Bowling for Tacos

I thought that writing something nonsensical would be fun. I'm kind of tripping out right now, so this will be interesting.

I have been told that it is impossible to tip over cows. This little bit of information comes from a rancher. So, why don't you readers go out and prove him wrong.

I can make my thumb bend back at a right angle--on it's own. This helps me get noticed when I'm hitch-hiking.

Toast is magic. I mean, it goes with everything: beans, chipped beef, marmalade, butter, you name it--it's always up for a nosh.

I was once asked to work on my sisters car (an 1989 Audi Quattro). It had been sitting in her driveway for over a year, so a whole going-over was needed. Here's the thing: I pop the hood and there are walnut shells and nesting materials crammed into every crevice conceivable. Damn squirrels! They even got walnut shells in the intake manifold. I was fully prepared to play Whack-a-Mole with my #12 Mack Tool combo wrench if any of those beady-eyed little peckers came out after me.

I can make a rabbit named Frankie do back flips when I play my sister's mandolin.

I've been thinking about the prophet Abraham lately. What's wrong with that?

"How many times must a man farmer-blow his nose, before he can call himself a man?"--edited out of original lyrics, "Blowin' in the Wind", Bob Dylan.

I can't tell you how many times I've tried to think about what I want to be when I grow up and the answer is always "Me". That's a total cop out.

Nothing really happened today, but I had a coworker bring me some soup and Mountain Dew over. I've got to say, that gesture almost made me turn gay--like 1/32 poofter.

Beef Jerky sustains me. Actually, it's been Buffalo jerky. It's much leaner. That meat also makes for really good burgers. Try it sometime.

I need to raise the bar, elevate my life, and piss myself for laughs more often.

I am a closet Woody Guthrie.

I am "The Grapes of Wrath".

My heart was a dust bowl.

And so was my past.

Now I'm here

And so I am

A better human

A happier man.

Shalom.

I found him, that little scamp!

I just knew he'd turn up. Lungy was outside my doorstep at 5 o'clock this morning panting away. He's a little dirty, but that's to be expected when you run off and go messin' around with undesirable sorts. Overall, his pink shiny glow was how I recognized him--that and his lack of wheezing. I asked Lungy why he left me all alone with this virus and he didn't want to discuss it, just glad to be back home.

My neck thought that the little bastard was ungrateful and shouldn't be allowed back, but my lefty "Lungo" was tired of having to do all the work lately, and wanted Lungy back in, singing "Mock" to his "Yeah". Now that Lungy has joined in, "Mocking Bird" has never sounded better. Grunt has several little things left to find, but they are minor things, like his neon yellow Swatch from ninth grade and his Billy Squire cassette tape. If any of you have seen these things, let me know.

I walk barefoot on Abbey Road.

Controversy and rumors, over whether the real Grunt died and was replaced by a "write-alike", are spreading like wild fire across Blogland. Sources say that the real Grunt was working around too many hazardous materials and finally got his due. One person, however, claims that the real Grunt was seen at a local Kinkos making copies of really bad "lost" posters. These posters featured a rather disturbing picture of a lung and a cash reward for $50 (estimated life's savings).

Despite the rumors, one fact remains: Grunt Ahoy! will continue. Whether by imposter or a very naughty boy, you will have your damn posts, yuk-yuks, guffaws, occasional beard strokers, and more than likely, some head scratchers. So, what the hell you lookin' at? I swear I'm not him--honest! I'm like his second cousin, er, something.

Down Goes Frazier!

10-9-8-7....They stopped the fight. It's a knockout!

That's Incredibly Gay Friday (TIGF)!!!

So, which one of you wants to have at Tino first? Can you handle the sexy? I think he could roast chestnuts, he's so hot. Is that a real IZOD shirt or a cheap Cuban knock off? Tino, which rest stop bathroom did I meet you in? I'm sorry, but I wasn't that type of boy, and am reserved for ladies only. But, it was sure fun pissing on George Michael's shoes. Ahhh...good times!

P.S. I still feel like death warmed over. I don't think I can make anymore of that special medicine, Crystal. I'm all tuckered out. I'll have to go back and look at some more hawt HNT's. Sheeeeeewooooooooh!!!

WTF? Is that my lung?

Grunty is not doing well today, so this is a preemptive post. I might have to do something drastic and go to the doc's, something that I have to be dragged in kicking and screaming to do. Did I mention that I'm not calling in sick? I am into torture; apparently, in more ways than one--and not into the whips and chains stuff, either. I'll out work my illness, that little germy putz.

My HNT Cherry is Popped

If I show you anymore than this, I'll have to ask you to bare my children.

Play me this album, please!!! I want to die laughing!

Post! I have found that the biggest word in the entire English language is "Supersize". Her hair is rather epic, don't you think?

This is but an appetizer--read the next post in conjunction with this short post.

How in the bloomin' eff miester did I just step on a damn Lego? Legos don't exist here! There aren't any kids here. Well, I sure as hell don't remember siring any, lately. Where the flobee did this thing come from, anyway? I think that Satan put it there to mess with me, seriously. It almost broke my skin. Well, no it didn't, but I'm a lonely man and I need all the attention that I can get.

Well? I couldn't stop. I was asleep for about a half hour after finishing "The Squid and the Whale" and I think I had a dirty dream about Anna Paquin (I spelled her name right this time folks)--it had something to do with pulling crab meat in a rather passionate manner. Okay, I know that for those who have not seen that movie will think that was rather dirty. And for those who have seen that movie will know just exactly how dirty that really was.

I'm at the witching hour(s) and this is when I flow. If you catch me in the morning, I'm rather baked and don't know what's going on. So, what I will do (come closer, I won't bite) is just do what I do best and flow.

I was thinking the other day about the road less traveled. Monday, I gassed up both tanks on Clyde and bought three boxes of 3-inch magnum load 12 gauge shells. For the uninitiated, that's some serious boom boom! Okay, were not talking 50 cal. here, but it'll bruise you. I have not done much shooting for the past five years and thought that I'd go to the desert and eff some shit up--pretty much one big hillbilly dumping ground out there.

Getting out to this place is nice. You get to see some great country and listen to great tunes along the way. What did I have on tap? Well, let's see; there was Neil Young and Crazy Horse "Zuma", which is one of my all time road trip favorites. "Barstool Blues" is my favorite track off of that album. It should be "Cortez the Killer", but I really like the shit-faced emotion that pours out of old Shakey on Barstool. Even though I don't drink, I get drunk on moments and feel that way from time to time.

What else? The new Calexico album "Garden Ruin" is a great album. It's a little different than "Feast of Wire". I saw Calexico open for Wilco. That was one hell of a concert. Wilco played for almost four hours. But, no Wilco on this trip--I'm giving them a rest. Oh, I did have "Van Halen I". This is not my favorite Van Halen Album ("Fair Warning" is my fave), but I really love "Jamie's Crying" and "Ain't Talkin' 'Bout Love", and not to mention that Diamond Dave is a superior dancer and likes to get carnal with the devotchkas. Maybe too good of a role model, eh? I had a promotional CD that came with the Halen album that featured The Cars "Just What I Needed" (let me say that this is a genius pop song), Stevie Nicks/Tom Petty "Stop Draggin' My Heart Around", Carly Simon's "Your So Vain", Bare Naked Ladies "Jane" (the one song I don't be hatin' on of theirs), and my man Curtis Mayfield doing "Superfly". My brother brought along some shit like Persian psychedelic music and the new Shooter Jennings album--I guess that has its moments, but feels like one long rip-off of Skynard. I should have brought my Pavement albums too, but there was already a full listening set.

Well, I'll tell you what, old Clyde did good. I took him straight up a narrow ATV trail. When I say straight up, I mean that literally--2000 feet up a steady 28-30 degree climb, with some spots at about 35 degrees. Clyde is an old horse: a 1978 3/4 ton Chevy 4x4. But, I've taken care of him, restored him and modified him to my liking. The cam is a bit bigger/hotter; the exhaust is meaner; the ignition was serious, until it started acting like a bitch ( I should have gone with MSD instead of the Jacob's Pro Street). It is already high enough off the ground for trail meats. I don't like yee-haw sleds, so only what is needed to do the trails. It has a top loader SM465 tranny, with a Centerforce clutch (bullet proof), and a New Process 205 transfer case (bulleter proofer).

