabble. I figure as long as my book can keep ten thousand people from sticking their heads up their asses for good, I will have accomplished something extrodinary with my life.
I want to be literatures atheist... one of the voices which is not addled by the fleeting viruses of his time... yea, right...
Anything I can do to help destroy the boof belief that the only way to have a meaningful life is to lie to yourself all the time every doggone day for all your life...... I will do.,.. if it is easy. Very, very easy... because I suck.
MODERNISM SMASHES INTO PEICES OF THE POST MODERN
FROM A NEW YORK TIMES BOOK REVIEW:
' In (Robert) Lowell's case, poetry itself appears to have shrunk from the high ground he commandeered: his grand conception of the poet as public figure and public conscience, half classical Roman and half seventeenth-century English, has gained little traction in the present era of notably small and private poems. In a climate of shy minimalism, Lowell's finest work has tended to strike some younger readers as immodest, messianic, out of date.'
As I read the book reviews this morn, I came across this review of a book of letters by the American poet Lowell. The kind of poetry he wrote is described in the italicized sentence; the reviewer¢s reference to a cultural shift interested the hell out of me. Mainly because Lowell went mad occasionally, getting locked away in asylums 14 times in the last third of his life.
During these bouts, he had an uncanny, messianic certainty about everything he wrote. In his more lucid states, the reviewer writes, Lowell was a bit ashamed of his mad self, though he also seemed to romanticize that side of himself --like so many I have heard and read do. There is nothing cool about being crazy, but when you are crazy, you have to rationalize your existence somehow to stave off the razors hovering over our wrists.
(TO DIGRESS.... I knew a ministers son once who was struck with the kind of Mania that is described in this poet. He would see god and be certain of all this crap about being a prophet... but only when he was unmedicated. His dad was something like a Lutheran or some other sect that wasn't fooled by their virus into thinking the kid was a prophet. That could have happened to him... another poet who I read an interview by in the great, late Hyphen Magazine, where I published and read fiction and still can't remember the guys name... was raised to believe that he was a prophet. He lost his faith in one mad rush when he was a teenager, after a girl he liked told him that he was full of shit and he realized that she was right).
Religious Mania isn't called that because the process is sane...
Funny thing too... to digress even more, Someone wrote in and said that I hate Mormons. I can certainly see how that would seem to be the case, but let me assure you, I despise a virus, not the infected. Religion is the Macro, and the micro is Mormonism. My beef is with the macro... I am polite and nice and respectful to people of any religion, in person.... though in the realm of ideas, which is indeed where I at least aspire to be writing from,
I feel I have to be so harsh that the message won't bounce off peoples heads, like all those worthless words we all ignore all day. THAT'S MY STORY AND I AM STICKING TO IT... So what are you going to do????
The shift referred to in the above snip of a review is also of interest to me at least because of how wonderful the writer describes Modernism, and the movements which have followed, which seem post modern to me, though the term is never used in the review.
POST MODERN means.... There is no universal truths that apply all the time every where. Okay, this is woefully inadequate, but for my purposes... I suck, I know, oh, dog, I know..
' In (Robert) Lowell's case, poetry itself appears to have shrunk from the high ground he commandeered: his grand conception of the poet as public figure and public conscience, half classical Roman and half seventeenth-century English, has gained little traction in the present era of notably small and private poems. In a climate of shy minimalism, Lowell's finest work has tended to strike some younger readers as immodest, messianic, out of date.'
As I read the book reviews this morn, I came across this review of a book of letters by the American poet Lowell. The kind of poetry he wrote is described in the italicized sentence; the reviewer¢s reference to a cultural shift interested the hell out of me. Mainly because Lowell went mad occasionally, getting locked away in asylums 14 times in the last third of his life.
During these bouts, he had an uncanny, messianic certainty about everything he wrote. In his more lucid states, the reviewer writes, Lowell was a bit ashamed of his mad self, though he also seemed to romanticize that side of himself --like so many I have heard and read do. There is nothing cool about being crazy, but when you are crazy, you have to rationalize your existence somehow to stave off the razors hovering over our wrists.
(TO DIGRESS.... I knew a ministers son once who was struck with the kind of Mania that is described in this poet. He would see god and be certain of all this crap about being a prophet... but only when he was unmedicated. His dad was something like a Lutheran or some other sect that wasn't fooled by their virus into thinking the kid was a prophet. That could have happened to him... another poet who I read an interview by in the great, late Hyphen Magazine, where I published and read fiction and still can't remember the guys name... was raised to believe that he was a prophet. He lost his faith in one mad rush when he was a teenager, after a girl he liked told him that he was full of shit and he realized that she was right).
Religious Mania isn't called that because the process is sane...
Funny thing too... to digress even more, Someone wrote in and said that I hate Mormons. I can certainly see how that would seem to be the case, but let me assure you, I despise a virus, not the infected. Religion is the Macro, and the micro is Mormonism. My beef is with the macro... I am polite and nice and respectful to people of any religion, in person.... though in the realm of ideas, which is indeed where I at least aspire to be writing from,
I feel I have to be so harsh that the message won't bounce off peoples heads, like all those worthless words we all ignore all day. THAT'S MY STORY AND I AM STICKING TO IT... So what are you going to do????
The shift referred to in the above snip of a review is also of interest to me at least because of how wonderful the writer describes Modernism, and the movements which have followed, which seem post modern to me, though the term is never used in the review.
POST MODERN means.... There is no universal truths that apply all the time every where. Okay, this is woefully inadequate, but for my purposes... I suck, I know, oh, dog, I know..
Tuesday, June 21, 2005
AMAZON IS UNSAFE TO USE.... someone has tapped into their system and is stealing.
Twice I have been a victim of identy theft. The first time, someone got into M's bank account, destroyed her credit and made serious overdrafts. The fucks who stole her account number cashed 6 checks before someone at the bank responded, and they were less than helpful. Never pressed any charges, though they had the criminals on tape. They just didn't want the bad publicity. BANK ONE should not be trusted, believe me... we lost a few thousand dollars on bounced checks and crap...
Today, IT WAS AMAZON. If you have an account with them, you had better close out the credit card you used AND STOP DEALING WITH THEM. A very bright friend of mine was trying to give me a book, and instead I got a notice saying my email had changed. This lead me to wonder about the gift certificate... and now, my worst fears were confirmed when I called around and found out I was screwed.... and my friend's credit is now subject to getting fucked.
Theives should be burned alive. Very slowly.
Today, IT WAS AMAZON. If you have an account with them, you had better close out the credit card you used AND STOP DEALING WITH THEM. A very bright friend of mine was trying to give me a book, and instead I got a notice saying my email had changed. This lead me to wonder about the gift certificate... and now, my worst fears were confirmed when I called around and found out I was screwed.... and my friend's credit is now subject to getting fucked.
Theives should be burned alive. Very slowly.
Friday, June 17, 2005
AYN RAND FUCKS PUDDLES OF BRAIN SNOT
Blog entry/june
This is the voice in my head that is not 'thriving' in an unjust capitalistic system that rewards those who are most like the present rulers--which is by and large a group of people I find amoral and repugnant. Has anything changed from the feudal times when you think of politics in this way? Those who sucked up to the Kings were allowed to thrive, while those who crossed them were wiped out. And those who sucked up to the local lords were allowed to thrive, while those who crossed them were wiped out... right on down to a husband beating a wife, to the smallest kid kicking the cat. Just a sickening way to be a human being.
We see the Bush administration taking the side of the oil company's against the common good, as well as supporting the drilling the arctic, the lack of funding for domestic issues, a tax cut for the rich that cuts funding for the poor and disenfranchised . . . The list of ways in which the elitist Bush has acted against what is good for most people is as long as any Republicans. They thrive on doing what is right for business, as much because they have the most money to give them to fight off attacks on their spot on top of the hill, as because the connectives actually see business as the new modern savior. God is dead, might as believe in the almighty dollar. Makes you wonder which happened first, the death of god or the worship of the little green false idol.
The Republishits even feel forgiven when they work heart attack hours and treat people like shit for a few pennies to get a few more work hours out of them, or steal from their retirees and send them to the poor house.... the list is way long enough to kill people with boredom should I write them all down. Enron to . . . every town has a few.
Arthur Anderson is here -- Enron¢s accounting firm. Hundreds of good people lost thief livelihoods and retirement funds because a few republicans decided that they would do anything possible to get more money...only in a culture that is half crazy in its frenzy feeding on stuff and more stuff and new and improved stuff.
The trickle down effect is how they want to tell the story of why bush cut their taxes and our social services, public transportation, schools... This is much like sloppy fourths or something.
"Yea, you see, you poor folk, young folk, and old folk, the money will be given to rich people, then they can give you their crumbs as tips for wiping their asses with our noses.
People in this country forget to be angered by the inequities of capitalism... I know I do. This democracy is too full of ignorant and easily swayed people to work correctly. Republicans can steal elections; rich singers can fuck kids; rich sportos can kill their wives and lovers; the mayor of Chicago stands at the center of a crowd of people going to jail, and yet we are expected to believe he knows nothing about any of them? City workers were out selling heroin during their days. What would happen in a real business if something like this happened... well, let's face it, like the news footage of all the postal workers drinking forty ouncers downtown outside of the main post office, this just would not happen in private business.
The trick is to be pro business and still not a capitalist. I feel like a limited form of capitalism well ensconced in socialistic humanity is what we need. Money should be phased out of use. People should work and get what they need, work more and get what they want. Up to twenty hours a week. Give away the food. Give away the toilet paper. Give away the houses... Everything given according to need.
