Goodbye, June!

Goodbye, June, may the new month prosper, but not bury you! You were pretty chickenshit, actually, but maybe some rich princess will yet turn up before midnight. Anything's possible, but not much is likely. No, not likely. When I go to bed, it'll be tomorrow—if I could cut your throat, June, I probably would. Damn June Bugs If I could just be a duck On some lucky lady's lake in South Dakota, I'd hush except for quacking And a little flapping and flashing And maybe she'd feed me or I'd find what was needed And my grand conceit, such impetuous impersonation Of a different form of fool, might improve my stance While all the other birds would fly about like tipsy lords, Never doubting, always toiling from the water To the air in vast balletic dance. They’d leave the surface of the water boiling With bubbles and tension and all the things not eaten, And the clouds might roll, passing me by with only The slightest tinge of darkness showing, And I'd be safe, Away from here. I'd even eat the damn June bugs!

Jason The Roach

Took off my shoes the other night and when I drew the last foot out, a roach followed right behind! It was a large American cockroach, not one of your scruffy foreign ones, so I concluded it was not an official Terrorist, though it seemed pretty terroristic that one had moved into my shoes with me still in them! I wonder how long he was in there? Ten minutes? All day? In any case, he made me mad! Although I'm not very fast or agile these days, I followed him around the room and into the closet where the dumb fuck ran up inside a pair of heavy work shoes I haven't worn in years. I had to bat at him about a hundred times with the tip of my cane before he came out of there. Again, he was stupid and came out into the open where I poetically dispatched him with a slap of that same shoe that he'd crawled out of! But I sure was exhausted! I picked him up with a paper towel and mercilessly squashed and scrunched him flat with my fingers. I don't trust roaches much, too many of them have acted like the movie maniac Jason and keep coming back long after I think they're dead! It's not good for me to chase roaches—most of the time, they're not as easy to catch as this dumb bastard. A roach of average intelligence would have given me a heart attack or another stroke before I caught him! Sometimes we're just lucky. But I wasn't going to take any of that "Jason" crap!

I have not written a post that could be characterized as a "pest control vignette" since 2007 and before that there was one in 2005, hardly ever more than one or two a year going back a few more years. I guess it didn't take long to tell all my juicy, disgusting roach and rat stories. This one is sort of marginal, but it still qualifies in my mind! We must never cease our vigilance in the battle against pests, no matter how feeble we get!

I Am The Walrus?

I am he as you are he as you are me and we are all together. See how they run like pigs from a gun, see how they fly. I'm crying. Sitting on a cornflake, waiting for the van to come. Corporation tee-shirt, stupid bloody tuesday. Man, you been a naughty boy, you let your face grow long. I am the eggman, they are the eggmen. I am the walrus, goo goo g'joob. Mister city policeman sitting Pretty little policemen in a row. See how they fly like lucy in the sky, see how they run. I'm crying, i'm crying. I'm crying, i'm crying. Yellow matter custard, dripping from a dead dog's eye. Crabalocker fishwife, pornographic priestess, Boy, you been a naughty girl you let your knickers down. I am the eggman, they are the eggmen. I am the walrus, goo goo g'joob. Sitting in an english garden waiting for the sun. If the sun don't come, you get a tan From standing in the english rain. I am the eggman, they are the eggmen. I am the walrus, goo goo g'joob g'goo goo g'joob. Expert textpert choking smokers, Don't you thing the joker laughs at you? See how they smile like pigs in a sty, See how they snied. I'm crying. Semolina pilchard, climbing up the eiffel tower. Elementary penguin singing hari krishna. Man, you should have seen them kicking edgar allan poe. I am the eggman, they are the eggmen. I am the walrus, goo goo g'joob g'goo goo g'joob. Goo goo g'joob g'goo goo g'joob g'goo.

Quack, Quack, When I'm The Only One Here

My overdue books wouldn't have been overdue until tomorrow, and now they won't be overdue at all, so that's some kind of achievement, I guess. It's the only one around here. p.s. The Library was nonplussed or at least surprised when I handed them the CD (without case) that they thought I'd returned weeks ago. Indeed, I had returned an empty case without realizing it. They never opened the case to discover the emptiness and I never opened my CD slot on my computer for all that time, playing CD's only on the system in my bedroom during that time. Oddly enough (is it?) I pay bills and do other things not involving the bed in my bedroom and those things require music! At the computer I have the Internet radio, but lately I've had all the Youtube I can eat. That's probably why I'm getting fat. Or something.