I've beat the hell out of Clyde since getting him all purdy. His dark metallic green paint is now scratched to hell, and I refuse to wash him. This is the only way to show the $50,000 dollar cock implants who's king of the hills. I've not adorned Clyde with all the Calvin pissing trinkets that are normally associated with this sort of thing. I despise those. Clyde is lean and mean, with no excess--'cept his torque band in compound low. I can set Clyde off by himself in four low and compound gear and watch him crawl away from me up the hill, inspect him on the outside while moving, or just to take him for a walk up a steep hill. He tends to have a mind of his own when you're not in there to give him what for.

So, at the top of this hill, there were panty trees. This is a phenomenon associated with the back country. It's like saying, "I'm king of the world" to the uptight villagers down below. Panty trees are, well, trees with bras and panties hanging in them. A kind of trophy case, if you will. I wonder how many cherries were popped up on that hill? How many "Oops, I didn't pull out in times" there were as well? Whatever the case, it was a real pretty sight in an abstract way, to see silken hag flags waving in the wind way up there.

The way up was brutal and exiting, but the way down was punishing and downright scary. I got stuck in a few trees (too big), but managed to squeeze through. After that bit of fun, I went and set up a little shooting gallery of whatever was on hand: posts, 50 gallon drums, an old basket ball standard, a plastic jack'o'lantern, and a Wilson basket ball. I had the hip-shot jones thing going on and had to do that first. Wow, you guys might look down on me for enjoying this, but it was out of this world excitement--way better than a movie. If a trap load is akin to finger painting, then a 3-inch Mag load is Jackson Pollock. I think you get my drift.

After getting all that red state poison out of my system, and bruising the hell out of my shoulder (come on, three boxes of these babies hurts), I took Clyde up a rather precarious trail that I believe was on old mining/wagon trail. It was overgrown and didn't look like anything had been up it for years: perfect! I followed this treacherous dual track until it became more of a single track, then it became "Where the fuh are we, anyway?" track. Eight miles of basically wheelin' up washes, creeks, meadows, and ravines. I know this is bad back country etiquette, but I'm not perfect. I'll do some reclamation work to make up for it, okay? Well, I found myself in a dead end of cliffs and was clear in the hell away from the site of anything artificial, except my solitary posse. I managed to hit a rather large rock with my rear bumper, trying to turn around in a tight spot, and smacked my rear pumkin hard on another (actually dragged this 200 pound boulder about ten feet before it got loose). No were no casualties.

I think that I can honestly say that I was the first person on earth to listen to "Superfly" in that canyon. See, there are still little frontiers out there just waiting to be conquered. I finished off the day with a 40 degree climb up some loose shale. That one nearly killed me, but I made it after much violence on the way up. The way down made my balls run behind my back and hide. If I wasn't wearing a seat belt, I think that I could have just laid down on my dashboard and waited for death to come, it was such a nice angle for that sort of thing. One situation you need to consider on a steep, loose, decline: don't let your ass end pass up your front--bad things will happen. Fortunately, I was on the ball here. Oh, here's a tip for you out there who would want to do this sort of thing but are not really that experienced: Never wrap your thumbs around the steering wheel--you'll break them. I sprained my wrist from some serious confrontations with the terrain, and am paying for it today.

Well, I didn't expect to tell you this story. I guess the witching hours told me what to write and here you have it, a real story about a real road less travelled. Yeah, you could go ahead and attach a metaphor to that one, if you'd like, but for me, it was the real deal. And there is no substitute for that, Larry.

Make Your Own Caption

I promise good times are ahead, folks. Grunty is falling off his own ass right now--I''m that tired. I would just like to thank you guys for reading my blog. Time is a precious commodity. So, why are you wasting your time here anyway? That's right, because I'm deranged and have no impulse control when it comes to posting what I write on the web. It's just like Casey Jones, only I haven't done coke to get this way. I hope you guys get a chuckle out of it, at least. God only knows what will ever come of any of this--I'm skint!

I've got some wicked ideas for some future posts. I am entering this next phase recharged. I think that it will be my best so far. So, will you Gruntheads follow me into this strange and wonderful place I'm preparing? I'm calling it Gruntonia!

Talk about lust for life, nothing beats the absolute vitality and wonder that a 10-year-old kid finds in the world around them. I was at a gas station today putting money into Crystal and Vera's pockets (as far as I'm concerned, that's just fine), and this kid was pushing the buttons on the soda fountain trying to sample each flavor with a straw. He would go from one end to the other, sticking the straw in the running streams of soda pop. It was funny to see him hit the diet drinks, because he'd cringe a bit. He'd linger on a few, after he settled on which one's he wanted, then he did a mix of those and got that for his drink. I think the gas station attendant was to engrossed in her boyfriend to notice all of this.

Well, I'm going to watch a movie "Squid and the Whale". I haven't watched much TV in a long time. This should be good. I hope to get back into fighting form. I know it's only been a few days since I did the heavy posts, but going three days without writing something good is an eternity for me. Just ask the poor people that get emails from me--I think that it takes up about half of their day just to read them. Troopers is what you are, real troopers. I guess if I weren't so good, you'd put me on your block list;)

The Fog on the Tyne is All Mine: Me on the Metro Ferry on the Tyne.

Fog On The Tyne by Lindisfarne

From the album Fog On The Tyne

Sitting in a sleazy snack-bar sucking
Sickly sausage rolls,
Slipping down slowly, slipping down sideways,
Think I'll sign off the dole.
Chorus:

'Cause the fog on the Tyne is all mine, all mine,
The fog on the Tyne is all mine,
The fog on the Tyne is all mine, all mine,
The fog on the Tyne is all mine.
Intro (once):
Verse:
Could a copper catch a crooked coffin maker,
Could a copper comprehend,
That a crooked coffin maker is just an undertaker
Who undertakes to be your friend.

Chorus:
'Cause the fog on the Tyne is all mine, all mine,
The fog on the Tyne is all mine,
The fog on the Tyne is all mine, all mine,
The fog on the Tyne is all mine.

Intro (once):

Verse:
Tell the truth tomorrow, today will take it's time
To tell you what tonight will bring,
Presently we'll have a pint or two together,
Everybody do their thing.
Intro:

Verse:
We can swing together, we can have a wee wee,
We can have a wet on the wall,
If someone slips a whisper that it's simple sister,
Slapped them down and slavered on their smalls.

Chorus:
'Cause the fog on the Tyne is all mine, all mine,
The fog on the Tyne is all mine,
The fog on the Tyne is all mine, all mine,
The fog on the Tyne is all mine...

Repeat chorus to fade.

Make sure, folks, that you don't listen to the god awful version that the Gazza did back in the early nineties.

X-Men III or The Devil and Daniel Johnston: Who'd Win?

I'm finding out that this here cookie, digesting inside of me, ain't shitting me gently. I can't even start to tell you the details...and God knows I've tried! The kicker is that I've only been able to identify with very few people in my life. I 've learned the importance of empathy, only because I know that it's something that matters to others--It has not done anything for me in ages. My personal one-way street, I thought.

When you find a source for something that comes so rare in your life, you want to horde it. Well, maybe you are a better person than I, but damn it if I don't feel like that every time I feel like things are getting better, the rug gets yanked out from under my feet. So, I never curse the source, but that which leads me there in the first place.

Being a creative mind, I usually am subject to the pages of my sources. Believe it or not, these sources rarely give me joy. They mostly annoy me, because of the constant barging in. When a source or muse that inspires me as well as comforts, I get real worried when it's jeopardized.

My notion of God is an example. Now, I'm not a child. I am aware of the realities of existence, but concepts are as real as anything else. Ever felt love before? Well, I really get conflicted when this source starts to fade from my life, due to my tendencies to search and destroy everything I believe in. Why do I do this? Well, it's complicated. I have to clean house of fallacies constantly, because they are destructive to my well being. With God, I have found a paradox. This is what some would consider a fallacy, but I have felt God. So, when my natural tendencies kick in, busting down doors and killing off my many little Santas, I try real hard to hold on to this one thing in my life--God. I know that when they are close, I start to blame those that led me to the source of this muse--the way I perceive eternity. It seems that it is easier to offer that red herring to my mind police, hoping that they'll take the tour guides instead of my precious source.

