I don't know.

I don't know shit about music. I used to think that I did. I know what I like though, musically, and I know what sucks. and that is the important thing.

Where is pancakes house?

Me No Understand

The band 'phish' is playing some reunion shows. I read that some tickets are re-selling for $1,000. I don't get it. I don't fucking get any of it, at all!

' the beast was upon us before i could register what was happening. i reached for my sidearm and swung it across the fire. Captain Smith stood straight up with his arms held outward in a defensive posture. the next few minutes seem a blur now but then took an infinite amount of time to transpire. Captain Smiths right arm was ripped from its socket by the yeti, blood spewed out of the socket in what became a scene in slow motion. the yeti now had Captain Smith by the neck and began to drag him away. I ran headlong into the freezing night unable to fire at the disappearing silhouette. The wind had begun to howl, shrieking all around me. For fear of walking off the side of some unseen crevasse i dropped to my knees to hear any sound which may give me a clue where my dear friend may be. i strained to see the blood trail left by my wounded companion, i started back up the mountain slowly when all of the sudden i heard a high pitched bloodcurdling scream.' yeti diaries

the toothpick factory pt. 4

I awoke in a pool of sweat, and the fever was gone, only the memory of a surreal and absurd dream about a zombie who worked at a toothpick factory remains. I am all better now. Time to go outside........

The

End

The Final Solution

I am losing the 'War on Cat Shit' and fear that I only have one choice left; get a dog. That powdered red pepper didn't really do a damned thing. A dog will. A dog will run the cat out of here. Yes, a dog will poop, but not in those semi-hidden little places like herb gardens, like the cat's leaving a present or something.

Yawn-Fest '09

The annual yawnfest known as the Grammy's was on last night. I didn't watch it. Well, I caught the tail end of it, and saw some pre-show footage from the red carpet. The red carpet, yeah, the five minutes that I could stomach of that show had all the artists blowing hard about how this year's grammy's are "rock and roll" this, and "rock and roll" that, as if they all got a memo beforehand stating that "its all about the rock and roll this year people." Even that little musical work-horse myley syrus was chiming in about the 'rock and roll.' yeah right, that's when I had to surf back over to the show me and the wife can't stay away from, 'rock of love,' -the tour bus- hey, I watch it okay, and really I'm not trading in the mindless viewing of rock of love for the pointless viewing of the grammys man. No way.

I did surf back over to the tail end of the grammy's though. I Saw that Coldplay won 3. YAWN! also, another letdown of the grammys was the "In Memoriam" list of musicians who had died in the last year. Snubbed from being remembered by the "INDUSTRY" was Stooges guitarist Ron Asheton,(R.I.P) who passed away about a month ago. His influence on what became Punk Rock and Rock and Roll in general is undeniable. I mean, come on, The Stooges are the roots of the punk rock family tree. Furtermore, those Green Day dudes came up to present something after the memoriam list went up, being that they are "punk rock" I thought they would've made mention of the blatant snub of Mr. Asheton, nope, didn't want to ruffle the "industry" feathers and possibly jeapordize some kind of future recording contract.

"Rock and Roll Grammys"- my ass!

At least they didn't forget Bo Diddley from the memoriam list.

Okay, that being said, maybe Ron's name will be on next year's list. And for all I know, there could've been some kind of tribute to him in the middle of last night's program. I wasn't watching. I still reserve the right to talk shit though. Yes.

the toothpick factory pt.3

The beatings happened continually in the orphanage. Not just to little James Spivey, but to all the orphans. Pretty much any and all forms of torture ever concocted to be used in the name of "Holiness", "God," and "Church", over the centuries, was implemented there. One of the more violent methods, used for "toughening-up", required that a pitch-fork be buried, vertical, with prongs pointing skyward, at about waist level, to the tortured child, while having him bent over, prongs a mere two inches from the chest area while being whipped on the back by Nuns/Priests. They had to take it. To give in was to be punctured by the ever-sharpened pitchfork, and made to bleed. Most kids would break and recieve punctures once, and that was it, never again would they break down like that. The broken ones would have puncture scars on their chests for the rest of their lives. Spivey didn't have these scars, just a much calloused and scarred back from the heavy whipping.