Ayn Rand argued that people would just lay around doing nothing, and become stupid without business. No. They would do more art, have more sex, go to more concerts . . . the rich usually believe along the lines of Ann Rand. As if the leaders of business should be in charge of the rest of us, because without our boss/saviors, we would be like children unable to live. This is the same argument that slave owners made about blacks here in back during our u
This is the voice in my head that is not 'thriving' in an unjust capitalistic system that rewards those who are most like the present rulers--which is by and large a group of people I find amoral and repugnant. Has anything changed from the feudal times when you think of politics in this way? Those who sucked up to the Kings were allowed to thrive, while those who crossed them were wiped out. And those who sucked up to the local lords were allowed to thrive, while those who crossed them were wiped out... right on down to a husband beating a wife, to the smallest kid kicking the cat. Just a sickening way to be a human being.
We see the Bush administration taking the side of the oil company's against the common good, as well as supporting the drilling the arctic, the lack of funding for domestic issues, a tax cut for the rich that cuts funding for the poor and disenfranchised . . . The list of ways in which the elitist Bush has acted against what is good for most people is as long as any Republicans. They thrive on doing what is right for business, as much because they have the most money to give them to fight off attacks on their spot on top of the hill, as because the connectives actually see business as the new modern savior. God is dead, might as believe in the almighty dollar. Makes you wonder which happened first, the death of god or the worship of the little green false idol.
The Republishits even feel forgiven when they work heart attack hours and treat people like shit for a few pennies to get a few more work hours out of them, or steal from their retirees and send them to the poor house.... the list is way long enough to kill people with boredom should I write them all down. Enron to . . . every town has a few.
Arthur Anderson is here -- Enron¢s accounting firm. Hundreds of good people lost thief livelihoods and retirement funds because a few republicans decided that they would do anything possible to get more money...only in a culture that is half crazy in its frenzy feeding on stuff and more stuff and new and improved stuff.
The trickle down effect is how they want to tell the story of why bush cut their taxes and our social services, public transportation, schools... This is much like sloppy fourths or something.
"Yea, you see, you poor folk, young folk, and old folk, the money will be given to rich people, then they can give you their crumbs as tips for wiping their asses with our noses.
People in this country forget to be angered by the inequities of capitalism... I know I do. This democracy is too full of ignorant and easily swayed people to work correctly. Republicans can steal elections; rich singers can fuck kids; rich sportos can kill their wives and lovers; the mayor of Chicago stands at the center of a crowd of people going to jail, and yet we are expected to believe he knows nothing about any of them? City workers were out selling heroin during their days. What would happen in a real business if something like this happened... well, let's face it, like the news footage of all the postal workers drinking forty ouncers downtown outside of the main post office, this just would not happen in private business.
The trick is to be pro business and still not a capitalist. I feel like a limited form of capitalism well ensconced in socialistic humanity is what we need. Money should be phased out of use. People should work and get what they need, work more and get what they want. Up to twenty hours a week. Give away the food. Give away the toilet paper. Give away the houses... Everything given according to need.
Ayn Rand argued that people would just lay around doing nothing, and become stupid without business. No. They would do more art, have more sex, go to more concerts . . . the rich usually believe along the lines of Ann Rand. As if the leaders of business should be in charge of the rest of us, because without our boss/saviors, we would be like children unable to live. This is the same argument that slave owners made about blacks here in back during our u
more evidence of the rot that is humanity... ensconced in jokes to taste better.
A 22-year-old ex-con was wearing his girlfriend's pink tank top when he savagely beat a gay Brooklyn man into a coma last week for making a flirtatious comment, authorities said yesterday as they announced the suspect's arrest.
Steven Pomie was walking on a Brownsville street on June 8 when he pulled up his shirt, revealing part of his back, authorities said.
Pomie caught Dwan Prince, 26, staring at him and allegedly demanded, "What the f--- are you looking at?"
Witnesses said Prince responded flirtatiously, and Pomie, a Crips gang member with Stone Cold tattooed on his back, allegedly pummeled the gay man to the ground.
"My son didn't do anything to deserve this," said Prince's mother, Valerie Prinez, 47. "No one deserves this."
The arrest, however, brought her some relief yesterday.
"I'm grateful," she said. "The power of prayer works."
Two other men, who are still at large, were involved in the beating, but NYPD Capt. Michael Osgood of the hate crimes task force said Pomie was the primary attacker.
"He does the final, vicious drop kick," Osgood said.
Pomie was charged with attempted murder and two counts of assault as a hate crime. He was tracked to Seaside Heights, N.J., and arrested as he sat in a car, police said.
His rap sheet includes three arrests for weapons possession. A police source said he also had been arrested previously for firing at a cop, but details weren't available yesterday.
JOHNNY PAIN AGAIN... Sorry about the prayer reference in there... she of course could have said the same thing about praying for air everyday.
Steven Pomie was walking on a Brownsville street on June 8 when he pulled up his shirt, revealing part of his back, authorities said.
Pomie caught Dwan Prince, 26, staring at him and allegedly demanded, "What the f--- are you looking at?"
Witnesses said Prince responded flirtatiously, and Pomie, a Crips gang member with Stone Cold tattooed on his back, allegedly pummeled the gay man to the ground.
"My son didn't do anything to deserve this," said Prince's mother, Valerie Prinez, 47. "No one deserves this."
The arrest, however, brought her some relief yesterday.
"I'm grateful," she said. "The power of prayer works."
Two other men, who are still at large, were involved in the beating, but NYPD Capt. Michael Osgood of the hate crimes task force said Pomie was the primary attacker.
"He does the final, vicious drop kick," Osgood said.
Pomie was charged with attempted murder and two counts of assault as a hate crime. He was tracked to Seaside Heights, N.J., and arrested as he sat in a car, police said.
His rap sheet includes three arrests for weapons possession. A police source said he also had been arrested previously for firing at a cop, but details weren't available yesterday.
JOHNNY PAIN AGAIN... Sorry about the prayer reference in there... she of course could have said the same thing about praying for air everyday.
Wednesday, June 15, 2005
FUCKING PUZZLING EVIDENCE!!!!
BOOF i AM... i am going to write about a subject that has confused me since before my memory can reach... the conflict in the Middle East. Neither side is hero enough to take. The Zionists are taking peoples land. This is the final insult, the reason people take up guns and fight like there is no tomorrow. Wouldn't you? Only certain death could make you leave, and this indeed was the case back then, in the bad old days, when you could get away with shooting arabs. I hate the settlers who go into Arab land and say some fucking god has given them the right. I hate the people who blow these people up just as much. But not more. They are both so wrong in so many ways that the fact that they don't understand why they are wrong makes them brain washed/crazy/greedy... New Yorkers who move into settlements because that is the only way they can afford a house are like Jews who buy Volkswagen -- their memory is too short for their own good. This land they are on has been disputed since the first words started appearing. Moving there puts their kids in the line of fire of a war. What fucking good parents they are. Not to mention the land was so disputed, even in Israel, that they should have known their little trip into the reservation to steal land just might not be a forever thing...Israel is on a plot of land that once was a major route of trade, the only way to go between a sea and a desert. They were always getting conquered and sucked up into whatever culture the rulers were imposing.
Now, we flip to modern times, and see the powers that were after ww 2 telling the Jews they could have land that Arabs had been living on for hundreds of years. The Jews come in and slaughter the Arabs, drive around with trucks full of bodies telling the Arabs to leave or die. The surrounding countries grew to hate the Zionists right then and there. Before this they had gotten along, the jews and arabs who lived in Israel. Acted just as kind neighbors do. Then the war came, with the gas and the train of humans reduced to animal... slave laborers worked to death making mercede and volkswagons... In the aftermath, the Arabs found they could no longer buy land in the country that nourished their memories and their grandfather¢s memories. They were forced into a reeking camp and watched as the occupier took over their orchards and farms and started living in their houses... saw their lives wiped away and the conquerer building mansions in th edust of their lost lives. The echo of the Germans raping the Jews for all their money and houses is not lost on me.
On the other bloody hand, you have religious fanatics and psychopathically cold acting leaders ready to spill as much blood as it takes... a long as it isn't theirs. An entire culture with a suicide wish fed by dreams of virgins and rivers of wine (presumably non alcoholic since they can't drink that, but the Koran doesn't make this distinction, because there was no non alcoholic wine when it was written... not that I expect the book to make sense, and old books like that are too easy of a target for me to harp on the inconsistencies.. that just gets so boring).
The mind reels. What to do? Now we have the children of the men who slaughtered the Arabs and drove them from the land living in inherited land. They feel as strongly about not losing their lives and ways of being as the Arabs do. Now they are building a wall around the Jews there, and in the process, of course, of course, nabbing a bit more land.
Caught in the middle are the people who want nothing to do with the conflict, and can't understand why the others keep the killing going; they would give anything for a normal life like you can have in the states without too much effort. Caught in the middle are the children raised thinking other humans are enemies, that the jews/arabs are less than human, undeserving of mercy and love. Caught in the middle are the widows and mothers and fathers and brothers and sisters and uncles and grandparents of the dead, all crying quietly in their respective churches, praying as hard as they ever have that no one else in their family will fall victim to the troubles.
So if anyone out there is in Palestian or Israel, or even knows anyone in the middle east, please inform them that Johnny Pain has officially declared their war over, and all combatants are to disarm within twenty four hours... or I will not be as kind to you as I would like to be when I take over the world.
puzzling evidence du jour....