Sometimes, in my life, I've willingly shared these things in spite of my wariness. When it has helped another, it sprung another source of joy for me. Still, I could never fully relate, but I liked that I helped someone realize happiness. The closer I came to actually feeling like I could share something besides a concept and such, I tried sharing myself, my most coveted item. Sometimes this worked, but only in small doses. Mostly, I was met with weird stares or total confusion. So, the few times I've lent someone the entire back catalog of my life/my "self", I got real worried that I'd made a huge mistake. I pretty much end every real personal posting on this blog with me saying to myself, "Don't do it, you fool!"

Now you know why I've been doing this with more frequency. I'm trying to kill myself, but not suicide. I've wanted to deconstruct myself outside of my subjective mind and lay it out for others to evaluate. I'm trying to lose myself in order to find out the answer to the ultimate question: Who am I? Writing is how I choose to do that. A story might seem to you as a real event, fiction, or whatever, but secretly I'm coding my psychosis, neurosis, and genius in its adaptation. My humor is a perfect example of this.

A friend frequently asks me, "Why you so damn funneh?" Well, maybe I'm not. I actually have found that it just comes out that way and then people laugh. I found out that it was something worth examining and repeating. What is it? It is my defense mechanism. I try to bend the ugliness of the world into a shape that I can cope with. This is my humor. Why am I funneh so often? Because, I have to be. I have to be!

What does any of this have to do with the title of this post? Let me tell you about my day.

First of all, lets get one thing clear: The only poster in my room is of Mohammed Ali, with the Adidas slogan, "Impossible is nothing." I have a couple of paintings and various works of my own hanging up. I don't hang pictures, but I should. What I do not have are action figures, comic books, and posters that any respectable manchild would want. So, why would I possibly want to go see X-Men III?

Well, Famke Jansen comes to mind, along with Halle Berry and Rebecca Romaine Lettuce. Anna Pannequin is hot in my book as well. I've always enjoyed the rough aesthetic of Wolverine--I'm fond of my double knee rip stop khaki work pants, crew-neck T's, and anything with Levi's or Dickies on the tag. Go-to-hell boots are a must, too ( I recommend Rocky steel-toed work boots). Yes, I wear other things, but that is for the sake of other people or circumstances. So why didn't I see this movie?

Well, it all started with a trip to a sandwich joint--a real one. This guy from Jersey makes the best sandwiches for under seven bucks that I've ever had. Saturday is also the day that I get my "Brando" on. No bucket of chicken is safe with me. So whilst I waited for my Philly cheese steak to get made, I perused the local theater listings in the ubiquitous urban indie rag. In there I find the review to The Devil and Daniel Johnston, and filed this information under "must see".

A little segue here: When my sandwich arrived, I noticed that there was a framed review of this place from a local paper just above me. I noticed that I was eating the same sandwich featured in the photo. I was later hit on the head by that framed photo--crashing down on me to get some payback, I suppose. Who knew that sandwiches had souls? I think I'm gonna sue.

After getting done with lunch, my brother and me made for the big multi-plex. When upon arriving there, we noticed that it was way too packed and decided to cheese it. I had to fulfill my one CD a week requirement this weekend, so a trip to a music store was in order (I know, I'm old fashioned). I purchased a particular CD that has a certain song that is supposed to wield supernatural powers over girls' panties. This is quite a step forward (backward?) for a guy that owns every Black Sabbath album that Ozzy was on, as well as most of Mott the Hoople's glam masterworks. Come on, I'm a dude, yeah? Wait...not that kind of dude, sorry.

After this homework assignment was completed, I conversed with my bro, "Hey bro, you look like you need to be inspired."

My bro: "Okay."

See, this is the power that I have over him. So, I set course for the Bohemian district, where Tag body spray doesn't work--well, at least not the effect I was hoping for, anyway. It is there where one finds the putrid scent of run down theaters, preserved and operated by caring, ironic-hipster homosexuals. Well, through my steely gaze, anyone that accessorizes themselves in such a way is probably gay or incapable of self defense. I kid, honestly, I do. I just can't wait until they start giving plaid, or paisely shirts, and Doc Marten boots the ironic seal of approval. I would have a goldmine to sell on Ebay.

So, when will a Franz Ferdinand or Strokes version of the paisely underground come, anyway? Kids, there's another genre to exploit after all! Record companies, start your bidding wars. Of course, those were the bands that ripped off The Raspberries, The Modern Lovers, and Big Star, which in turn ripped off The Beatles, who ripped off Elvis, who ripped off black people. See what you really are, hipsters? Oppressors! Sorry, I just wanted to have some fun there.

Why am I bringing down the hipster scene? Well, because they are the sort that exploit people like Daniel Johnston. And I was there to see a movie about his tortured life. Ironic, huh? Damn!

So, everybody knows that the fountain of hip resides in Austin. I'm not making fun of it, but the only tortured artist soul that they haven't claimed, yet, is Syd Barrett, and we don't even know if he really exists anymore. Anyways, we all know that they've preserved Roky Erickson in Lucite, by now. So why not try to put another creative savant on a stick and wave them around for everyone to see the so-called "vanguard of all that is hip" in action. It is their little quirk, and it has been slowly but surely fading away, from the skimming effects of big corporations and over saturation (they've heard of Athens Georgia and Seattle, haven't they?). I sound like I hate this scene. No, I don't. I hate its evil, suburbanite spawn that ruins it for everyone else and finds shelter inside my favorite second-hand record stores, looking for something kitschy/quirky to obsess over. Well, I think I did drift a bit again, sorry. At least they aren't into patchouli oil and incense. I've offended you, haven't I? Come back to Grunty, I promise that I still love you.

Well, I won't say much about the movie, so you will get the whole experience when/if you decide to see it. Daniel Johnston is touted as a creative genius. See, you thought that I had forgotten my original premise, but you mis-underestimated me, didn't you? *Ba-dum-dum, kish!* Well, I basically watched a movie about a mentally ill man, who has a real reedy voice, sing some pretty songs. I guess there's something to them, honest and heartfelt, but no irony. This is why I think that he was accepted by these hipsters: he offered them simple and honest emotions of a troubled soul. He had no reason to fake or be pretentious. What hipster would really love Mountain Dew enough to think that his song would be used by the Pepsi Corporation as a new ad campaign--without it being ironic? Or, be over the moon about finally being on MTV? This guy really wanted to be a star like John Lennon, sincerely. He pined for an unobtainable woman, without any animosity, or stalking. He loved God and hated the Devil, and he meant it.

I started to see how the muses in his life worked, much like mine. While I'm nowhere near crazy, I do feel empathy for him, and I'm sure he is one of the few who would make me feel satisfied if he tried empathizing in return. Because, I feel that he knows a little something about the damn knocking that comes into your head at 3 am and tells you to write a song, a paragraph, a character's profile, or a plot summary. He knew that God was a source for him, and his mind police came after it. He saw this as the Devil, and had a love hate relationship with those that led him to his primary source: his parents and his church. Again, you can't hate a source like this once you've tasted it's joy, not this type. Remember what I said earlier, you begin to despise those who led you there. Why? Because, you sometimes wonder if you would have been better off without even knowing its pleasure in the first place, because the pain of losing it is so intense, no matter how esoteric or intangible it may be.

I know that getting "burned" by human muses is hard to get over (his so-called girlfriend in college), but that does not compare to the insanity of losing your cannon of core concepts. Daniel obsessed over Satan, and this became just as big a muse as God to him--the classic battle between good and evil. I find that for me, a relatively mentally sound individual, that I cling onto this battle for romantic purposes. It is appealing in a rather quaint way, but I find that it simplifies the gray area of life, and I really thrive in that world, so, much that it scares me. I'll tell people that I am on a side, so as to help them along in their feeble attempts to categorize me. But, I am only on my side, it turns out. Daniel was too, but he was incapable of making this manageable. So, the results are this: if you can't manage your creativity you either rot away in obscurity, or get handled. Daniel has been lucky to have had various souls who have played caretaker to him along the way, and they tried to provide the rest of the world some context in which they could appreciate his genius. We have to accomplish this fully cognizant of the nature of the real beast: greed and failure. I think that's what's so endearing about a guy like this: innocence.