Ruminations About Unwritten Poems

I'd like to write a few more good poems, just good like this last one, "How I Shine". That would be so great, just that and no more. I don't care if I have readers, but that would be nice, I admit. I have several other poems, works in progress for a long time now, and either they are too long or too under-developed, or both. What infuses a poem with strength and beauty? What inspires a poet when he's not expecting it? Natural movement, skill, good chance, hazards that excite the brain! What else? Those faltering poems need to be rescued or else I need to put them out of their misery, the poor little sons of bitches, and go on my way! To what—more excitation? Maybe so—what could it hurt? Provoked by witful ruminations from my good friend George Knaak—one of the good Georges of the world!

Nothing New To Argue About

"What has been is what will be, and what has been done is what will be done; there is nothing new under the sun." The Bible -------------------------------------------------------------- "There is nothing new under the sun but there are lots of old things we don't know." Ambrose Bierce, The Devil's Dictionary US author & satirist (1842 - 1914) (Once portrayed by Gregory Peck in the movie, "The Old Gringo".)

Another National Nightmare

George Carlin is dead and George Bush hasn't even been impeached! What kind of justice is that? I blame the democrats for both because I never expected Republicans to do any good for the country, but the Democrats pretended they would. I no longer care who wins the Presidency. It'll be Tweedle-dee or it'll be Tweedle-dum.

Tower Of Song

Everybody trip out! Leonard Cohen videos: Tower of Song Dance Me To The End Of Love

Impotence

Another Snotty Quote
Norman Mailer: "There is no greater impotence in all the world like knowing you are right and that the wave of the world is wrong, yet the wave crashes upon you."

Lost Bloggers, Lost Regrets

Not only have I lost most of my own degree of "cute", it seems to have faded largely in other bloggers, too. I was just reviewing most of my Bloglines list, some of which had 20, 30, 40, or 50 posts that I had not read recently! I never used to let that happen. How'd I ever let them pile up that much? Okay, how'd all those people pile them up?! They shouldn't have done it! Maybe I wasn't an innocent bystander, but I was at least a Hapless one! Or maybe I'm just that Old Man I used to beware of, the kind that falls asleep in front of the TV or in front of the monitor. I guess that's not a very good excuse, but at this rate, I'd better hire someone full-time to come up with better excuses for my old ass because I'm not catching up! I read two or three of each blog's most recent posts and then had to just blow past the rest like I was some pushy 18-wheeler passing an old Ford Escort. I think I have now gone through (gone past, worn out) as many people on the Internet as I have known and forgotten in my whole life before it. It's nothing to brag of, but I'm not sure I have enough time left now to bellyache much about it. I wish I were more loyal, but it doesn't appear that that will happen. I don't usually get mad and quit anyone's blog, I just get tired and flake out on people. I might show up again some day, and so might they—but we will be in a different place and in a different light. It was the motion and the light, of course, not the places, that first attracted us all, so why feel worse than regretful? It won't carry us very far. I'm a vampire and I need new blood.

Every Grain Of Sand

even the president of the United States Sometimes must have To stand naked.

Bob gets naked a different way.

Every Grain Of Sand In the time of my confession, in the hour of my deepest need When the pool of tears beneath my feet flood every newborn seed There's a dyin' voice within me reaching out somewhere, Toiling in the danger and in the morals of despair. Don't have the inclination to look back on any mistake, Like Cain, I now behold this chain of events that I must break. In the fury of the moment I can see the Master's hand In every leaf that trembles, in every grain of sand. Oh, the flowers of indulgence and the weeds of yesteryear, Like criminals, they have choked the breath of conscience and good cheer. The sun beat down upon the steps of time to light the way To ease the pain of idleness and the memory of decay. I gaze into the doorway of temptation's angry flame And every time I pass that way I always hear my name. Then onward in my journey I come to understand That every hair is numbered like every grain of sand. I have gone from rags to riches in the sorrow of the night In the violence of a summer's dream, in the chill of a wintry light, In the bitter dance of loneliness fading into space, In the broken mirror of innocence on each forgotten face. I hear the ancient footsteps like the motion of the sea Sometimes I turn, there's someone there, other times it's only me. I am hanging in the balance of the reality of man Like every sparrow falling, like every grain of sand. Copyright © 1981 Special Rider Music

How I Shine

(A Heartfelt Poem, But Short)