Now, we flip to modern times, and see the powers that were after ww 2 telling the Jews they could have land that Arabs had been living on for hundreds of years. The Jews come in and slaughter the Arabs, drive around with trucks full of bodies telling the Arabs to leave or die. The surrounding countries grew to hate the Zionists right then and there. Before this they had gotten along, the jews and arabs who lived in Israel. Acted just as kind neighbors do. Then the war came, with the gas and the train of humans reduced to animal... slave laborers worked to death making mercede and volkswagons... In the aftermath, the Arabs found they could no longer buy land in the country that nourished their memories and their grandfather¢s memories. They were forced into a reeking camp and watched as the occupier took over their orchards and farms and started living in their houses... saw their lives wiped away and the conquerer building mansions in th edust of their lost lives. The echo of the Germans raping the Jews for all their money and houses is not lost on me.
On the other bloody hand, you have religious fanatics and psychopathically cold acting leaders ready to spill as much blood as it takes... a long as it isn't theirs. An entire culture with a suicide wish fed by dreams of virgins and rivers of wine (presumably non alcoholic since they can't drink that, but the Koran doesn't make this distinction, because there was no non alcoholic wine when it was written... not that I expect the book to make sense, and old books like that are too easy of a target for me to harp on the inconsistencies.. that just gets so boring).
The mind reels. What to do? Now we have the children of the men who slaughtered the Arabs and drove them from the land living in inherited land. They feel as strongly about not losing their lives and ways of being as the Arabs do. Now they are building a wall around the Jews there, and in the process, of course, of course, nabbing a bit more land.
Caught in the middle are the people who want nothing to do with the conflict, and can't understand why the others keep the killing going; they would give anything for a normal life like you can have in the states without too much effort. Caught in the middle are the children raised thinking other humans are enemies, that the jews/arabs are less than human, undeserving of mercy and love. Caught in the middle are the widows and mothers and fathers and brothers and sisters and uncles and grandparents of the dead, all crying quietly in their respective churches, praying as hard as they ever have that no one else in their family will fall victim to the troubles.
So if anyone out there is in Palestian or Israel, or even knows anyone in the middle east, please inform them that Johnny Pain has officially declared their war over, and all combatants are to disarm within twenty four hours... or I will not be as kind to you as I would like to be when I take over the world.
puzzling evidence du jour....
DESPITE ALL APPEARANCES
I want to feel complete once in awhile.
enter a place where all is calm
everything is as it should be
& there is nowhere I want to go
no one I want to see
the happiest man
never has an urge to leave home
a bastardization of a buddhist phrase
stayed in my mind
as so many others were washed away
by cascading floods of words in newspapers and books and magazines and cereal boxes...
culture your garden
ignore the burning fields around you
there is no putting out some flames
the globe will burn here and there
smoke a little forgetfullness
play a computer game
try to think of something else while rome burns
save your tears for the climax
the day of surrender
when the animals and plants
are sacrificed
over something like the cost of oxygen
save your tears for the day when the blue sky
breaks momentarily through the brown and yellow smog
for the last time
save your tears for the end days
when the last voice of denial is struck dumb
and the mindless force of our doom
hails down a thoughtless wrath
enter a place where all is calm
everything is as it should be
& there is nowhere I want to go
no one I want to see
the happiest man
never has an urge to leave home
a bastardization of a buddhist phrase
stayed in my mind
as so many others were washed away
by cascading floods of words in newspapers and books and magazines and cereal boxes...
culture your garden
ignore the burning fields around you
there is no putting out some flames
the globe will burn here and there
smoke a little forgetfullness
play a computer game
try to think of something else while rome burns
save your tears for the climax
the day of surrender
when the animals and plants
are sacrificed
over something like the cost of oxygen
save your tears for the day when the blue sky
breaks momentarily through the brown and yellow smog
for the last time
save your tears for the end days
when the last voice of denial is struck dumb
and the mindless force of our doom
hails down a thoughtless wrath
IS IT SO INSANE TO SHAVE HAMSTERS?
I think my position on Hamster Hair should be clear by now. This fashion statement slows them down and I will not have that!! Not in my army. The problem is that afterwards they look kind of scrawny and pathetic. A bitchin' tan really helps. They say that if you look better, you feel better, so it probably applies to Hamsters, too. So, of course, I have added tanning to their training schedules.
Today I lectured the new troops for two hours on how to do maximum damage with a toothpick (while I was glueing the toothpicks to the hamsters' paws, there was a slight mishap, and I had a hamster glued to my arm for about an hour... it stayed on even when I twirled my arm around in a circle real fast.. I finally just ripped it off... man, how that thing squealed in pain--almost drowned out mine) and then another hour on The Three Stooges School Of Martial Arts, mostly on Curly's break through moves (as you know, the CIA invented the whole idea that the Stooges should take their fighting method and make a film to train recruits in far off places; as many millions of laughs have shown, the Stooges of course did them one better, and hid their deadly games under the veil of slapstick comedy). Curly's moves are mean, and some say below the belt, but dammit, these hamsters have a size deficiency to make up for!!
After the lectures, I ran them through some drills... or at least tried to. I fear that once more I have a band of leaders so sure of their own minds that they do not often follow directions. Hamsters are known as born war strategists, of course, and I don't want to beat that out of them... but they did have some strange attack ideas when I put them on the world map and told them to show me how they would take over the world.
M. seems to think that they are merely just, quote, "Running this way and that, all helter skelter."
What does she know of the hells of war? I have read dozens of books on Vietnam and am haunted by flashbacks to page numbers that I am pretty sure are from those books...
Napoleon The Seventh (Ruby ate all but the original, I must sadly report) seems to be just the little Mussolini I need to do my bidding without thinking too much. I took him and Alexander the Great The Seventh (yes, Ruby), and General Sniggly Poo The Sixth (you get the picture), down to the beach today. I stayed under a sun umbrella as they tanned. I was surprised by how many people were on the beach sucking cancer in through their skins. I thought this human geography would be smarter than that, optimist that I am.
Just a few minutes after we were all set up, as I rubbed coconut lotion on Napoleon, the lifeguard came walking up. A young college looking boy. "What the hell are those?" He asked me.
"Shaved hamsters."
"Whoa. Did they have disease, or something"
"No, I assure you, they are healthy. In fact, they are at the top of their game."
"Why did you shave them then?"
"Duh... aerodynamics."
"Well, anyways, no animals on the beach."
It doesn't take a keen mind like mine very long to spot an enemy agent, and when he said this, totally interrupting my training schedule, I knew he was acting under orders to sabotage my army at all costs.
"Well, I will hate to break that news to my other three hundred hamsters. They are going to be pissed. I can't always control them."
"Look, buddy..."
"That's General Buddy, to you."
"Okay... I have a phone here to call the cops, okay?"
"Cops, you say. . . Don¢t you mean . . . wombats?"
"What?"
"You heard me! Dammit, man, when are you going to wise up to the marsupial threat!!" I gather up my umbrella and tan oil, put the troops in a shoe box and begin trudging across the sand, knowing that the enemy has upped the stakes in the game... and will stop at nothing to break up my training camp. When I reach the steps, I turn around and see the lifeguard watching me with a puzzled look on his face. Taking in every damn bit of information he can about me. I take one last stab at saving his soul. "They couldn't have paid you enough to make up for living in their vision of a world, which they will have if they win."
The Mighty Beat Them To Piss And Twitches Hamster Army now is entering a time of trials. I expected this. I will need to watch for spies everywhere. Even people I know could be deep plants, people who have been working their way into my life for years... how did they know I would build a Hamster Army?
Probably that damn Miss Cleo the psychic. According to the commercials and that one sleazy looking woman singer, she is always right. I knew she was making a mistake by advertising her powers. And sure enough, where is she now? Locked up in a CIA lab. Sure as shit, the wombats have gained access to her through their sympathizers in the Company.
Johnny Pain Out...
Today I lectured the new troops for two hours on how to do maximum damage with a toothpick (while I was glueing the toothpicks to the hamsters' paws, there was a slight mishap, and I had a hamster glued to my arm for about an hour... it stayed on even when I twirled my arm around in a circle real fast.. I finally just ripped it off... man, how that thing squealed in pain--almost drowned out mine) and then another hour on The Three Stooges School Of Martial Arts, mostly on Curly's break through moves (as you know, the CIA invented the whole idea that the Stooges should take their fighting method and make a film to train recruits in far off places; as many millions of laughs have shown, the Stooges of course did them one better, and hid their deadly games under the veil of slapstick comedy). Curly's moves are mean, and some say below the belt, but dammit, these hamsters have a size deficiency to make up for!!
After the lectures, I ran them through some drills... or at least tried to. I fear that once more I have a band of leaders so sure of their own minds that they do not often follow directions. Hamsters are known as born war strategists, of course, and I don't want to beat that out of them... but they did have some strange attack ideas when I put them on the world map and told them to show me how they would take over the world.
M. seems to think that they are merely just, quote, "Running this way and that, all helter skelter."
What does she know of the hells of war? I have read dozens of books on Vietnam and am haunted by flashbacks to page numbers that I am pretty sure are from those books...
Napoleon The Seventh (Ruby ate all but the original, I must sadly report) seems to be just the little Mussolini I need to do my bidding without thinking too much. I took him and Alexander the Great The Seventh (yes, Ruby), and General Sniggly Poo The Sixth (you get the picture), down to the beach today. I stayed under a sun umbrella as they tanned. I was surprised by how many people were on the beach sucking cancer in through their skins. I thought this human geography would be smarter than that, optimist that I am.
Just a few minutes after we were all set up, as I rubbed coconut lotion on Napoleon, the lifeguard came walking up. A young college looking boy. "What the hell are those?" He asked me.