Is a guy like that being extolled or just exploited? Is a guy like me just jealous? Well, I can handle being exploited if it pays well enough. I thought that maybe I should start by singing horribly, playing my guitar left handed, and frequent hipster joints with an irony-free visage. Would I be the next contestant on "Who's America's Next Big Cracked Genius"? I think that it is a weird message to tell people that savants are all magical geniuses; because, I'm sure that being one is not very fun at all. I'm glad that I'm able to make sense of the pain in my life, and understand how my muses work. I don't think Daniel does. He's a slave to his muses.

Later on, after the movie, my battleship-dwarfing brother wanted fooooood! I relented. I was not doing it up Brando style again, that's for sure. I've come too far to go back to that one dreaded number on the scale again--you know, the one that says "Wakey wakey, fat ass!" So, it's to the beloved Panda Express. I go for a one entree dinner and my black hole de comida brother ordered a three entree with two egg rolls, but this is the funny part: We both came back to our tables with Mountain Dew. You probably didn't get that, so read again from the top. Anyway, after I was done I opened up my fortune cookie, and I felt that the fortune (posted at the top) was an appropriate one for the day.

I don't care if this was all rather unfocused and long. Sometimes what you experience in a day meanders, much like this post. But, if you stop and listen closely, those meanderings hide nuggets and pearls: muses. Sometimes I resent life--hate it. But, just because it may be difficult doesn't mean I have to despair. Daniel seems to enjoy his wild ride--I saw an extreme example in him of this principle at work. So, I think that I'll try to let it flow, not hold back, and share a bit more sincerely, without resenting or distrust. I might, just might, get somewhere with all of this. And as for that one-way street, I'm building another lane.

Memorial: an offensive downer trip--beware.

Tonight's post is brought to you by Old Grunte. I am reclaiming this blog. I am not going to use anything for therapy anymore. What's the point when I can go outside and smell the suffering of others--it sustains me. Hell, I don't even have to go outside for that. What's my point? I was a better functioning human being when I was angry and ready to explode, wasn't I? Maybe I wasn't happy, but I sure could get things done. Life is much simpler for a man when he doesn't have to emote. I think that I will join in some blood sport this weekend and regain my edge. What do I care?

Maybe, I'll get my shotgun out and shoot the hell out of a fridge and some fence posts. Maybe, I'll take Clyde up S.O.B., drink some beer, and remember the seven souls who have died on that hill. Maybe, Ill take a short hike south of S.O.B. and visit the grove where "T" blew his brains out with his 30/30 (obituary picture shown). It has a great view of the lake and the valley. Is this a grave worthy of a boy who took his life? A life taken, because he was worried that his dad would be mad at him for wrecking his car? I don't know the answer to that question. But, I know more about the reasons for such acts than I will admit.

I tried to help out a mixed-up kid, once. What good did reaching out do this kid, when no one listened and I had no clue? I got mad when he didn't show up for work that day. The next two days I felt like chewing him out. I didn't know that he was alone resting on the hill for those three days: free of his troubles, free of his life, but slave to "what if?" and never again.

I remember bringing this kid under my wing at work. He was flirting with the drop out scene, and I had been there myself, once. I was a smart, but severely troubled boy at that age, and so was he. I can remember what it was like trying to teach myself how to write coherent sentences and basic math after barely graduating high school--rejoicing that I would never suffer the humiliation of my scholastic lackings any longer. I saw myself in this kid. I knew the hurt that comes with feeling lost and alone. Of having every living inch of you collapse and grown ups think that you are just being a bad kid or rebellious when you are just acting out of desperation. When will they ever get it? Sometimes a kid has no idea what is wrong with them, and their actions are a symptom of a much greater problem that no one wants to acknowledge. Do you know what it's really like to not care about yourself and the world, completely? Once that happens, your ability to stop destroying yourself diminishes. I knew this kid. Yet still, I had no idea that he'd go and do it. Who does? Well, we should.

I remember talking shop with him on guitars and amps. I used to make fun of his affections for "Messy Boogers" and "Reisty Bitches" (Mesa Boogie amps and B.C. Rich guitars). He'd in turn make fun of my little Fender amplifier and my craptastic Les Paul Jap copy. Is it so wrong that I'm jangley and he's not? I would blame my liking for REM, Posies, Big Star, The Jam, and The Beatles on this, but he wasn't going to trade in his Marilyn Manson for my like. We made a compromise with Iron Maiden and Led Zeppelin.

He would always be late for his shift, but I tried not to ride him too hard at first. It was near the end when I had to ride him. He was coming in an hour late, stinking of pot, and too relaxed to hustle. I remembered that when I was at my deepest points of despair, there were certain teachers who challenged me--they could see some brilliance inside my dark world. I knew what it took to climb out of a pit of .8 GPA's (when a solitary "D+" saves the day) and terrible rap sheets. You can't slack and someone has to be there to remind you of that. With apologies to a fellow blogger's shtick (I'm not attacking you--yer cool), but I can't think of a more destructive lifestyle.

I had been through some life changing experiences in the past 3 years since high school. I had my body broken, my soul charged, and my mind sharpened. I knew that he needed my help, so I leaned on him hard. Well, I think that came a little too little, and little too late. How could I know that he would decide to take his life before I could help him get it back? I wasn't there for his life, other than work--a place that became a refuge from his home.

A fiery rant, please skip this if you are easily offended:

I couldn't go to his memorial. It was closed casket, I heard. Hollow point, high velocity, and cosmetically obliterating, a 30/30 is. The decision that made a community ask why. This same community, county, state, hasn't learned and is breaking the record books in young male suicide rates. They ask why, but don't want to know the answer. A kid can't be perfect. A kid will mess up. A kid might set fires, slash tires, get in fights, skip school, screw, get loaded, race, shop lift, and wreck your car. But, when are you going to get real and do something about it, besides read your bible and pray? Something that isn't a panacea, a placebo, a placenta--you can't fill the void with more piglets when you can't raise the ones you got right, alright?

When will you examine the expectations of perfection that are listed as family values? Isn't it a bit much to expect your dog to be a monkey? So, why ask your kid to be Jesus, for Christ's sake? Why blame the problem on the music when you're the one not listening, only telling him that he/she isn't measuring up? I've never known anyone who killed themselves over a song that weren't high in the first place--and you didn't know, didn't see the warning signs, huh? Didn't you ever think that it was your job to notice, to learn, to go outside the myths and gobbledy-gook to find out what makes a real adolescent tick? No, you just wanted to play Ward and June.

Parents, you are their guardians. What happens if you take their music away? Why did they turn to that music for solace in the first place--wasn't it to get away from you? Why do they want to get away from you, in the first place? Could it possibly be that you are killing them psychologically? You are the ones who can't admit that you are forcing them into an impossible fantasy world. Are your dreams and your myths worth your child's life? What's so wrong with imperfection and nature, anyway?

Myth is good and dreams too--so long as you understand how they work. There's nothing like telling a kid that if they are perfect, they can have ice cream with God someday. Instead of telling them how the concept of triumphing over death is a metaphor for finding power in Him, you make them feel like they owe something to someone who holds their eternal happiness in hock--a debt that they could never possibly repay. Yeah, I know that Jesus pays the price, but really, you don't believe that, do you? It always has to be perfect, or you are falling short.

You pathetic murderers. You are the equivalent of sadistic torturers: "Billy, God loves you, but won't let you come live with him unless you stop thinking of boobies and touching that thing that he so cruelly attached to the front of you. Christ will help you, but stop thinking about the things that a developing sexual being is primed by "The Maker" to do. Make babies at this point, now. Aren't you glad you never thought of boobies? Why don't we have any grandchildren?" How damn stupid is this line of reasoning? Sex is bad. You came into this world because of sex. Therefore, you are bad. But aren't people around the world doing this? Cover their eyes--it will make it all better! No explanation or context needed, just Jesus! Jesus! Jesus!

Even when you tell them that they can repent, you're still telling them that there is no way you're ever getting into Heaven. No one can do enough to get there, anyway, and grace is a bad word around these parts. Because, what kid ever really confesses their sins to a man in a funny hat, garment, or suit, anyway? These men salivate at the notion of their demigod status--the one you validate, and surrender your child to. Do you think that they are going to be fully competent to suss out the real source of this kid's problem? Well, you sure as hell better find out.