You could always pull it off Or pull it out of a box, And end up looking good in pink or purple, In fine or sheer or cotton or fuzzy blouses, In any old skirt with bells on or glitter attached Or with tattered fringe or small red bows Reminding me of Joni Mitchell In all her colorful costumes and paints, But you were better every way every day Because you kept me alive inside. I could speak to you even when you’re not there, You were always in my mind. I guess you still are, even now, Though decades and distance intervene And we are always only conversationalists now. And, like those old self-portraits of Joni on her covers, You carry your beauty with you everywhere without effort. I guess the real stuff shines right through us from inside, No matter how we’ve changed… Even if it were not true, I would wish it so. I would not let it halt.

Bottom to Top

Bong bong bong, ding ding ding, chinny chin chin!

Taking Off My Pants

Taking off my pants today, putting them back on tomorrow...maybe...if I feel that way. Have fun today, that's all I can say--tomorrow we may have to put our pants back on!

Insensible Comedy of Canes and Can'ts

Shit Happens

I'm mad at everything. I'm mad at my teeth.my gums, and eyes, My kidneys and every muscle and nerve, I'm mad because my legs are weak and tremble And give way unexpectedly when I stand And sometimes when I stand up, I sway Or lean too far in some direction, Or just fall back into the chair and can't get out Welcome to hell. It could be worse, no doubt of that. I wouldn't mind killing something, though, Maybe even a whole living race all across the universe (Like some extreme villain in an episode of Star Trek), Or something could kill me, I guess--I wouldn't raise a stink, I'm not particular--either one might be all right If I could just keep it under my hat and from my friends, Or keep from falling over till it's time Or not lose my cane so much, not be such a cripple Who always drops it somewhere that it's hard to reach And if I have to bend down that fucking low I might not keep my balance and land on the rug, Watching TV sideways for a few hours. Each New Day comes with perpetual Idiot Newsmen, Like a dog with fleas, And there's never any good news And they make such a fucking drama of it. Doesn't shit ever just happen, and that's it? All this madness mostly bums me out and I trip on me and don't like anyone alive And before it's over I eat the remote and swallow it And feel the reckless fall inside my head-- Sometimes it centers in my back Like I'd slept on an Anvil Or been kidney-punched by someone who knows how. I wonder now if termites are eating my brain And if I should start eating wood and frass, Just leave the human race behind. Giving no regard to the Fall or to the damage in reality. I wonder, Why is it like this? But the master of all kings and insects, And all the debutantes and diabetics, The author of all Being and Nothingness, Answers, "Why not?" Who knew He was such a Comedian?

Shiftless In Texas

I can't seize control, but then I never could. Paperwork and neverwork keep piling up on me and I keep looking for fact and figure pages in my mail or in my disregarded piles already here that I disregard too soon and I can't remember where anything is, then govt. clowns come around and expect me to know what year and even what month I started this or that job Or what year and month I ended one of those bad trips, I guess they call it my work career, but not me-- I call it something else. You know how rude I am. Some clerk with a bad accent is asking me over the phone to describe What essentially would define my disability, And I would if i could but that would be a success That no emergency doctor nor any steady doctor has yet done. You know, I don't know what the fuck to tell a clerk And I wish he'd die and leave me the hell alone, I might kill him if he were in my face and maybe some day he'll make that mistake. Meanwhile, there's a whole lot of doctors I may kill If they don't kill me first By having no idea what I've got, no matter what examinations they conduct. They didn't know before I had that $40,000 stroke And they still don't know, the fuckwads. Seems like $40,000 would be enough to've bought lunch for God But if it bought any doctors, they haven't stayed bought, They want me to pay and pay or stay away. I make appointments night and day, it seems... The kindliest patient I can find within me Hopes that every doctor in America dies Of anything painful and that eats their soul out slowly. Dr. Kildare, Dr. Wellby, that's just pretentious TV crap-- I think that Puff the Dragon has probably cured more ills.

Eight Days A Week!

I seem to be back to posting every day, if not more. Not very good posts, but all sizes, anyway--small, medium, large. This one's small, if I stop right now!

Study What?