Spivey, and the rest of the kids at the orphanage, would never truly comprehend the brutality that was perpetrated on them there. By the time they were old enough to leave, and schooling was finished, they were released into the world, to be on their own. The idea was that they were so isolated during their childhood beatings/brainwashing that they thought the whole world operated this way, and in fact, that every child anywhere in the world, was raised the same way as they were. It was perfectly normal, and they were programmed not to question it. Obey! Period.

But what if a question should come?

Chores Day

Get a toothbrush.
Buy up all the steel wool at the store...
Go home...
Scrub the driveway...
Until it shines...
like chrome.

the toothpick factory pt 2

spivey gets off the bus a block away from his one bedroom apartment, which he has rented since he started working at the toothpick factory thirty years ago. this evening will be no different from last night for james spivey. he will go to his apartment, write checks for any outstanding utility bills or rent, boil water and cook his dinner. his dinner, the same every night; one cup of boiled rice and one can of sardines. this is what spivey eats every night before he does some light reading prior to drifting off into a nearly dreamless state of sleep.

perhaps his dreamlessness is in part due to the fact that he only reads manuals, like the manuals that would come with a new sewing machine, or a manual that comes with a new lawn mower. james spivey doesn't concern himself with "imagination" he likes to know how things work, even if it doesn't in any way relate to his day to day routine, which, after a boring night's sleep is about to start over again.

james spivey is pasty. he is gaunt, and his skin has a transparency to it, a transparency similar to that of a pot-sticker. it is almost as if his organs and circulatory system can be seen right through his skin. it is almost possible to see his brain through his skull which is not very well covered as his hair has receded heavily.

while it may seem possible to see into his brain, it is impossible to know what he is thinking. james spivey isn't thinking. he is a broken down brainwashed cult member of 1. he has always been like this. total emotional shutdown. no smiling. no laughter. shut down. james spivey is a human robot.

how did he get like that? was it the orphanage? did the nuns there do unspeakable things to him there?

' as ever the brooding silence was broken only by the sound of rocks crunching under our boots. the last few miles were pock marked with steep shale outcroppings, monuments to a volcanic age long gone by. we noticed the bones of pack animals strewn helter skelter along our path. the Sherpa who had deserted us so quickly on our ascent had warned us of the yeti, had promised our deaths as soon as we gazed upon the beast. now, here, we have travelled so far and for nothing. our supplies had lasted us well. we ate the last of the hardtack for lunch and even had some coffee left. the night brought a dense fog with, creeping along the valley like a ghosts long fingers. we could see the lanterns of the village below us. Captain Smith and i decided to stop for the night. the village was another hour away, always better to approach a Tibetan village by dawns light. wordlessly we set the tent, built a fire and hunkered down against the bitter frost. i lit up my pipe with the last of my tobacco, Captain Smith effortlessly rolled his cigarette while humming some old song. we sat there in a comfortable silence gazing thoughtfully into the fire, gazing into the infinite. suddenly a loud snap came out of the darkness.' YETI DIARIES November 1812

the toothpick factory pt.1

james spivey is 50 years old. he has worked at the toothpick factory since he was 20. 30 years in and he's been doing the same job the whole time. picking up the toothpicks from the conveyor belt and putting them in a small box, then placing the boxes on another conveyor belt where they go to get shrink wrapped before being shipped out to market.

spivey could be running that place if he wanted to. hell, the plant manager has only been there for 15 years, and he's the big-boss now. james spivey didn't want that. he didn't want anything. spivey doesn't do 'change', at all. in fact james spivey has done nothing with his life except work at the toothpick factory. he doesn't talk to anyone. he doesn't go to happy hour at the local pub when work is over. he doesn't listen to music or read fiction, or the newspaper. he's never been to the movies. he doesn't go out to eat. he is a virgin, never having made love to a woman, man, or animal for that matter. james spivey has never taken a day off of work, or been late to work once in his long career. he's never taken an asprin, drank alcohol, or put any other drugs into his body. other than getting hired on at the toothpick factory, spivey has not taken any chances with his life, ever. except for riding public transportation, the bus, to and from the job every day. where, while he's surrounded by people, he does not acknowledge any of them, he just stares blankly out the window until he gets to his stop and gets off the bus.