"Shaved hamsters."
"Whoa. Did they have disease, or something"
"No, I assure you, they are healthy. In fact, they are at the top of their game."
"Why did you shave them then?"
"Duh... aerodynamics."
"Well, anyways, no animals on the beach."
It doesn't take a keen mind like mine very long to spot an enemy agent, and when he said this, totally interrupting my training schedule, I knew he was acting under orders to sabotage my army at all costs.
"Well, I will hate to break that news to my other three hundred hamsters. They are going to be pissed. I can't always control them."
"Look, buddy..."
"That's General Buddy, to you."
"Okay... I have a phone here to call the cops, okay?"
"Cops, you say. . . Don¢t you mean . . . wombats?"
"What?"
"You heard me! Dammit, man, when are you going to wise up to the marsupial threat!!" I gather up my umbrella and tan oil, put the troops in a shoe box and begin trudging across the sand, knowing that the enemy has upped the stakes in the game... and will stop at nothing to break up my training camp. When I reach the steps, I turn around and see the lifeguard watching me with a puzzled look on his face. Taking in every damn bit of information he can about me. I take one last stab at saving his soul. "They couldn't have paid you enough to make up for living in their vision of a world, which they will have if they win."
The Mighty Beat Them To Piss And Twitches Hamster Army now is entering a time of trials. I expected this. I will need to watch for spies everywhere. Even people I know could be deep plants, people who have been working their way into my life for years... how did they know I would build a Hamster Army?
Probably that damn Miss Cleo the psychic. According to the commercials and that one sleazy looking woman singer, she is always right. I knew she was making a mistake by advertising her powers. And sure enough, where is she now? Locked up in a CIA lab. Sure as shit, the wombats have gained access to her through their sympathizers in the Company.
Johnny Pain Out...
(not so totally) TRUE TAXI TALES
I pick up a fare who tells me a woman in her neighborhood, a crack head who lives with her grandma, has been forcing her to cash checks at a currency exchanges. The woman twists her arm near to breaking, and threatens the old lady with a knife if she says anything at the currency exchange. She has went to the cops, who basically blew her off, saying they couldn't do anything unless they caught the woman in the act....
I give the her my number and find out her name is... we'll say, Ann. We agree to get together again at the first of the month, when she receives the social security check that the junkie has stolen twice so far.
We plot out what to do, who will draw blood, watch for the cops, steal the cars, get the weapons.. come the first of the month, we are ready, out in two different cars. The junkie has been under survaillance for the last 48 hours. She's a two hundred and fifty pound slow walking junkie who watches tv all day, breaking up the monety with lotto tickets and crack. Three kids, all taken away by the state. I could write more that we gathered on her, give you her rap sheet; trust me, nothing came up in our research to say she was much of a human being at all.
Come the first of the month, I watch her though my binoculars from a roof half a block off. She has set a dining room chair up by the window so she can watch for the mail. She keeps tapping her fingers and seems jumpy, nervous; all the signs of a major rock urge.
Sure enough, she catches a glimpse of the mailman coming and leaves her perch, comes out the front door and sets on her steps... just waiting for the mailman to go into an apartment building so she can snag the check.
When she's sure no one can see her darkness, he crosses her lawn and goes to the Ann's mailbox, pulls out the mail, shuffles through and finds the check. With the blue envelope in hand, she has the stupid ass, don't give a shit, audicity to go up to her victims door and knock hard and loud.
Camera catches everything. We have her on a federal offense. The plan is to anonymously send the tape to a reporter we know, in the hope that at least the story of this shooting can make sense to people: an execution. The others in our cell made this decision. I voted against saying a thing to anyone. I am pleased when future events make this tactic unneeded.
Ann calls me on her cell phone. The knocking was driving her nuts. She is breathing fast, her small body all nerves. I tell her to open the door, so we can get the junkie on tape telling Ann she is going to go cash her check and give her the money.
Ann opened her door a crack and the junkie pushed it open. "Let's go, we're going to the currency." She reaches out to grab Ann's arm and I think of how fragile her bones seemed on her tiny frame and slowly pull down the trigger. I have my sights on a spot of red cotton between her monstrous breasts, just right of center, straight into the heart and blowing out her back through a four inch hole between her shoulder blades. In the close up of the cross hairs, I see the first red spurts of blood shoot out at impact. I lower the gun and watch her face. She looks surprised a moment, and then mad, and finally, as she crumples down on the steps, terrified. A shudder runs through her body. The front of her pants grows damp as her bladder goes loose....
I watch the news that night and hear the junkie was in a gang. The cops are calling the murder a drive by.
I laugh at that, knowing the cops have a philoshophy on gang bangers killing one another; A cop told it to me once, said, "If we catch a gang fighting, we let them kill as many of each other off as possible before we move in. If they shoot each other, we high five, man."
I remember the cops words and reach down to pet Ruby dog, who is laying on her back, shooting me what I call a tummy ray. She stares at me from this position until I break off whatever I am doing and rub her tummy. I laugh again. The cool breeze of the airconditioner feels joyous after the heat of the streets. I load the bong and take in a bubbling head rusher, sit a moment feeling the waves of the rush, blow out a stream of white cloud that swirls up into the air over the coffee table and looks to me like a rising cobra, look at a picture of my Dad that I keep by my desk, shrug and tell him, "Pops, things just got weird."
I give the her my number and find out her name is... we'll say, Ann. We agree to get together again at the first of the month, when she receives the social security check that the junkie has stolen twice so far.
We plot out what to do, who will draw blood, watch for the cops, steal the cars, get the weapons.. come the first of the month, we are ready, out in two different cars. The junkie has been under survaillance for the last 48 hours. She's a two hundred and fifty pound slow walking junkie who watches tv all day, breaking up the monety with lotto tickets and crack. Three kids, all taken away by the state. I could write more that we gathered on her, give you her rap sheet; trust me, nothing came up in our research to say she was much of a human being at all.
Come the first of the month, I watch her though my binoculars from a roof half a block off. She has set a dining room chair up by the window so she can watch for the mail. She keeps tapping her fingers and seems jumpy, nervous; all the signs of a major rock urge.
Sure enough, she catches a glimpse of the mailman coming and leaves her perch, comes out the front door and sets on her steps... just waiting for the mailman to go into an apartment building so she can snag the check.
When she's sure no one can see her darkness, he crosses her lawn and goes to the Ann's mailbox, pulls out the mail, shuffles through and finds the check. With the blue envelope in hand, she has the stupid ass, don't give a shit, audicity to go up to her victims door and knock hard and loud.
Camera catches everything. We have her on a federal offense. The plan is to anonymously send the tape to a reporter we know, in the hope that at least the story of this shooting can make sense to people: an execution. The others in our cell made this decision. I voted against saying a thing to anyone. I am pleased when future events make this tactic unneeded.
Ann calls me on her cell phone. The knocking was driving her nuts. She is breathing fast, her small body all nerves. I tell her to open the door, so we can get the junkie on tape telling Ann she is going to go cash her check and give her the money.
Ann opened her door a crack and the junkie pushed it open. "Let's go, we're going to the currency." She reaches out to grab Ann's arm and I think of how fragile her bones seemed on her tiny frame and slowly pull down the trigger. I have my sights on a spot of red cotton between her monstrous breasts, just right of center, straight into the heart and blowing out her back through a four inch hole between her shoulder blades. In the close up of the cross hairs, I see the first red spurts of blood shoot out at impact. I lower the gun and watch her face. She looks surprised a moment, and then mad, and finally, as she crumples down on the steps, terrified. A shudder runs through her body. The front of her pants grows damp as her bladder goes loose....
I watch the news that night and hear the junkie was in a gang. The cops are calling the murder a drive by.
I laugh at that, knowing the cops have a philoshophy on gang bangers killing one another; A cop told it to me once, said, "If we catch a gang fighting, we let them kill as many of each other off as possible before we move in. If they shoot each other, we high five, man."
I remember the cops words and reach down to pet Ruby dog, who is laying on her back, shooting me what I call a tummy ray. She stares at me from this position until I break off whatever I am doing and rub her tummy. I laugh again. The cool breeze of the airconditioner feels joyous after the heat of the streets. I load the bong and take in a bubbling head rusher, sit a moment feeling the waves of the rush, blow out a stream of white cloud that swirls up into the air over the coffee table and looks to me like a rising cobra, look at a picture of my Dad that I keep by my desk, shrug and tell him, "Pops, things just got weird."
Tuesday, June 14, 2005
TOO, TOO TRUE TAXI TALES...
Chicago, Illinois, 3:45 AM on a Cold winter's Saturday Night.
Late, late in the night, in a poor, mostly hispanic neighborhood with gangs a' shooting and a' selling, out picking up the drunks, fools and junkies roaming a Saturday night well after the bars have closed. I'm drinking my last cup of coffee, got it in snuggled in my crotch -- and yea, more than once, I have hit a bump and burned my pecker. All I want is a few more fares and I am on the red train ride back to a life where I never pick up strangers in the dead of night.
This guy is in the cab before I realize that he¢s danger. Most of the time, you don¢t know at first. There is no particular type of person that you can let your guard down around. This one I recognize as a fare jumper from like a month before. I reach down under the seat, pull out the tire out and hold it loosely over my lap, ready to smack him upside the head if he pushes me too far. THIS TIME the threat is a gay, black guy. The night he ripped me off he had just acted like he didn¢t have to pay!! I threatened to kick his ass but he seemed to know I wouldn¢t fight him over a few dollars.
I do not get taken by the same face twice.
"You got money tonight?" I ask him,
His response is almost angry, "Yea, yea. Just get going man."