I'm ready to go on to the next subject: my study. I mean this funky room where I seldom pick up the junk and where I'm typing this crap. The place hasn't had a good cleaning since before I got diabetes five years ago. It used to be half of a garage, but was converted many years ago. It was an oversize garage my father built many years before his death with one side for a normal vehicle and the other side large enough to drive his wrecker/tow truck into. It was a spacious garage! So when you picture my study as being roomy, make it Roomy with a capital R! I filled the study with too much furniture, bookcases, stereo, a sofa, and workbenches for my leather work that I seldom do any more. Perhaps I should take up the leather tools again as hobby rehab exercises, but I worry that I'd cut myself badly or make bad cuts in the expensive leather. Some of those cutting tasks didn't allow for much margin of error, I felt then, and it would be worse now that I'm such a wreck. I'd have to rethink it all and not be so insistent on doing everything the hard way, of cutting all my own belt blanks and other shapes. Then again, sometimes the hard part was packing up all one's finished wares and moving them to some temporary sales location--craft shows, etc. I'm not sure I have enough ass any more to do the necessary. It was a thing I did when young without much worry, but I'm not that guy any more. These days I strain to carry a belly around that's 70 lbs. lighter than it used to be. Whoosh!!! But back to the subject of my study. It's semi-isolated from the world at large, though there's a phone extension from the number in the house. It's a straight walk down a concrete sidewalk, very smooth but it floods every time it rains and cuts off casual foot traffic between the study and the rest of the world. I take fluid pills, but sometimes my ankles still swell a little bit, so I'm always afraid my feet will get stuck in my old rubber boots, and instead of buying some larger boots, I usually just tie a Wal-Mart bag around each shoe, maybe top it off with a rubber band to keep the bag high! Very effective for a short walk! How do you like my very disposable boots! Wal-Mart bags are so multi-functional, you know. Well, I can't help labelling this as nostalgia. Even though the subject is current, it makes me nostalgic about the period of time when and before it was built. I had an out of work uncle at the time who worked cheap and did great work building walls and flooring and otherwise doing a total renovation on this structure. Sometimes I helped him, but he and I both knew that I didn't know anything more than what I was told. Fifteen years ago I still had a job and, I felt, my own area of expertise. I can't even imagine these days that I used to work in Pest Control or keep a Safety program going. I used to let it worry me and even work extra hours at it, hours that I couldn't be paid for. I guess I just needed the distraction because I wasn't doing it for anyone else's sake or benefit. I had a "Fuck 'em all" attitude toward my bosses and employer at the same time I was working extra time for free. Just shows that I wasn't ever a very stable person, I guess.

Illegal

(A REVISED POEM, BUT NOT MUCH BETTER)

Is it illegal if I play with my how Or just if I let anybody know now? You can play with yours and I won't mind, I won't turn you in, not if the sun won't shine And not if the deaf go blind! Oh, crap, I know this stuff's so hard to figure, So soft in the herd, so deep in the belly, So stiff in the spine and so far bent over, So much too much for any of us to be refined That even if I drew you a picture You'd want to see less and know more Until it'd all been shattered in the end, Reduced to something looking less Than some figment or some shadow, Some touch of mostly always merely sin That just won't impress us--we're so jaded.

Going Out To Eat

A Sunday finally arrived when all my eight immediate family was in town and not sick so that I could go ahead and fulfill my promise made a few weeks earlier to buy every one's lunch at Red Lobster. I don't go out to eat very much any more. I may order food and take it home, that's as close as I usually get. But everybody ate at the table, I had a good time, and then I had to pay. Others in the family have paid at other times, so I can only claim that it was my turn, not that it was any inordinate generosity. But I am generally too poor to be the purveyor of much generosity, so I noticed it within myself, at least. I never paid much attention to what was on every one's plate nor have I paused to see what the receipt listed. I know what cheap tastes some of us have and what other tastes others of us have. It seemed cheap enough to me. But I am a tightwad, so the topic passes through my mind, as you see. I doubt my generosity this time around would ever compensate anyone for the churl I can be at other times. But it was fun. I wish my sister was alive so she could have been there with all the people she loved and so often helped. I can't say I think of her often, but it's almost always too much for me to handle when I do. Maybe it's better this way. For now.

Whut'd I say? sez President!

George Bush (that jackass) has now admitted regret that his use of phrases such as "bring them on" and "dead or alive" had "indicated to people that I was, you know, not a man of peace." Isn't that strange, isn't that amazing, that his actual words and actions (duh) might mean what they mean to nations all around the world just like they did to us? A lot of us in America knew he was an ass at the time and I was pretty sure that people around the world are at least as smart as I am, not to mention smarter that this dildo that we elected President! If we do it again, we'll all be jackasses.