That kid should be telling you, and you better be brave enough to understand them, and help them work through it in a sane and logical manner. I think that's why God gave you the blessing of a brain, in the first place. Why would he even care if you are too stupid to even try using his masterwork--a gift to you. No, you make up stupid ideas about this guy--like he's some magic lamp that vends out moonbeams, rainbows, and Raisinettes.

Again, It's your child and he's dying. So, you send him to a man who tells him he's evil for playing with his wiener? (Go do seven Hail Marys!) Great idea! Fuck you. The problem is so mind-screwing: it's you punishing them for being a child and believing that a long haired David Copperfield will come flying out of the sky with the Angel Gabriel to cure their/your stain. Why would they, the hosts of heaven, waste their time when you are not willing to wake up and get the kid real help? I can't think of anything else to say, because I couldn't even save him.

I hope that you found peace "T".

I thought that I knew him, but I didn't. He chose a method without reverse. The fatal taste with no take backs.

I need 50cc's of Caffeine STAT!!!

I can't figure out if this is a Code Red, Classic Green Dragon, or an MDX emergency right now. But, please don't give me Pitch Black. *Raaalph!*

Okay, I need to be totally honest with ya'll...

I am wasted, spent, done! I hope you'll understand if I take a kip and not do the blog thing tonight. Crap! I am blogging. See what you all do to me? I was planning to do this grand post, but chatting online with ultra-pretty women has worn me out. See, this is what happens when Li'l Grunty gets all excited.

Instead of a grand post, I offer you this single question: Why are there no cows in space? You know, there should be!

Try this one out: If you want to amuse your office pals, hold onto your tongue and try singing the Rice a Roni jingle for them.

When I get bored at work, I fantasize. About what, you may ask? Well, I think that the foremost fantasy that I have involves invisibility, duct tape, lawn darts, and a rusty tuna fish can lid. It's the only method for curing a few problems with the world, as far as I can see.

Have a great day, all of yous!

This has got to stop!!! Late, late night blogging.

Real quick like, 'cause I'll die if I don't. Today was one of those "Drive your truck around with the stereo up full blast" type day. I got to do that only to go to work and to lunch. I was listening to "Kiss: Alive!". "Strutter" and "Cold Gin" are my motivators, but there's just something about "Deuce" that gets me going. I work real hard, so I figure that I'm worth one.

What got me into this mood? Well, let's just say that a cherished friend sent me a very pretty picture. My sails were made full. Thanks McAnonymousGoodFriend! Yer Hot!!! It's all mine. No sharsies!

Blogging After Two A.M.

What, do you think I'm some magical wizard that just craps out rainbows and good times? Heh, wouldn't that be cool?

No, I'm hitting the "Red" again. I swear I have a new dog and there's a saddle on him...wait, that's just a sofa with a blanket on it. Seriously folks, what is happening? I need some sleep, but the Spirit of Grunty must compel you somehow. And we all know that this stuff doesn't just fly up on here by itself.

A ramble:

Death is a funny subject. My dad and I conversed on this very topic today. See, I know when my dad is feeling good when he starts to talk about the day's death toll. If he's having a bad day, he's usually inflicting guilt. What is it with these people who go straight for the obituaries? So, today he was going on about this fifteen-year-old girl that drowned in a local creek. Since the spring run-off is at full blast, the creeks, rivers, and streams are torrential. This girl was trying to cross this creek on two ropes (the group was there to rock climb). Well, my dad was more obsessed with the fact that she wasn't in a harness, and "She didn't clip in to anything. Dammit, you've got to clip in the top rope on that set up!" Not, "This is sad. I wonder how her family is coping with this?"

See, my dad was a great mountaineer in his day. Great for an average Joe, not K2 great. He was on the Arizona search and rescue team, etc., etc. I vaguely remember his climbing days, since his health went pretty much tits up since I entered the "octagon". This doesn't stop him from telling anyone who is within earshot just how "great" he was. I like to put "words" in "quotes". And for a guy that served in Austria during the Korean War, well, let's just say he has more war stories than Patton. He was a Sergeant First Class in the Fourth Cavalry Regiment--tanks. The picture above was during his training in Ft. Jackson--he's on the far right. I guess that because of the Korean conflict and the tensions with the Soviets--Cold War--this wasn't as kick back as I make it sound. Still, I am an old man jabber receptacle. I guess I should be grateful that I get this story telling talent from him, albeit in a less global warming form.

I also get my humor from this guy, believe it or not. I remember some photos that I got from my parents when I was on walkabout, selling Hoovers, whatever. They were at Jackson Hole and standing in front of the Tetons. This one pull off had an information plaque--this one featured beavers. So, my mom is posing innocently, while my old man is pointing to the words "Beaver Habitat" and has a shit eating grin on his face. Now I've endeared you to this guy. If you met him, you'd probably think that I have exaggerated all the crazy shit I've said about him. No! Do you know what it's like to walk into your parents home and find a naked old guy walking around the place making weird noises? I fucking do! The thing is he's not insane!!! He has been getting better physically, and his depression has been kept in check with meds, and he's not senile. He still suffers from some anxiety, but he really doesn't have any demands where this is a problem anymore. So, my dad is just fucking with everyone and now I'm starting to learn that I admire him dearly for it.

It's almost three...

I'm in love...

...with my blog.

It was Robert Plant who sang, "I can't quit you babe, so I'll have to put you down for a while."

This blog has been my main mistress and my other two blogs have been neglected. I'd make a horrible polygamist. The real thing that concerns me is that I spend too much time doing this blog and my actual writing goals have been put on hold because of it.

So, am I really in love with my blog, or am I in love with you? Who are you, anyway? Everyone, no one, someone, what does it matter? Maybe, I'm just in love with myself and all your comments and blogs are my porn collection. Well, what is it? I dunno?

I don't think that I'm ready to put you down for a while. In fact, I think it's time that we go all the way. Do you want to see how far I can take it? I'm holding back, believe it or not. You better strap yourself in. It's going to be a hell flume.

Or, maybe I'm bluffing. I hear that guys exaggerate the size of their blogs all the time. I added a hit counter. I used to be against these, but it was free and everyone was doing it--and it's kind of like pushing the yardstick in to get another inch--boys will be boys. I think that the site meter would have been a better route. Then I'd be able to see just who really loves me and who lurks without giving me some sugar. I know of two people that have read everything that I've published on my blogs. Me and that one person that I shall refer to as Honeysuckle Rose (Ramblin' Rose had already been given out). Why? 'Cause, that sort of thing will bug her. Who am I talking about? Well, get reading and you'll find yourself stroking a four-leaf clover--not a euphemism. Or was it?

So, do any of you miss the old me? I started out like this. Or, how about this one here? Maybe you're into this kind of dark story? No, most of you came in while I was doing stuff like this here and where Thomas first questioned my motto in the comments section. Oh, I've done more serious posts, like this incendiary take on ignorance of the overzealous, this one raised some important questions about how death motivates our religious beliefs.

No, I suspect that most of you go for this sort of heart warming story, or this kind of hair raising tale.

Of course, you could do a whole tour. Any of my stories involving bowel movements are gut-bustingly dangerous. Just ask Scott.

Oh, this last part was like watching "That 70's Show" series finale--too many damn flash backs! Let me know if I've improved or have got worse. As my mantra goes, "Baby, I can change!"

More Of the Random

You can tack on another hour to my post times. I never bothered to get it straightened out. It's late an' I'm tarred. Let the feast of a thousand or less words begin!

I think that the funniest thing that I've ever seen was a male dauschand and a male miniature schnauzer getting it on with each other. I mean, they were sucking each other's dicks, B-effin, 69, you name it.

I think that I just lost a bunch of readers there. Baby, please don't go. I can change.

Gay pets, gay retards, gay appliances, I've witnessed them all. What does this mean, people?

Moving on, I maced myself once. I was a kid and into trying new things. A little piece of advice folks: don't ever mace yourself. It's the stupidest thing you could do, besides throw your genitalia into a Victorian wheat grinder.