' the last day on the mountain. we made good time on our descent, pausing only for an errant avalanche. a tremendous sight. we heard a large piece of ice break off above us and stopped in time to see a wall of white thundering by. we immediatly crouched down and were covered with powder. after what seemed like an eternity i dug myself out and was able to breath swift shallow breaths. Captain Smith was standing there, smoking a cigerette while surveying our path with his telescope. the sun glared off the fresh powder , we dug our ice axes in and began the last portion of our journey. ' YETI DIARIES November 1812

anti-social-networking dot com

throw the tennis shoes, tied together, over the power line somewhere on your street. in front of your house.

make a pile in the yard with your old mattresses, if they aren't being used to block the sunlight from coming into the windows. use old leaves and discarded cigarrette cartons as well. light the pile on fire.

don't throw old beer cans on there though. they will burn, but are bad for the environment. gather friends around the fire, drink from the bottle, and sing a song.

Operation Hot Foot

it's no secret how i feel about cats.

i don't hate cats. i just like it better when they're not around. i like them better when they aren't scratching the shit out of my new couch. i like it better when they aren't up in my lap, shedding all over me. i'm allergic, and they close my airway pretty effectively. i like cats better when they are not shitting in and around the outside of my house, where my kids play. i like cats better when their diseased feces are offloaded elsewhere, not here.

i have launched a successful campain to rid this property of the feline offenders, well, more like, offender, as really it was one cat doing most of the doo-doo-ing around here. "operation hotfoot", started about 2 weeks ago after taking a look-see around the property and finding mounds of semi-buried cat poop in the dirt flower beds surrounding my house. the offending cat, i deduced, was well fed as the size of these droppings were that of a medium sized dog, impressive.

now, i don't know if the offending feline was a stray, or lived in an adjacent house, it had no collar and seemed to adapt us as it's toilet. my battle with the critter started almost as soon as we moved in at the end of october. i tried buying some of that all natural stuff that supposedly scares the cat away because it's claim to smell like the urine of a predator; coyote, mountain cat, etc.
that stuff didn't work at all. back to the drawing board.

a cheap solution was found online, and yes, non-lethal, and "all natural" and it works. just think of the ingredients of a hot n spicy bowl of chile, or hot sauce, yes, pepper. as it turns out, cats hate pepper, the smell. the creepy little critter may have come through here once, but that was it, as soon as he left to go groom hisself and licked the bottom of that hot-foot....bam! sizzle! message recieved loud-hot-and clear.

as far as a 'humane' solution for a cat reppelent goes, i don't know where the red pepper powder is ranked. i'm guessing that some kind of lazer-light sensored water sprayer thing is the most 'humane' because cats hate water. but those high tech gadgets are expensive, and probably break easily. i thought about going old-school and shooting the little guy in the butt with a pellet rifle, however, i live in city limits, and one call from the neighbor about 'man with gun' and it's hello s.w.a.t. team, don't want that. all said and done it's about 20 bucks for a pump sprayer and a few packs of the ground pepper, (which should last for awhile, don't put a whole pack of ground flakes in your sprayer, it will clog up.)

yeah, i figure it's humane. i don't want to kill the cat, i just want it to go away. so far, it looks like he did. -operation hot foot-

'a blinding sunrise greeted us this morning. we dug ourselves out of our encampment with a renewed vigor. the mountain dropped off a thousand feet or more not less than fifteen steps from our bivouac. the sky was clear and we began the final part of our descent. after an hour or so i could feel the presence of the beast, i glanced up at a rocky crevasse and noticed a small snow slide forming just beyond the rocks. i pulled my line and Captain Smith came to a halt. i pointed my telescope to the rock line but couldn't see anything. the snow had settled and there was nothing except our laboured breathing. a feeling of overwhelming dread began to inch down my spine, we had seen no more tracks but i could feel it watching us.' YETI DIARIES November.