Emily Dickinson: Maelstrom, Funeral, plus one

These are only two of Emily's poems that make me think I should be shovelling shit instead of trying to write an occasional poem, but I may not be the only one to ever feel that way...

'Twas like a Maelstrom, with a notch, That nearer, every Day, Kept narrowing its boiling Wheel Until the Agony Toyed coolly with the final inch Of your delirious Hem— And you dropt, lost, When something broke— And let you from a Dream— As if a Goblin with a Gauge— Kept measuring the Hours— Until you felt your Second Weigh, helpless, in his Paws— And not a Sinew—stirred—could help, And sense was setting numb— When God—remembered—and the Fiend Let go, then, Overcome— As if your Sentence stood—pronounced— And you were frozen led From Dungeon's luxury of Doubt To Gibbets, and the Dead— And when the Film had stitched your eyes A Creature gasped "Reprieve"! Which Anguish was the utterest—then— To perish, or to live? -------------------------------- I felt a funeral in my brain, And mourners, to and fro, Kept treading, treading, till it seemed That sense was breaking through. And when they all were seated, A service like a drum Kept beating, beating, till I thought My mind was going numb. And then I heard them lift a box, And creak across my soul With those same boots of lead, Then space began to toll As all the heavens were a bell, And Being but an ear, And I and silence some strange race, Wrecked, solitary, here. And then a plank in reason, broke, And I dropped down and down-- And hit a world at every plunge, And finished knowing--then-- ---------------------------------------- following is a poem by me a few years ago... DEAR EMILY DICKINSON Was Emily an ugly girl or did she have bad skin? Was she flat instead of curved? Was she far too slim? Were there too many splendid belles come out Those cold New England antebellum years And she remained--because a little plain? It makes me sick that tough-sweet spirit had to grope among Such stiff-necked pious dullards for fifty-six notched years. Did she fail to learn the dance? Did she make the boys feel dim? Did she love--just once--too much, then not again-- Or did she always love exactly what she loved-- But in her dreams and books? Why couldn't she be happy? Why couldn't she be wed? Why does her photo draw me in as if I think that Somewhere she's alive and I should hurry up and write And tell her--I'm sorry, I'm so sorry, I wasn't there for you! Dear Emily, my dear--maybe I'm just sleepy this Monday 2 A.M. Maybe I've gone crazy that I would weep for you. You've been dead--though you live here still-- More than a hundred years And I've only been about half-here for this tired fifty-two. I'm near the age now when you died and I must say I've felt That treadmill in my brain, that maelstrom in my dreams, And wonder which did you-- Did you fail to cling or did you just let go?

Easy As Pie

What's different about the above Bozo? New shoes? Short pants? Loose underwear? None of the above? The correct answer will earn you an airborne disease. But, see, I don't wear my hats every minute!

Pretending About Donkeys

Shorts In A Bind

Pretend you're out there on the end of that donkey dick, Pretend you're not. Pretend you're hot, Or that Everyone says you're not. Pretend you're the carrot And not just a stick, Pretend that the deadline isn't past Or that your umbrella won't catch all the rain, Pretend that the pain you know won't go away And that the pail that you pee in has a hole after all, Or that you'll have to marry some corpse, Maybe Elvis or Diana, on national TV. Don't try to live any longer than it takes To pretend that love and hate are not the same And to see the dance that's shoved between This life and death (we all perspire). Just let somebody else get their shorts in a bind, I don't know about you, But I don't enjoy it! I don't even want to hear about it!

Jackson Browne: For A Dancer

Keep a fire burning in your eye
Pay attention to the open sky
You never know what will be coming down
I don't remember losing track of you
You were always dancing in and out of view
I must have thought you'd always be around
Always keeping things real by playing the clown
Now you're nowhere to be found

I don't know what happens when people die
Can't seem to grasp it as hard as I try
It's like a song I can hear playing right in my ear
That I can't sing
I can't help listening
And I can't help feeling stupid standing 'round
Crying as they ease you down
'Cause I know that you'd rather we were dancing
Dancing our sorrow away
(Right on dancing)
No matter what fate chooses to play
(There's nothing you can do about it anyway)

Just do the steps that you've been shown
By everyone you've ever known
Until the dance becomes your very own
No matter how close to yours
Another's steps have grown
In the end there is one dance you'll do alone

Keep a fire for the human race
Let your prayers go drifting into space
You never know what will be coming down
Perhaps a better world is drawing near
And just as easily it could all disappear
Along with whatever meaning you might have found
Don't let the uncertainty turn you around
(The world keeps turning around and around)
Go on and make a joyful sound

Into a dancer you have grown
From a seed somebody else has thrown
Go on ahead and throw some seeds of your own
And somewhere between the time you arrive
And the time you go
May lie a reason you were alive
But you'll never know

Hear the song sung by Linda Ronstadt and Emmylou Harris.