I once guzzled a whole can of Liquid Wrench. Why? Because, I liked how that yellow can with the red-script logo looked--tasty! What happened, you say? Well, I ran out of my dad's workshop and the grass flew up and hit me in the face. I swear that's how it happened. I did not fall; the ground just punched me. I woke up after that in my bed a day later. I guess I can't remember my mom hanging me upside down or the trip to the ER to get my stomach pumped out.

I remember, as a kid, my mother would take me around on this ten speed that had a child seat in the back. She was going down this road and lost control. Well, she ditched the bike and forgot I was there. That was the coolest ghost bike ride that lasted two seconds, ever!!! I survived, obviously.

Moving on, I think that the future of plastic surgery for men will include breast implants for the penis and superfluous nut sacks. Prove me wrong, Julian & Shaun.

Bigfoot is both gay and immortal.

Have you ever really came and felt the Lemonheads?

Am I alone in this: that I fantasize that I will live on Mars before anybody else? I got it all worked out, too.

When will Bill Clinton just drop trou in public and say "open house!"

Will Hillary ever get the chance to "not" have relations with that woman, Ms. Lewinski? There's a tube of lipstick riding on this one.

When will Kobe Bryant just get it, really?

So, I've seen my share of gross things in life, but this one took me down a road that scared me: A tumor poking out to say hello from behind a Tongan dude's afro. He picked at it until it bled. He didn't seem to concerned about it, either. It was quite sizable, too.

Pee dreams: I have a recurring pee dream where I am dancing in a fancy ballroom. I'm in a tux and my date is beautiful, then I have to slash in a dash. So, I run up the stairs into a dark hallway (think high school) with lockers on either side. I find myself entering a restroom, after running for a long time, whip out Oscar, then I'm right back to the ballroom. This just keeps repeating until I wake up or pee my bed.

My nightmares usually consist of masses of tornadoes chasing me, while I do that quicksand getaway thingy.

Wet dreams: Do any of you dudes have these anymore? I usually get up right before Pompeii erupts, but you have to stay perfectly still, or it will go off. It's like disarming a bomb, "Do I cut the red wire or the blue one?". That's so arbitrary. Like a mad bomber follows a color-coded system for wiring. Shit, just find the ground wire and cut it. I was talking about wet dreams, wasn't I? Well, the decision is whether to stay and not move until the danger has passed, or grab that thing like you're trying to catch a fly, find a sock or the nearest sink, and Bob's yer uncle. Some of you probably don't even do that, sickos!

I'm tired. More random stuff later....

Because Blogger Hates Me: A different Flash (spirit of) 55 Fiction.

Flash Fiction 55 Friday & TIGF!

For TIGF (That's Incredibly Gay Friday): This is my "ambushed man lovin" Christmas 1993. A young boy isn't supposed to be exposed to drunk and dirty older men. His wife knew that he gets real friendly when he's drunk ( I do believe he was drinking Stones lager) and had her camera handy. Alright, cigarettes--only if she's worth it. Alcohol--well, it's better if you're drunk, too. I didn't have any drink, and "he" was not a worthy "she". And, well, men taste different and lord I wish I did not know that, 'cause as you can see, he's really giving it to me. Stubble hurts, I don't know how you Shielas deal with that. That party hat just cracks my shit up every time I see this picture. This guy is cool, BTW. Just don't be around him when he's drunk.

I'm trying to make this work. It should be a TIGF video of Tommy Seebach's "Apache Boy" video. This one got around the internet a while ago, but I don't want it to ever die!


I bet I screwed it up.

Flash 55:

"Down in the Park"

(Disrespecting a Guatamalan over the price of a dimebag):

Jessie the Hand, young and able, but busted, reached deep into his boot for his elkhorn dagger. Jaw hung to the side, slack and bloodied, fucked up with no fix. The row of Guatamalans backed up Bennie Burro with a blockade of swollen machismo. They thought that Jessie would be an easy jump, a lead receptacle. They were wrong.

I don't count the words, but I'm close to 55.

What to blog about, hmmmn?

How far would you go for your favorite food? How about a friend? The first one, probably 100 miles, if I just had to. I don't really know on the second one, anymore. It seems that my true homies and I are on the outs, with one exception--the guy who wouldn't shove me off a cliff. What I've got now are work buddies and neighbors, no blood brothers. I think it's natural for guys to slough off the pack, save maybe one or two. But, damn, if I don't miss running with them.

I guess that some of you blogmates are crossing over into a territory that can be defined as true "something or other". This was totally unexpected: Help me define this, please. I never had used the internet for social purposes before, and the blog was started because I like to write. I just wanted some feedback on it and stuff happened. I really don't know what to do with it at all. But, I'm grateful for it.

I thought that I had set myself up as a pretty stoic, impenetrable, and solitary sort--you know, to keep people from asking me about my life--but am finding that it doesn't suit me at all. There are still parts of my life that are off limits to the blog, and they will stay that way--as my personal treasure, to share as I please. If I have given you any amount of confidential information, then you have succeeded in reaching me farther than most of the 3-D meatbags around here. I don't open up much, because I've not trusted many people in my life. There are things that you just can't tell anyone. "...neither cast ye your pearls before swine...", Matthew 7:6.

I am not saying that if I don't give you the dish that you're a swine. I just can't deal with being totally open to everyone. If I do open up, it's embarrassing. I get the "opening up" shits. This is what happens when you've been holding it for too long. I just love poo analogies! So, there are a few of you who are getting a shit load from me right now;) I want to express how much I care for those that are willing to listen to a grown man talk about his drama. Really, we don't know each other in the flesh...well, I'm not getting all dirty on ya, but I haven't shaken any of your hands and so forth. I've heard two of your voices, though. That was a trip. There's some of you that I would like to talk to face to face with and see what you're really about.

I can tell you that if you really know me, that I am this way, really. But, you have to be tight with me, not faking.

Why? Because I still bump into people from old neighborhoods, scouts, and school who want me to do something outrageous or weird for their friends or spouses. Folks, this is just embarrassing for everybody. I don't want to be known forever as the crazy dude who burnt the scoutmaster saw blade protector, thinking it was part of a Hot Wheels track. Or, the guy who thought that human dung would explode just like cow dung, if set alight. Yes, I flung dung on a campfire once, and it stunk to high heaven afterwards. Or, the guy who fell asleep in chemistry, woke up, walked to the front of the class, and simply drew an arrow on the board and said, "Up". Mr. Thompson counseled me afterwards and asked me questions about drugs. And this one: Somehow people thought that I was dealing drugs out of a hearse in high school. I don't even want to know how that one got started. The list goes on and on.

Shit, I did my small share of sampling, but I ditched my dealing friends in my Sophomore year. Unfortunately, I did drive a 1968 Plymouth Fury III station wagon back then, so it's all making sense now. But it at least had a bitchin' 383 Commando Mopar motor in it. I hit 120 mph in that thing. All things considered, that's quite a feat, and that was on a dirt dike. I ended up ditching it in a patch of cattails, but got out unscathed. Sorry I put you through that stunt, Herc. The meat wagon got out alive, too. Switching to a 1969 Beetle made me more socially acceptable, but it was nowhere near the cosmic rush of the wagon, R.I.P.. Why did the chicks hate me for being unique? Yeah, and my friends had El Caminos, Mustangs, old hot rod pickups, and Novas--poor me, I never stood a chance. I think that the only girls who got me either wanted to trade scar stories, or shoot me with their invisible ray guns. I'm not kidding here. You can ask my friends about this. Oh wait, I only have one friend left, and he stopped coming here after the tenth post.

I like having you guys around. I just need to pay Cash enough money to invent a teleport machine so I can do world tours, because we all know how much of a bitch it is to fly nowadays. It's really late right now, and I'm getting all trippy. I wonder how this is all gonna turn out in the morning. This is my version of blogging drunk.

Should I even spell check?

I've never blogged naked. Have any of you?

What is the deal with apple juice being in every other juice? What gives it the right?

What causes me to do the "Dos Magic Streams" slash? If you know what I'm talking about, speak up.

Why can't I finish this sen....

Do you check your undercarriage for road kill? I'm talking wet wipes--they're magic!

Why didn't I just do a normal post? Oh yeah, 'cause I'm not normal.