We are sitting in front of his house, in a bad neighborhood where little kids were always getting caught in the cross fire and young black guys were out selling crack and h and tiny dimes of weed and whatever the hell else they can make some bling off. This is no place for me to make a scene. I start fighting him and he could maybe call in reinforcements from his house.
"I¢m going to have to see the money up front."
"Sure, man, just take off and get going."
"Well?"
"Go one, man, go one.. I'll get out my money... just get going."
I pull away from the dark patch in front of his house, drive out to a major intersection, Division and Western, pull over and tell him, I have to see some money or I am going to throw your ass out."
About then a cop comes driving slowly by. They shine a bright as day, white ray of light into the back seat, right into this guys face. The one on the passenger side tells me
" Hey, cabbie, we have had some problems with him."
The cops know him from past encounters--just what I fucking want to hear about my fare. I tell them
"Thanks for stopping, officers. I¢m checking to see if he has money."
The cop laughs, tells me, "You had better."
I turn back to my now alerted and worried passenger. He is tall and thin, probably good looking enough to get the little boys he meets excited. He is holding one hand up trying to keep the light out of his eyes. I tell him, in my most bad ass, serious voice.
"Show me the money or I am going to have you arrested."
"I think I going to walk," he tells me in a pissed off voice.
"Damn right, you¢re going to walk, asshole. You are lucky these cops are here, or I would kick your ass so hard your'd be tasting terds. Up and down this street, boy, if I catch you flagging me again. I will not say a word, just start wailing on you with this tire iron that I happen to have in my hand."
Turning back to the cops, I use a most cynical voice to say, " He decided to walk."
The cop in the passenger window turns back to his partner and says, "Hear that? He decided to fucking walk."
I hear the back door open and close. Relief passes breifly through my mind whenand I am free of The asshole-cancer-on-society who thinks its cool to jump in taxi¢s without money because there is little a cab driver can do. If we wait for the cops and take all the hours off to file a report, you end up making NO MONEY on a peice of machinery that costs 80 dollars a day. We just bark real loud at the fare jumpers, and then turn up the music, take a break -- whatever... try find some persona inside of that can smile and be nice to the next customer who crawls in out of the dark.
__________________________________________________
I drove cab for fifteen years. In toledo and chicago. I am going to start putting little vignettes of the nights and days picking up and delivering human cargo into this blog... So much happened that I am amazed I am alive--despite the best efforts of my customers and other cars.
Late, late in the night, in a poor, mostly hispanic neighborhood with gangs a' shooting and a' selling, out picking up the drunks, fools and junkies roaming a Saturday night well after the bars have closed. I'm drinking my last cup of coffee, got it in snuggled in my crotch -- and yea, more than once, I have hit a bump and burned my pecker. All I want is a few more fares and I am on the red train ride back to a life where I never pick up strangers in the dead of night.
This guy is in the cab before I realize that he¢s danger. Most of the time, you don¢t know at first. There is no particular type of person that you can let your guard down around. This one I recognize as a fare jumper from like a month before. I reach down under the seat, pull out the tire out and hold it loosely over my lap, ready to smack him upside the head if he pushes me too far. THIS TIME the threat is a gay, black guy. The night he ripped me off he had just acted like he didn¢t have to pay!! I threatened to kick his ass but he seemed to know I wouldn¢t fight him over a few dollars.
I do not get taken by the same face twice.
"You got money tonight?" I ask him,
His response is almost angry, "Yea, yea. Just get going man."
We are sitting in front of his house, in a bad neighborhood where little kids were always getting caught in the cross fire and young black guys were out selling crack and h and tiny dimes of weed and whatever the hell else they can make some bling off. This is no place for me to make a scene. I start fighting him and he could maybe call in reinforcements from his house.
"I¢m going to have to see the money up front."
"Sure, man, just take off and get going."
"Well?"
"Go one, man, go one.. I'll get out my money... just get going."
I pull away from the dark patch in front of his house, drive out to a major intersection, Division and Western, pull over and tell him, I have to see some money or I am going to throw your ass out."
About then a cop comes driving slowly by. They shine a bright as day, white ray of light into the back seat, right into this guys face. The one on the passenger side tells me
" Hey, cabbie, we have had some problems with him."
The cops know him from past encounters--just what I fucking want to hear about my fare. I tell them
"Thanks for stopping, officers. I¢m checking to see if he has money."
The cop laughs, tells me, "You had better."
I turn back to my now alerted and worried passenger. He is tall and thin, probably good looking enough to get the little boys he meets excited. He is holding one hand up trying to keep the light out of his eyes. I tell him, in my most bad ass, serious voice.
"Show me the money or I am going to have you arrested."
"I think I going to walk," he tells me in a pissed off voice.
"Damn right, you¢re going to walk, asshole. You are lucky these cops are here, or I would kick your ass so hard your'd be tasting terds. Up and down this street, boy, if I catch you flagging me again. I will not say a word, just start wailing on you with this tire iron that I happen to have in my hand."
Turning back to the cops, I use a most cynical voice to say, " He decided to walk."
The cop in the passenger window turns back to his partner and says, "Hear that? He decided to fucking walk."
I hear the back door open and close. Relief passes breifly through my mind whenand I am free of The asshole-cancer-on-society who thinks its cool to jump in taxi¢s without money because there is little a cab driver can do. If we wait for the cops and take all the hours off to file a report, you end up making NO MONEY on a peice of machinery that costs 80 dollars a day. We just bark real loud at the fare jumpers, and then turn up the music, take a break -- whatever... try find some persona inside of that can smile and be nice to the next customer who crawls in out of the dark.
__________________________________________________
I drove cab for fifteen years. In toledo and chicago. I am going to start putting little vignettes of the nights and days picking up and delivering human cargo into this blog... So much happened that I am amazed I am alive--despite the best efforts of my customers and other cars.
Monday, June 13, 2005
THE HAMSTER ARMY IS READY TO KICK SOME SERIOUS ASS... sort of.
No matter what the naysayer, M., thinks.
I know that by having all these hamsters in my head, doing all the dark deeds that need to reluctantly be done to insure my future as a God like the Egyptian Pharaohs, I AM PREPARING the fiercest and most cuddly killing force the Chicago metropolitan area has ever seen.
Having all these hamsters in my head makes it possible for me to quickly train new recruits specifically for the jobs that my Mind Hamsters are doing. I need 64 to kill a human. That's it. Which isn't that many, really. That M. though, she acts like a mere 64 hamsters would, quote, ". . . take over the whole goddamn apartment."
She then added, much to my chagrin, "You can only have three, and if they have babies you have to take them back. We talked about this."
Whenever she says 'we talked about this,' she means she has bitched at me on this point before. She only wants three around because Ruby Ann, who so far has gotten to every army, gets sick if she eats more than three.
Despite my best efforts at security, Ruby Dog the Husky Sis, uses her wiley wolf ways to find just the right moment when I can't get to her until after she has gulped down my semi-armed forces.
Not these latest ones, though. I got them last night. About nine pm. Now it is morning and I am listening to Piano Classics on my computer. And I am not going to sleep until they are trained to defend themselves. I have to, believe me... Ruby keeps looking toward the backroom and licking her lips. Earlier I caught her by their door salivating. She knows that if I am awake, will stop her from getting at the army, so she waits patiently for me to go to sleep. I have seen her do this many, many times in the past. She shows no interest in what she wants while we are awake, but man let her think we are not going to catch her and she will be nabbing any candy on the table, bread left out, and a tasty bit in a can from the garbage can.
M. still holds firm on her no torture policy. She finally did let me get some hamsters again. It took her awhile to cool down after my experiments with making hamsters fly on paper airplanes. We live on the third floor and have a balcony overlooking a court yard with a statue of two children holding each other, and I mistakenly tried to teach the hamsters to do some kamikaze work... then when M. came home I tried to pretend they weren't my hamsters when anyone would have known they were, so the lie made things worse...
Cleaning up all the hamsters smashed on the concrete courtyard proved for sure that if Ruby eats too many hamsters she will get sick. Like M. warned me, and I poo-pooed off. Her barf looked like little fetuses... Yes, I had to clean up the smashed hamsters in the courtyard, even the one that hit the white statues of the kids and made the boy look like he was bleeding from the top of his head.
Ruby helped tremendously by gulping them down. The cat Buk did his part by licking off the blood from the concrete and the statue. Two people came out of the apartments and into the courtyard and just for the hell of it I started mumbling, "Satan, live with this blood. Help me to do this dark deed...."
They abruptly quickened their steps. I figure they are probably the ones who called the cops, who happened to show up, as they do, hours after I was done. When the Chicago's Sometimes Finest rang my bell, I was ready, because I saw them interviewing all of our neighbors across the way. I pulled my hear back, put on a Hawaiian shirt and black jeans, new converse shoes. At the door I called them sir. Said yes sir, or no sir to all his questions... then invited them in for a drink. They say they don't have time. I say let me at least get y you a coke to drink?"
I could tell they were hot, in their bullet proof jackets, as they lumbered about our artment building trying to find the Satanist who was sacrificing cats in the statues.
Once I had the cops under my spell of Scott the normal, good looking guy, I told them that I knew the woman who made the quote. "She has a head condition," I told them.? I took her out once and she told me she hears voices, sees things. I mean, come on, who is going to do such a thing. I have a cat myself. And a dog. I'm sorry you gentlemen had to waste so much of your valuable time."
They believed me. Just left my flat and walked back to their car. The woman was out there and they told her, "You can file a complaint at city hall, but there's no evidence."