We Are All Outlaws

In The Eyes Of America

I know I'm dead boring a lot of times lately, but you get what you pay for, so don't cry. I wasn't doing well before my stroke in March and am not recovered to that "good" point yet. Everything is hard to do. I wake up and by the time I'm dressed, have shoes on, count out my daily pills, and leave the bedroom, I'm so damn tired I can't discuss it. I have recently started receiving some "home health care" paid for by some state-administered version of Medicare. They send a "provider" who does the non-nursing tasks, like cleaning rooms, doing laundry, cooking (yet to see that), etc. Not bad so far, but they keep sending a different lady each time, and this seems to me to be something that would benefit from a steady employee, such as is supposed to happen (they say) in the future. But OK so far. It's about the only help I've gotten so far from the gummint and it may continue to be that way for a long time. I don't know how "deserving" I am, but I am certainly "disabled", though perhaps not by any official government or legal definition. I can feel President Bush's tight fist pulling back on every string I attempt to pull. If there is any new democratic President in the future, the tight fist and the stinky breath will still be there a long time, I fear. The wheels of government move slow, except when about to run over orphans, widows, veterans, or cripples with a "per diem" limousine and a don't-give-a-fuck attitude. For those of you who must have entertainment, go HERE for some music.

Hattie Carroll

I have always continued to find Bob Dylan's "Lonesome Death of Hattie Carroll" a touching, heartbreaking song. But, evidently, I'd long forgotten that it was factual and not just one of Dylan's apocryphal songs. I feel like a moron, sorta, but I guess it's just the lucky white man in me. I didn't HAVE to remember it. I wondered if William Zantzinger is still alive. If so, I don't know why. But he was only 22 in 1963 and Wikipedia says he was alive and still rich and making trouble in 2001. Shit. Sometimes, it's bad for me to review the past, because our past in America was so hateful. I am glad to hear that Dylan continues to perform it in concert. I don't think America should be allowed to forget such vicious crap.

Bald Women and Bald Facts

So much of what I watch/listen to on videos the last couple of months has been reviewing artists that were already my "favorites"--Bob Dylan, Beatles, Joni Mitchell, Joan Baez. Once in a while, I stray out of the areas where I have already trampled the grass down to the ground. That's the case (untrampled grass, I mean) with listening to Sinead O'Connor in various incarnations lately. I've seen her solo (both young and older), I've seen her with some of the Pink Floyd boys, with The Chieftans, and there's more than I have yet to watch. I used to be able to say that I liked her singing, but had never heard much of it; now or soon I'll be able to claim I've heard a lot of her singing. She has many interesting song choices, including "House of the Rising Sun" and "Silent Night" (yes, that one). And I still like it all. I don't even mind the videod interviews! I think she's rather sweet, even if she's not an angel. I'm a harsh person and never thought she was an angel and was never one to mistake the Pope for God On Earth, either. I wish we'd all grow up, but I'm not holding my breath.

Double-crossed or Just Crossed Out?

I'm still no damn good, only worse. I still have the most cruel and treacherous thoughts about even the best of you, though I often fail in the execution. Whether you should congratulate me or I should congratulate you, I don't know. It's your good luck, I guess--myself, I don't seem to have any. I keep forgetting to say that I bought a Wahl hair clipper and went at my own hair with little to no skill and without prejudice. That was last Friday. I meant to cut it shorter than my previous store-bought haircut, but I cut it even shorter than I'd intended. At least I had not scalped or gouged myself or spelled out "Satan" with the bare flesh. Maybe next time I'll really screw it up--never can tell. Guess I've decided to go for that "convict" look. Or else have been too much influenced by Mushy lately. He's about the only one who's continued to run his mouth lately, so whatever there is that's NOT a vacuum will fill that vacuum, I guess. Might as well be him or you or anyone as for it to just be more of goddamn me.

Pity City Bang Bang!

No pandering! But you can flip me off, I don't care about that.