I'm A Big "Big Star" Fan: Share Time

(Chris Bell: Guitars, lead vocals; Jody Stephens: Drums, Vocals; Andy Hummel: Bass, Vocals; Alex Chilton: Guitar, Vocals)
I think, rather than go on about the group's history, that I'll just share the lyrics to one of my favorite songs. This particular song is quite significant to me at this moment in my life. Some of you might even know why, but I'll let the lyrics do the explaining for me.

THE BALLAD OF EL GOODO" (Bell/*Chilton*)--one of the best song writing teams ever, IMHO.

Years ago, my heart was set to live, oh
And I've been trying hard against unbelievable odds
It gets so hard in times like now to hold on
But guns they wait to be stuck by, at my side is God

And there ain't no one goin' to turn me 'round
Ain't no one goin' to turn me 'round

There's people around who tell you that they know
And places where they send you, and it's easy to go
They'll zip you up and dress you down and stand you in a row
But you know you don't have to, you can just say "no"

I've been built up and trusted, broke down and busted
But they'll get theirs and we will get ours if you can
Just-a hold on, hold on, hold on, hold on

Years ago my heart was set to live, oh But I've been trying hard against strong odds It gets so hard at times like now to hold on Well, I'll fall if I don't fight, and at my side is God


If any of you like good pop rock'n'roll, in the vein of The Beatles or The Kinks, and you haven't given this group a try, then do yourself a favor and buy this album:


Also, this album has the song "Down the Street" that "That 70's Show" ruined. Also, on the "Radio City" part, it has the sweet, catchy, chimey, feel-so-good tunes "September Gurls" and "Back of a Car". I'm gonna stop now.

Does having invisible enemies make me look crazy in this outfit?

Just because I'm white doesn't mean I can't be thuggin' around. This is my "Snow Thug" get up. This was for a Halloween Party, one with plenty of sterility and mush. I so over dressed. Why can't we have two Halloweens, dammit? Did I mention that Pootie Tang is a personal hero of mine--he and the dude from Cake are the inspiration for this outfit...er, costume. Someday, I'll have a belt buckle worthy of some krackalackin'. Remember what Pootie said, "Don't sign yo pity on da runny kine!"

I Want an SR-71 Blackbird When I Become A Billionaire

Today I had the pleasure of participating in a retreat for my higher-ups at the Hill Field Air Museum. While everybody else were scratching their asses and talking, I slipped into the Museum Director's office. Scott, the director, was in there sitting, staring out the window. I explained that I was part of this group--actually one of the ones who was getting it set up for the bosses--and he noticed that I was really not that involved in what was going on, so we talked a bit. He told me to stick around after and he would do something special for me. My first gay experience--right.

What he did do was take me and one of my work buddies on a special tour of the air museum. He got into great detail on the engines, which I liked. I wanted the V-12 centrifugally supercharged Allison Engine for Clyde--my truck. I think that 1450 horsepower is something everyone needs, at least once in their lifetime. But, I'll hold out for a Merlin.

Next cool attraction: an ICBM. Scott said that the Airforce has 2/3rds of the Nuclear Triad: nuke subs, nuke bombers, and just plain nukes--Inter Continental Ballistic missile. He says that there are only 500 ICBM's left that are operational. First lie of the day from Scott.

Now this is where the tour got scary: Scott orders me to roll play with him. He sets up a mock interview for a person who is seeking to become one of the trigger men for an ICBM. Amongst things like whether the candidate sits or stands in the interview, he tells me that he will give me a gun. He then tells my friend to stand about ten feet away from me. He says, "This is your partner. This is the furthest you will ever be away from him in your compartment. You can't leave your compartment while on duty, ever. If your friend starts to act funny, take your gun and shoot him dead immediately (okay, I wouldn't last ten seconds in this job). No questions or hesitation. Now, your friend has also been given a gun. He will shoot you dead as well, if you act funny." This is the good part, "If, by some chance, you two become buddies and decide to start a nuclear war, you take your keys and both turn them simultaneously. Now, what do you think will happen?"

My answer: "Um, the missile will launch?"

Scott: "You're dead wrong...DEAD!"

Me: "What happened?"

Scott: "The security personnel, upstairs from you, just filled your cabin with poisonous gas. You die a quick death, my friend."

Me: "Gosh!"

It turns out that there are two sets of these pairs that turn keys. And there's a sequence involved; then, another group confirms the launch. The most that a conspiring crew could launch would be about two missiles, and they would be shot down immediately. The pairs are regularly rotated and no one gets too familiar with their partner. Included in this small room is a bunk bed, and a toilet with a draw curtain right next to it. They have co-ed pairs as well, so ladies, I wouldn't eat any bean burritos.

The next, and biggest attraction indoors, was the SR-71A, Blackbird. Earlier in the day I ate lunch right under the wing of this aircraft (lasanga) and in front of me was the Pratt and Whitney J-58 turbojet/ramjet engine, which was taken out for display. I thought to myself, "Wouldn't it be so kewl if I could sit up in the cockpit? Heh-heh, I said cock and pit." Little did I know that my dream would come true.

Scott brought my friend and me up to the SR-71A (the "A" stands for the double-cockpit/seat trainer model), and proceeded to tell us about it. I asked him if it was kosher to get in the cockpit, jokingly. Scott looked around and said, "Well, no one's around. Jump up on the generator and onto the wing and climb in." So I did.

Holy shit! I felt like a powerful man in that thing. Had my hand on the stick and was pushing every damn button in
there. I even made some "Peeoww, P-Peeeeoooooow...Woooooooshhhhhh!" noises up there. I was in heaven. I could see myself in an orange "Diaper Suit" taking a shit in my pants at Mach 3 over the Pacific Ocean. Incredible, baby!

Here are some things my new best buddy Scott told me about this plane:

--The SR-71 can out-fly its own titanium skin, so they can't really go as fast as the engines are capable of going. And the turbo-jet becomes a ram-jet at it's highest speeds. A ram jet only has maybe one moving part and is super efficient, if you provide the right altitude and speeds first.
--The fuel is dumped right into the wings and there is no sealed fuel cell in them. They have sections of corrugated skin. They don't fill up all the way at take off. The fuel leaks out of the wings until they get up to altitude, where they get all fueled up in the sky. When they reach a certain altitude, the wings grow--corrugated skin--and the wings seal up the fuel, which now doesn't leak. The reason they don't have fuel cells in the wings is to make them ultra thin. Thin wings=Effin' fast.
--The tires are made of aluminum impregnated rubber--I forgot why--strength? The tires are also filled with pure nitrogen. This is so that atmospheric pressure changes are predictable. Your typical compressed air is so inconsistent in its content that it is too unpredictable, and you risk blowing out the tires.
--If one of the engines fails, it is catastrophic. The plane will bias toward the dead motor and will exceed its structural integrity. You will be torn to bits.
--No SR-71's were flown over Russia and China. He said this like 50 times so I know that he lied and this is just classified info. What did fly over Russia and China, officially, was the drone plane that the SR-71 spat out its ass. This drone had problems, however. So they didn't use it much.
--The SR-71 was retired in 1990, right before the Gulf War. Scott said this is why the Iraqis got the jump on us.
--One time, at band camp...er, an air show (West coast somewhere), a pilot was flying an SR-71 for the crowd. He would fly past and do a fuel dump, then hit the burners and lite the sky on fire. Well, this time the pilot had to pull up to avoid hitting a tanker. The forces on the plane exceeded its structural integrity (Scott's words) and it was too damaged to land at full fuel load. So, the pilot had to hit supersonic speed and land the plane in England, when he had burned enough fuel to lighten the plane sufficiently for landing. The plane was damaged beyond repair, because of the location (couldn't get it to the right base to fix it and keep the internals from being spied), so they chopped it up and buried the parts in secret spots.
--Every time an SR-71 flies at it's proper speed and altitude, it tempers the Titanium structure and skin. This is ironic, because a retired plane is stronger then, than when it was brand new.
--The SR-71 is not a stealth aircraft. It relies on a high ceiling and super high speeds to do it's job as a spy/recon plane. By the time they spot you, it's too late to do anything about it.
--They actually made a few prototype fighter/interceptor versions of this plane. They were meant to take down Soviet nuke bombers over Russian soil. You only got one chance to hit the target, because at the speeds and time that it took to turn around in the plane, you would be over the Atlantic Ocean by then--too late, mate.
--This particular SR-71A craft that I sat in bares the name "Bastard". I knew there was a reason I really liked that plane. The story behind this name was that they wanted the rear from a fighter interceptor grafted onto a trainer front end. Why? I don't remember. Scott said that they were only able to fly Bastard for 500 hours, because it never flew right.
--The coast to coast record for the SR-71, and all aircraft, is 68 minutes.
--Did I mention that the SR-71 never flew over Russia or China?
--I think that Scott likes me.