The second cop, who until then was just watching his partner talk to the old lady, suddenly started laughing. His partner then joined in, and they kept laughing as they got in their squad car. I couldn't hear them, but I'll bet they said.
COP ONE
We should charge her with filing an erroneous report.
Cop two
Shit, you going to the paperwork?
One:
Oh, yea... you're right.
Two
What a fucking order. Satanists in that fucking courtyard. Who the hell took the call that sent us over her.
COP TWO
Yea, you know what I¢m thinking?
Cop One
You always ask me that, every damn day when the dunkin donuts put out the fresh donuts.
COP TWO
I thought you thought it was funny?
Cop One
Just once, okay Damn, you got me thinking about them donuts. They¢re gonna come out in five minutes, and they will be incredible for about an hour, then? well, you just can¢t eat those old donuts when you know? Shit, we¢re gonna have to put on the siren and blow all the lights and shit to get there on time. Well, go ahead and turn on the sirens.
COP ONE
Alright, I knew you¢d come around, you big handsome hunk of a man.
COP TWO
QUIT HITTING ON ME!!
Back to the Satanic Loving Hamster Army...
I am hoping to use indigenous people in their present positions, and unlike Bush in Iraq, I won't have to worry about people revolting and all. These cops, it warms my heart to write, will be paid more and have more of his ilk backing him up when the streets get nasty when the world is in my hands. Instead of torturing them like what was done, they should have been won over with kindness, at least when ever possible. An over all policy of torturing prisoners is a very scary thought. Travel abroad will grow riskier and riskier as the other countries insulted target civilians, and especially clubs in Europe that are frequented by Americans.
I know that by having all these hamsters in my head, doing all the dark deeds that need to reluctantly be done to insure my future as a God like the Egyptian Pharaohs, I AM PREPARING the fiercest and most cuddly killing force the Chicago metropolitan area has ever seen.
Having all these hamsters in my head makes it possible for me to quickly train new recruits specifically for the jobs that my Mind Hamsters are doing. I need 64 to kill a human. That's it. Which isn't that many, really. That M. though, she acts like a mere 64 hamsters would, quote, ". . . take over the whole goddamn apartment."
She then added, much to my chagrin, "You can only have three, and if they have babies you have to take them back. We talked about this."
Whenever she says 'we talked about this,' she means she has bitched at me on this point before. She only wants three around because Ruby Ann, who so far has gotten to every army, gets sick if she eats more than three.
Despite my best efforts at security, Ruby Dog the Husky Sis, uses her wiley wolf ways to find just the right moment when I can't get to her until after she has gulped down my semi-armed forces.
Not these latest ones, though. I got them last night. About nine pm. Now it is morning and I am listening to Piano Classics on my computer. And I am not going to sleep until they are trained to defend themselves. I have to, believe me... Ruby keeps looking toward the backroom and licking her lips. Earlier I caught her by their door salivating. She knows that if I am awake, will stop her from getting at the army, so she waits patiently for me to go to sleep. I have seen her do this many, many times in the past. She shows no interest in what she wants while we are awake, but man let her think we are not going to catch her and she will be nabbing any candy on the table, bread left out, and a tasty bit in a can from the garbage can.
M. still holds firm on her no torture policy. She finally did let me get some hamsters again. It took her awhile to cool down after my experiments with making hamsters fly on paper airplanes. We live on the third floor and have a balcony overlooking a court yard with a statue of two children holding each other, and I mistakenly tried to teach the hamsters to do some kamikaze work... then when M. came home I tried to pretend they weren't my hamsters when anyone would have known they were, so the lie made things worse...
Cleaning up all the hamsters smashed on the concrete courtyard proved for sure that if Ruby eats too many hamsters she will get sick. Like M. warned me, and I poo-pooed off. Her barf looked like little fetuses... Yes, I had to clean up the smashed hamsters in the courtyard, even the one that hit the white statues of the kids and made the boy look like he was bleeding from the top of his head.
Ruby helped tremendously by gulping them down. The cat Buk did his part by licking off the blood from the concrete and the statue. Two people came out of the apartments and into the courtyard and just for the hell of it I started mumbling, "Satan, live with this blood. Help me to do this dark deed...."
They abruptly quickened their steps. I figure they are probably the ones who called the cops, who happened to show up, as they do, hours after I was done. When the Chicago's Sometimes Finest rang my bell, I was ready, because I saw them interviewing all of our neighbors across the way. I pulled my hear back, put on a Hawaiian shirt and black jeans, new converse shoes. At the door I called them sir. Said yes sir, or no sir to all his questions... then invited them in for a drink. They say they don't have time. I say let me at least get y you a coke to drink?"
I could tell they were hot, in their bullet proof jackets, as they lumbered about our artment building trying to find the Satanist who was sacrificing cats in the statues.
Once I had the cops under my spell of Scott the normal, good looking guy, I told them that I knew the woman who made the quote. "She has a head condition," I told them.? I took her out once and she told me she hears voices, sees things. I mean, come on, who is going to do such a thing. I have a cat myself. And a dog. I'm sorry you gentlemen had to waste so much of your valuable time."
They believed me. Just left my flat and walked back to their car. The woman was out there and they told her, "You can file a complaint at city hall, but there's no evidence."
The second cop, who until then was just watching his partner talk to the old lady, suddenly started laughing. His partner then joined in, and they kept laughing as they got in their squad car. I couldn't hear them, but I'll bet they said.
COP ONE
We should charge her with filing an erroneous report.
Cop two
Shit, you going to the paperwork?
One:
Oh, yea... you're right.
Two
What a fucking order. Satanists in that fucking courtyard. Who the hell took the call that sent us over her.
COP TWO
Yea, you know what I¢m thinking?
Cop One
You always ask me that, every damn day when the dunkin donuts put out the fresh donuts.
COP TWO
I thought you thought it was funny?
Cop One
Just once, okay Damn, you got me thinking about them donuts. They¢re gonna come out in five minutes, and they will be incredible for about an hour, then? well, you just can¢t eat those old donuts when you know? Shit, we¢re gonna have to put on the siren and blow all the lights and shit to get there on time. Well, go ahead and turn on the sirens.
COP ONE
Alright, I knew you¢d come around, you big handsome hunk of a man.
COP TWO
QUIT HITTING ON ME!!
Back to the Satanic Loving Hamster Army...
I am hoping to use indigenous people in their present positions, and unlike Bush in Iraq, I won't have to worry about people revolting and all. These cops, it warms my heart to write, will be paid more and have more of his ilk backing him up when the streets get nasty when the world is in my hands. Instead of torturing them like what was done, they should have been won over with kindness, at least when ever possible. An over all policy of torturing prisoners is a very scary thought. Travel abroad will grow riskier and riskier as the other countries insulted target civilians, and especially clubs in Europe that are frequented by Americans.
Saturday, June 11, 2005
FATHER CHASED THE NEIGHBORS WITH A CHAIN SAW
Father was a month out of prison
they caged him for trying to kill the neighbors
with a chain saw
FATHER had to be beaten down with a shovel to stop his madness
Texas State Prison let FATHER out after 18 months
Sent him prowling back to the woman he'd beaten down to his size
a couple months later
Father stabs his daughter and her best friend to death
Father says one of the third graders pulled a knife on him
The cops say he's just a wily con
trying to say he killed the little girls
in some preposterous/ludicrous state of defense
The prosecutor
says the con is lying
to save his ass from frying
Psychopaths
out there
With hearts that don't dare quicken
As they look you in eye and lie
their thoughts are ever turned inward
Staring into porno/vengence/hero realms
Father sees only a weaker con in the jail house
One he can take down and fuck
Kill and get away with it.
Father doesnt mind murder
He kinda liked taking revenge in prison
gets drunk and says he felt just like superman
for awhile....
they caged him for trying to kill the neighbors
with a chain saw
FATHER had to be beaten down with a shovel to stop his madness
Texas State Prison let FATHER out after 18 months
Sent him prowling back to the woman he'd beaten down to his size
a couple months later
Father stabs his daughter and her best friend to death
Father says one of the third graders pulled a knife on him
The cops say he's just a wily con
trying to say he killed the little girls
in some preposterous/ludicrous state of defense
The prosecutor
says the con is lying
to save his ass from frying
Psychopaths
out there
With hearts that don't dare quicken
As they look you in eye and lie
their thoughts are ever turned inward
Staring into porno/vengence/hero realms
Father sees only a weaker con in the jail house
One he can take down and fuck
Kill and get away with it.
Father doesnt mind murder
He kinda liked taking revenge in prison
gets drunk and says he felt just like superman
for awhile....
Friday, June 10, 2005
I wouldn't bother reading this if I were you
I guess since I bitch about my health occasionally in here, whining weakling I can be... oh damned me, running toward nothing and never sure why I am in this rush at all? Well, so here is I guess news. I would skip this whole entry if you don't know me, let me tell you now though, because this could get boring -- an old fart describing his health problems just may not be your cup of tea -- it sure ain't mine. I prefer to suffer in silence but my fingers move and move over the keys, whether my thoughts are providing them with pleasing enough impetus of not...
Okay, so the surgery I had been dreading is not needed. After running a zillion tests, they basically told me that I will be in pain forever, but the surgery is unneeded, because the fusions are solid. There. That wasn't too gross for all concerned, I suppose.
Okay, so the surgery I had been dreading is not needed. After running a zillion tests, they basically told me that I will be in pain forever, but the surgery is unneeded, because the fusions are solid. There. That wasn't too gross for all concerned, I suppose.
THE BOO'S FEST has me all elated.