Radio Rot

commercial rock radio sucks!

it has been sucking for a long time. someone, somewhere, once said about radio; "music is what happens between the ads." yeah, true, and the music isn't all that happening.

new bands -mostly- blow. i'm not going into minute details here, but really, as far as most "new" bands go, they just make me want to go listen to joy division, or velvet underground. whatever, i'm 40 now, and really, i don't think that i'm supposed to like most of this stuff, in fact, it's weird when oldsters like myself are all up in the youthful scene, i remember being young and kind of looking shamefully at the older people like this.

oh yeah, digression, back to my curmudgeonly rant about the shit state of rock radio. the music happens between ads for hamburgers and cars, okay, what else happens? the dj talks...yes, the almost obsolete dj. really, do we need them much anymore? i'm not talking about college, or public radio stations here, commercial rock, that's what. yeah, dj's are killing it with the whole 'know it all' 'tude that seems to prevail with their smarmy delivery about how "you're a loser if you don't have this nirvana album, and the stooges are proto punk....blah, blah, blah, we know. we get it, now shut that god damn hole under your nose and play some music, will ya.

there's nothing worse, really, a dj spouting off about all the little intricacies and details about this band, that song, it's like going to a restaurant and having some condescending shit of a waiter tell ya how they raised, and fed, and butchered up the cow from which your steak dinner was coming from, yep they saw it all the way through, who needs that?

yeah, we get it dj people,obviously, you are all up in it. that's why you work in the radio/music biz in the first place, so pie hole shut! nobody needs the spiel, especially now with ipods, internet access to music, and the fact that record companies seem to have become irrelevant as diy takes over. really, it is different now. back when i was a kid, (did i really type that) radio stations were important for being the soundtrack of our lives, so to speak. now though, there is so much music coming from so many different places that people are putting together their own soundtracks, and changeing them at will. suck radio! i have re-discovered my cd collection for the commute to work, and am better off because of it.

'much to our consternation, the white out continued through the afternoon and evening. the storm whipped our tent with its ferocity, seemingly intent on our demise, seemingly willing us off the mountain. how many days now? at least a fortnight and all we had thus far was a vague imprint of the beasts foot, but now i understood, the animal had been patiently pacing us on our ascent. i lay back in my sleeping bag and tried to rest my weary muscles. Captain Smith smoked one of his handrolled ciggerettes calmly on his side of our humble abode. the weak gas lamp flickered wildly backlighting the tent with a violent silent cinema. i closed my eyes and drifted away...' YETI DIARIES November

'after ten days the yeti had not been seen, heard, or felt. as we summited the exhilaration of achieving our mission was somewhat subdued. we aimlessly shook hands and took pictures with the flag. finally upon descent with a winter gale close behind us, i came upon a large footprint amid the blowing snow. no one could hear me above the shrieking wind and we all were concentrating on not plummeting to our deaths with a careless misstep, i tugged my line and captain smith looked back awkwardly. i pointed down to the footprint but he pulled me on.' YETI DIARIES , November 1812.

Davey Jones' Locker

After-Life-Party

He blew her mind.
She blew his brains out.
He proceeded to mix a greyhound...After she split.
He played darts in the attic...And went bowling in the basement.
The Greyhound's flowed...This went on for decades.
And then the Ghost Show appeared
with their lights and their cameras...And that annoying lady with the british accent

party crashers.

What's He Building?

What is he building in there?
What the hell is he building in there?
He has subscriptions to those magazines....
He never waves when he goes by.
He's hiding something from the rest of us...
He's all to himself.
I think I know why...
He took down the tire swing from the peppertree
He has no children of his own you see...
He has no dog And he has no friends
And his lawn is dying...
and what about all those packages he sends.
What's he building in there?
With that hook light on the stairs. What's he building in there... I'll tell you one thing he's not building a playhouse for the children what's he building in there?

Now what's that sound from under the door? He's pounding nails into a hardwood floor...
And I swear to god I heard someone moaning low...
And I keep seeing the blue light of a t.v. show...he has a router and a table saw...and you won't believe what Mr. Sticha saw
there's poison under the sink of course. But there's also enough formaldahyde to choke a horse. What's he building in there. What the Hell is he building in there?
I heard he as an ex-wife in some place called Mayor's Income, Tennesee and he used to have a consulting business in Indonesia. But what is he building in there? What the hell is he building in there?

He has no friends
But he gets a lot of mail
I'll bet he spent a little time in jail...
I heard he was up on the roof last night
Signaling with a flashlight
And what's that tune he's always whistling...
What's he building in there?
What's he building in there?

We have a right to know.

-Tom Waits-