That's Icrededibly Gay Friday

This is well worth the wait, folks. So, don't give up on it's long loading time. Love Me Tender"

Spread the word about TIGF--it will stop the world and melt with you.

For Markis: Bad photos of St. James Park

I can't remember if this was Newcastle United against Rotherham or Markis' favorite team, London Arsenal, sometime in 1993. All I know was that standing in the Gallows Gate end was wild, and I was puking my brains out from eating a bad onion baji (no, not that Indian kid from Johnny Quest, either). I was shaking and cold, but it rocked, 'cause we all got to sing chants and rush the front, and the "Beans on Toast" chant was the best. The Magpies won, I think. So, no hooligans were needed for the after party.

The bottom picture is of a mate of mine, Jeff, and his girl Julie. Jeff was the funniest guy that I'd ever met. He did a bunch of tapes for me once, and I'm desperately trying to find them. In those tapes you can hear a young me in a band of Jeff's, featuring his comedy . We had a minor hit in his block of council flats in Benwell with the "Mushy Peas Song", as well as a cover of Motorhead's "Ace of Spades". He does a dead on impression of Prince Charles. Kind of an ugly guy, but he is golden. I know that the lot of you will want to know why I lived in England. But that will come in time...when I'm paid enough! International Hoover Salesman of the year, I was.

The boy with the thorn in his side

Blubber, blubber, blub....You know that it's time to move on with your life when a Morrisey/ The Smiths song becomes your song--literally. What else can I say?

"And when you want to Live,
how do you start?
Where do you go?
Who do you need to know?"

Do you believe me?

Don't worry folks, I'll make with the funny. Contrast is my secret weapon.

The Birthday Post: Or how I came into this damn world, and a whole bunch of other shit that I wrote against my better judgement.

This is a picture of me fresh from the factory, give or take a week or two. I've got the whole red baby thing going on, too. Pictured with me is the second youngest in my family, my beautiful sister "D". She was five and thought that I was the neatest little play doll that my parents ever got her. She used to get in my little pen with me and stare at me. Of course, I can't remember any of it, but there were witnesses. "D" used to change my diapers and started right when I was out of the box. My mom would get real scared when she'd start pushing the safety pin through my cloth diaper, but my sis, at five, could do it all herself and never stuck me once. She did a magnificent job, let me just say. You don't know how many older guys I had to fight to defend my sister's honor. She had them all lined up, too. She married an older rich guy, so I succeeded in warding off the riff raff.

I turned 34 today, well, yesterday. I gotta stop bloggin at midnight. I was born on May the 8th, 1972 in Maricopa County Hospital, Phoenix, Arizona. I was expected to be due on May 27th, but I couldn't wait to start my life. My Grandmother, kind of an oracle, foresaw in a dream that I'd be born right after my mother's birthday, May 7th. She got Aca, my grandad, and started heading down from Salt Lake City to Phoenix, so that she could see me. She told my mother, and my mom pretty much laughed it off. Boy, was my mom ever wrong.

My dad was the type of guy that was either on the golf course, or rock climbing, when the other kids were born. Well, there wasn't any way in hell he was getting out of mine. On that morning, my mom got the cramps. My dad being a most impatient and actionable man, at that time, said that he was taking her in right away, and grabbed all the kids, 'cept my bro, who had the mumps. To this day we don't know who looked after him while we were all gone to the hospital. I think that they all just took off and forgot him. I guess that's why he's got a bad complex.

My mother's OB wasn't in. As usual, my dad went into full on "Sergeant King" mode and started kicking asses, or so I've been told. Well, the Sarge managed to get the resident OB and my mom introduced me into the world fast and furiously, without any drugs: au natural. I made my entrance @ about 2:30pm. I was her largest baby at 8lbs, 3 oz., and I had a nice full set of locks.

According to my mom, I was screaming like the devil, when I was born (I hear that that's all the rage with babies). When the resident OB plopped me on my mother's tummy, she started talking to me. As soon as I heard her voice, I was calm and quiet.

In the following years, I was passed around like a doobie, from sister to sister. My dad was going through hell with prostate cancer, panic/anxiety attacks, Irritable Bowel Syndrome, depression, and a trial, where he had to testify against his company. After that he was black-balled by that crowd for not perjuring himself for the sake of a corporation. So, my mom worked two jobs, while my dad painted houses--when he wasn't near death.

My oldest sister became my mom. She would let me sit on her lap in the car, Britney style, and let me take the steering wheel. She would come into my room tripping on acid and tell me about the "Skeleton" that was taking Halloween candy and that I should give her all mine to keep safe. I never saw that Zig-Zag bar ever again. She was cool, 'cause she would demand that her dates take me along. So, I got to see Rocky II and a bunch of other R-rated movies in the theater while they made out. The trip to Denny's afterwards was always awesome.

My dad eventually got through the legal crap and moved away for a year. That's all I know about that and no one will talk about it. I think that it wasn't a separation. Rather, my dad just couldn't get anybody to hire him after that trial. Nobody fuckin' told me what the hell was going on, however--pretty damn confusing. My mom did three jobs, then. I remember staying up 'till 1:00am waiting for the woman who smelled like steak to come into the house. The dogs, Buffy and her son Thor, always knew when she was within a block of the house. They were gettin' some "T's" from all the left over steaks. So, as soon as the dogs started flipping out, I knew that my "moms" was coming home.

My dad eventually came back, and we all moved to Utah. He managed to stay working for five more years before he had a total breakdown, and hasn't worked since. My mom has worked two to three jobs at any given time ever since, only to stop for a bit to fight cancer, which almost claimed her life. I like to think that the deal I made with God was the reason my mom pulled through, really. Well, I sure as heck didn't know he'd want me to clean up after his vaste stable of road-apple happy unicorns.

We took care of two grandparents from opposite sides of the family during this time where things were uber shitty. They eventually passed, my mom went right back to work, and my dad did his best to be a housewife and hold on to what remaining possessions that our family had, which didn't last that long, unfortunately. My oldest sister got, what we now call, date raped (back then it was called "a mistake"), had the baby (girl), which then died.

All these bad things happened to my family when I came into the world. I thought that I was a curse. And on top of all that, I had D's and F's for most of my report cards from the 5th grade on. Summer and night school rocks, baby! That's where I learned how to use a "Butterfly" knife, nunchuks, how to fight for reals, steal stuff, and learned how the underground economics of High School really worked. I never got invloved, but I "knew" guys who could get you "stuff". Ironically, I can't remember any of my teachers from those courses, or what they taught. I barely graduated. There's more to that story that isn't as bleak as it sounds. I pulled through, with the help of some new friends. The only drawback was that they turned me into "Godboy".

Now, my dad has gone from being the "sickest person on earth" to functional and healthy--for him. I got him through physical therapy and now I don't have to wheel him around everywhere and listen to him cuss and spit fire. He isn't as whacked out anymore, thank God. My mom still works full time at 72 and does Avon, not because she has to, but because that woman can't sit still for two minutes (or be around my dad for that long, that old curmudgeon). Hell, she's the only old lady that I know of that can survive on 4 hours of sleep, regularly. I swear she does coke. She's got about a million friends and puts all of us to shame. Gosh, I love that woman.

Well, I rambled on there. I have been in the reminiscing mood today. I'm allowed now. I'm old.

P.S. This is not a pity party, 'cause we all survived to say, "Fuck You, and You, and You. Neener, neener!" One of these days, I'm gonna track that fuckin' gypsy monkey, what cursed us, and shove his or her head in a meat grinder. Kissel Corp. FOAD! I might just take this one down when I get up in the morning, and say to myself, "WTF was I thinking?"