This is a bit of an over exaggeration, my usual asinine hyperbole, which I will now follow with treacle... At least the festival does stand as a great metaphor for why this city makes you fall in love with her. You begin to see an organism made up of people and buildings and dogs and beach and that great blue plank of water leading off into the horizon. The musical score for the dance of this creature has to be played on Buddy Guy's guitar at a tremendous speed and volume, belting out blues full of whisky and late night.
This weekend Grant Park, on the shores of a shimmery blue lake full of sail boats and in sight of two epic stone museums, beneath the skyline of Michigan avenue the city sets up three stages and the blues is crooned, yelled, bellowed, drummed and strummed and blown into the crowds. A sound heard mostly through clouds of smoke and booze comes out into the daylight for a few brief hours...
Most of my Blues memories are of smoky bars and unknown black guys missing a few teeth and maybe some hair, hawking smoking signed CD's for as much as they can get. Mostly guys who are either broke or day jobbing. Good musicians... Fine, world class. Usually. God knows not always. I actually herd an Asian guy singing about how he had the 'Boo's." one night. I was out with my brother and we had seats right in front of the stage so we kind of had to hide that we were laughing whenever he said the word, "Boo." The effect was gone (I hate the way this sounds now that I write this down. I can't help that I laughed like a chimp at this. I certainly would never think someone better or worse for speaking with an accent or anything, mostly, except for actions and eloquence).
The drunks tumble through my mind, slapstick fools carrying drawing pads and napkins scribbled with long poems about poets surfing through bars in the wee hours of dead nights. Not that I am one to drink, mind you. I have before though, and the blues is one pastime that I love to experience while plastered. Sad. Like dancing. I used to love to dance when I had a few beers in me, but without the booze, going out dancing is about the last thing I want to do.
This weekend I am going to the festival. You would think something like this would be crowded? No. Grant Park is big enough that there is no great congestion of people during this festival... Unlike the fourth of July, which packs hundreds of thousands of people in like sardines (and is thus off my list of things to give a shit about doing).
I guess the only point to this bit of writing is to describe a good day here on the shores. I usually am so fucking dark that I surprise myself (though I am not psycho, I swear).
Steal from me and you will be cursed in such a way that your hands turn into worthless, jelly fish like appendages that sting your intimates.
This weekend Grant Park, on the shores of a shimmery blue lake full of sail boats and in sight of two epic stone museums, beneath the skyline of Michigan avenue the city sets up three stages and the blues is crooned, yelled, bellowed, drummed and strummed and blown into the crowds. A sound heard mostly through clouds of smoke and booze comes out into the daylight for a few brief hours...
Most of my Blues memories are of smoky bars and unknown black guys missing a few teeth and maybe some hair, hawking smoking signed CD's for as much as they can get. Mostly guys who are either broke or day jobbing. Good musicians... Fine, world class. Usually. God knows not always. I actually herd an Asian guy singing about how he had the 'Boo's." one night. I was out with my brother and we had seats right in front of the stage so we kind of had to hide that we were laughing whenever he said the word, "Boo." The effect was gone (I hate the way this sounds now that I write this down. I can't help that I laughed like a chimp at this. I certainly would never think someone better or worse for speaking with an accent or anything, mostly, except for actions and eloquence).
The drunks tumble through my mind, slapstick fools carrying drawing pads and napkins scribbled with long poems about poets surfing through bars in the wee hours of dead nights. Not that I am one to drink, mind you. I have before though, and the blues is one pastime that I love to experience while plastered. Sad. Like dancing. I used to love to dance when I had a few beers in me, but without the booze, going out dancing is about the last thing I want to do.
This weekend I am going to the festival. You would think something like this would be crowded? No. Grant Park is big enough that there is no great congestion of people during this festival... Unlike the fourth of July, which packs hundreds of thousands of people in like sardines (and is thus off my list of things to give a shit about doing).
I guess the only point to this bit of writing is to describe a good day here on the shores. I usually am so fucking dark that I surprise myself (though I am not psycho, I swear).
Steal from me and you will be cursed in such a way that your hands turn into worthless, jelly fish like appendages that sting your intimates.
Thursday, June 09, 2005
the weather is a deadly whore with many masks
In chicago, like anywhere, those who complain will complain about heat or cold, rain or draught, cloudy days and days too sunny; complaining is a state of mind. But there are some things in life that require complaining. Like the wretched heat that bakes the city, killing off the elderly and homeless and the others forgotten and sweating their lives out in dim unseen pockets of the poorer neighborhoods. And the cold that blows in on winds that tunnel between buildings and become a force that knocks down the weak and elderly. Two of the dark masks of that whore, weather. There must be more MASKS THAT MEET THE OH SO MINIMAL REQUIREMENTS of this heap of word-mush; whore masks THAT ARE INTERESTING TO LIST AND NOT LISTED FOR THE SAKE OF HAVING ANOTHER GODDAMN LIST IN A WORLD OF LISTS THAT REPLACE NOVELS AND PLAYS AND THE ENTIRE WILD WORLD OF THOUGHT.
I think of the horrors of heat as I stumble out into my morning. There is no weed and the pain pills hit my stomach and make me nauseous. These are the days when I know I am not an addict, because there is no way in hell I would go through the bullshit to be on pills without a damn good reason. I mean, who wants to ingest what has already made them sick feeling all day? You can imagine how the heat helped my mood.
I was deceived at first by the cool breeze coming in from Lake Michigan, blue and shimmering down on the corner where my street ends in a flower garden and a beach. I actually think, "Oh, cool. I thought it was going to be really hot. And still, crazy ass I am, had to fucking wear black... but it turned out all right... I think?"
My folly became apparent about one block from the lake, as I felt myself longing to cross the street and get out of the sun, which I of course promptly did. Sweat was already flowing down my head and filling up my pony tail, giving me something to flip sweat on people with at any time; which seems like it would be funny to me, though I can¢t find out because M. has given me a death threat on the matter, and the look in her eyes when I almost flicked her on the train the other day as I loudly made clear what I was about to do, was enough to convince me she means it as much this time as she did all those other damn times when?
Well, this doesn¢t seem to be about the heat at all any more? But more about using sweat as a weapon, which is much more interesting and useful than merely cleverly rephrasing the obvious, as is my way.
Ruby Ann the Blue Eyed Near Wolf and I just came back from the lake. It¢s around 9:30 at night. Now the city is cool and nice and while I was at the beach the sun was setting all red and brushed with purple clouds . . . one of those sights that make all manmade art seem frivolous. Ruby Ann pulled me back and forth down the sand, and then finally down and into the water, listening to no commands from me to, ¡quit trying to pull my arm off,¢ with her strong little husky muscles. Dogs were running around all over. My favorite for the hour is one I¢ve seen over and over, a miniature greyhound, perfectly marked with white and grey, standing all skittish and tiny around the towering Ruby, who is easily five times the other dogs size, even though she is a mid sized dog.
The sight of a dog like that triggers all kinds of good head candy treats from the stingy little euphoria hormones in our heads. Like babies? and unlike the heat. That deadly whore.
I always used to make fun of people who only talked about the weather, and here I am, complaining about the weather. I¢m going to go cut myself on the ankle, just deep enough to hurt some and make me feel like I have repented for this sin.
I think of the horrors of heat as I stumble out into my morning. There is no weed and the pain pills hit my stomach and make me nauseous. These are the days when I know I am not an addict, because there is no way in hell I would go through the bullshit to be on pills without a damn good reason. I mean, who wants to ingest what has already made them sick feeling all day? You can imagine how the heat helped my mood.
I was deceived at first by the cool breeze coming in from Lake Michigan, blue and shimmering down on the corner where my street ends in a flower garden and a beach. I actually think, "Oh, cool. I thought it was going to be really hot. And still, crazy ass I am, had to fucking wear black... but it turned out all right... I think?"
My folly became apparent about one block from the lake, as I felt myself longing to cross the street and get out of the sun, which I of course promptly did. Sweat was already flowing down my head and filling up my pony tail, giving me something to flip sweat on people with at any time; which seems like it would be funny to me, though I can¢t find out because M. has given me a death threat on the matter, and the look in her eyes when I almost flicked her on the train the other day as I loudly made clear what I was about to do, was enough to convince me she means it as much this time as she did all those other damn times when?
Well, this doesn¢t seem to be about the heat at all any more? But more about using sweat as a weapon, which is much more interesting and useful than merely cleverly rephrasing the obvious, as is my way.
Ruby Ann the Blue Eyed Near Wolf and I just came back from the lake. It¢s around 9:30 at night. Now the city is cool and nice and while I was at the beach the sun was setting all red and brushed with purple clouds . . . one of those sights that make all manmade art seem frivolous. Ruby Ann pulled me back and forth down the sand, and then finally down and into the water, listening to no commands from me to, ¡quit trying to pull my arm off,¢ with her strong little husky muscles. Dogs were running around all over. My favorite for the hour is one I¢ve seen over and over, a miniature greyhound, perfectly marked with white and grey, standing all skittish and tiny around the towering Ruby, who is easily five times the other dogs size, even though she is a mid sized dog.
The sight of a dog like that triggers all kinds of good head candy treats from the stingy little euphoria hormones in our heads. Like babies? and unlike the heat. That deadly whore.
I always used to make fun of people who only talked about the weather, and here I am, complaining about the weather. I¢m going to go cut myself on the ankle, just deep enough to hurt some and make me feel like I have repented for this sin.
Friday, June 03, 2005
Thursday, June 02, 2005
Wednesday, June 01, 2005
view from the john hancock building... (taken from the swedish words for 'handy with cock,' which today is a popular euphism there for masterbation.
This is the view from M's old office... looking down from the hanckock bulding, where Chris Farley was found bloated and blue and reeking of whores... M. used to have her office up in here, too. They vie with the sears tower for the best observation deck in the city.M. and I used to smoke doobies and watch the fireworks blowing off about even with her 40th floor office....
art by johnnypain
a round building on the river.... how too too cool for school and fools
marina towers is on the Chicago river, a round building with some of the most precarious looking parking spots in the world. A very coolplace to live if you have a boat...
art by johnnypain
I DO NOT WANT YOU THINKING I TOOK THESE PICTURES???
All these dramatic chicago shots have been sampled and then messed with in photoshop and stuff. My apologies and kudos to them all... may they take their presence as the fondest form of flattery...
Steal from me and you will be cursed in such a way that your hands turn into worthless, jelly fish like appendages that sting your intimates.
Steal from me and you will be cursed in such a way that your hands turn into worthless, jelly fish like appendages that sting your intimates.
the world fair launched eastern mysticism into america...
the world fair once was... launched eastern mysticism
art by johnnypain
The world fair brought society into contact with mysticism of the eastern sort, and in the aftermath of the cultural comingling that took place, cults of all sorts sprouted up throughout the city. Mostly they were tea and biscuit cults of a few women who like to say indian words.
"Man turns his back on his family, man he just ain't no good."
from Nebreska, the best folk album ever. Period. Bob Dylan and Woody are close... but nothing has ever made me feel quite as much emphathy for humanity and rage against the night as this album.
Highway Patrolman... this song inspired Shawn Penn to make the movie Indian Runner, which kicks ass...
I came in here today to write about something I have been letting go of lately... the creep who molested me and my brother. A member of my family esteemed for his piles of money and business acumen.... not to mention taking in exchange students and other shit that makes me wish I was the killer.
"man turns his back on his family, he just ain't no good."
I am beginning to think I lost my dear brothers respect over this and I AM PISSED OFF THAT THE REAL PERSON TO BLAME, THE CREEP WHO FORCED US INTO HIS SEXUAL REALM WHEN WE REALLY JUST NEEDED A FRIENDLY FATHER FIGURE (AND GOT A FUCKING PREIST)... now, this dear brother, who I bathed and loved and am damned proud of and find to be one of the funniest men on the planet... hates me for pointing out the elephant in the living room.
My neice and nephew, who I haven't ever been close to, will never come to my place to visit, or even be civil at a family gathering. This means that the creep has now forced me to avoid going back 'home' to Ohio. I have friends there I love like family, but going down there and not seeing the people who I love the most is too much for me to contemplate. I have my own family of sorts here, though you know, no kids or anything to make me feel like I am THE FAMILY, rather than the family being something I have to visit.
Sitting here listening to springsteen's nebreska is enough to make me feel pissed again about all this crap. I didn't ask for any of the troubles in my life, but I faced em down one after another, even chronic crippling pain and the loss of what I thought was the greatest love a man could ever have... just made me more ready to fight. On this creep issue, however, all I have is words... maybe nothing at all will ever come of them?
I play all the time like I don't care if I become a noticed writer or not... to feel this way required me to kill off a lot of dreams, and their deaths were as bloody as any kid who finds out he isn't going to be a rock star...
People envy me a lot, which is weird. They say things like, "Hey, you're doing what you want to do?"
Am I? I am doing what life has channeled me into doing, little different than an animal raised for food consumption; just a fancier cage and better grub. I am more confused than ever on this point because of this damn blog... the more I work on this thing, the more I re-read what is coming out and straighten things up... the more I think I am possibly doing the writing I was meant to... but blogs were not the literary realm where I expected to live, and the thought of a shelf of novels bearing my words is still about the only thing I believe matters. Do you have something in your life that matters more than anything else? More than people, animals, health, or a clear head? I spent my youth and health getting to this desk, right here, as a trained writer... and now I am not sure which hoops to jump through.
Now my family is as aleinated from me as the rest of you. The only one who cares to own up to everything has become by default my only real family. My mother is a repository for clean cut stories about a life she would like me to have... I love her all to hell mind you, and really enjoy spending time with my mom. She is a fun woman. Right now she is in London visiting my sister and the creep. I held my toungue as she told me about the trip and all this shit... what could I do, piss on her parade? I wish I could blow it off the face of the fucking earth!!!!
Steal from me and you will be cursed in such a way that your hands turn into worthless, jelly fish like appendages that sting your intimates.
Highway Patrolman... this song inspired Shawn Penn to make the movie Indian Runner, which kicks ass...
I came in here today to write about something I have been letting go of lately... the creep who molested me and my brother. A member of my family esteemed for his piles of money and business acumen.... not to mention taking in exchange students and other shit that makes me wish I was the killer.
"man turns his back on his family, he just ain't no good."
I am beginning to think I lost my dear brothers respect over this and I AM PISSED OFF THAT THE REAL PERSON TO BLAME, THE CREEP WHO FORCED US INTO HIS SEXUAL REALM WHEN WE REALLY JUST NEEDED A FRIENDLY FATHER FIGURE (AND GOT A FUCKING PREIST)... now, this dear brother, who I bathed and loved and am damned proud of and find to be one of the funniest men on the planet... hates me for pointing out the elephant in the living room.
My neice and nephew, who I haven't ever been close to, will never come to my place to visit, or even be civil at a family gathering. This means that the creep has now forced me to avoid going back 'home' to Ohio. I have friends there I love like family, but going down there and not seeing the people who I love the most is too much for me to contemplate. I have my own family of sorts here, though you know, no kids or anything to make me feel like I am THE FAMILY, rather than the family being something I have to visit.
Sitting here listening to springsteen's nebreska is enough to make me feel pissed again about all this crap. I didn't ask for any of the troubles in my life, but I faced em down one after another, even chronic crippling pain and the loss of what I thought was the greatest love a man could ever have... just made me more ready to fight. On this creep issue, however, all I have is words... maybe nothing at all will ever come of them?
I play all the time like I don't care if I become a noticed writer or not... to feel this way required me to kill off a lot of dreams, and their deaths were as bloody as any kid who finds out he isn't going to be a rock star...
People envy me a lot, which is weird. They say things like, "Hey, you're doing what you want to do?"
Am I? I am doing what life has channeled me into doing, little different than an animal raised for food consumption; just a fancier cage and better grub. I am more confused than ever on this point because of this damn blog... the more I work on this thing, the more I re-read what is coming out and straighten things up... the more I think I am possibly doing the writing I was meant to... but blogs were not the literary realm where I expected to live, and the thought of a shelf of novels bearing my words is still about the only thing I believe matters. Do you have something in your life that matters more than anything else? More than people, animals, health, or a clear head? I spent my youth and health getting to this desk, right here, as a trained writer... and now I am not sure which hoops to jump through.
Now my family is as aleinated from me as the rest of you. The only one who cares to own up to everything has become by default my only real family. My mother is a repository for clean cut stories about a life she would like me to have... I love her all to hell mind you, and really enjoy spending time with my mom. She is a fun woman. Right now she is in London visiting my sister and the creep. I held my toungue as she told me about the trip and all this shit... what could I do, piss on her parade? I wish I could blow it off the face of the fucking earth!!!!
Steal from me and you will be cursed in such a way that your hands turn into worthless, jelly fish like appendages that sting your intimates.
THE BEST PLACE TO PUNCH A WINO? IN THEIR DISTENDED LIVERS, OF COURSE!!!
The sun is warm on our backs, the coffee mugs hot in our hands. Ruby Ann the husky dog is curled up by our feet. My birthday morning and we've walked down the beach to the coffee shop, aptly named, ENNUI, and are sittingout on the sidewalk watching cars buzz up and down lake shore drive. The actual lake is just down the street, a shimmering deep blue sky reflector.
Then up comes the bum. He has the distended stomach on a skinny body that screams drunk. He is mumbling something, then takes it up a notch and starts screaming, "This place is bad!! This is a bad place!!"
I can only assume they throw him out a lot.
"OH, shut up and move on." I yell at him.
This stirs him up. M. is looking as mortified as the woman at the only other occupied table as the Bum goes ballistic and screams and rants and slobbers.
I get up, walk over to him, grab him by his flabby tits, swing him into a brick wall. A couple punches to that distended liver of his and he was puking blood all over the sidewalk. Passing dog walkers were kind enough to let their pooches lick up the blood -- because that is just the kind of neighborhood we have, we take care of our own. Unless they are annoying. Then, well, isn't it better that we send them to hell, where that bastard satan can be annoyed by them???? M. wouldn't buy this logic either.Steal from me and you will be cursed in such a way that your hands turn into worthless, jelly fish like appendages that sting your intimates.
Then up comes the bum. He has the distended stomach on a skinny body that screams drunk. He is mumbling something, then takes it up a notch and starts screaming, "This place is bad!! This is a bad place!!"
I can only assume they throw him out a lot.
"OH, shut up and move on." I yell at him.
This stirs him up. M. is looking as mortified as the woman at the only other occupied table as the Bum goes ballistic and screams and rants and slobbers.
I get up, walk over to him, grab him by his flabby tits, swing him into a brick wall. A couple punches to that distended liver of his and he was puking blood all over the sidewalk. Passing dog walkers were kind enough to let their pooches lick up the blood -- because that is just the kind of neighborhood we have, we take care of our own. Unless they are annoying. Then, well, isn't it better that we send them to hell, where that bastard satan can be annoyed by them???? M. wouldn't buy this logic either.Steal from me and you will be cursed in such a way that your hands turn into worthless, jelly fish like appendages that sting your intimates.
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