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My Robot Is Pregnant theme song!

tough guy poetry and manly stories of loneliness
all contents copyright Jon Rolston 2004, 2005, 2006

July 11, 2006

30th of March Monday, 1805

President Andrew Jackson and his administration had no way of knowing the upper portion of the Missouri River would be frozen over in winter. The hoped for direct water route from the fur-rich north to the salt water ports of America was thus frustrated.

William Clark of the Lewis and Clark Expodition writes on this day:

“I observed extrodanary dexterity of the Indians in jumping from one cake of ice to another, for the purpose of Catching the buffalow as they float down. Many of the cakes of ice which they pass over are not two feet square. The Plains are on fire in View of the fort on both Sides of the River.”

July 10, 2006

Placebo
God is the placebo affect.

July 9, 2006


My best man and I hit out for Long Beach to see a band called The Yard Dogs play at a tattoo festival.


The show took place on the Queen Mary, an old cruise ship tied to a peir. Kids were fishing in the clear waters, their parents grilling the fresh catch. Even the dead ones.

Sean and I arrived mid-afternoon. There were lines and a great mix of people. Tons of old hot rods were in the parking lot.

These weren’t your old fashion hot rods, with candy colored flame jobs and glossy finish. These babies looked like they’d been driven straight outta the junk yard.


These guys aren’t twins.

These two girls are twins.

Sean and I walked around looking at cars and people. Then we went on the ship.
This guy was getting some work done.


We found a photo shoot going on inside the bowels of the ship.

This woman was getting ready to be body painted.

At 8 pm it was time to watch The Yard Dogs.

This man swallowed swords and played with fire.

There was belly dancing and fan dancing as well.

This woman isn’t wearing anything at all.
Those are tattoos.
Let’s recap:

Long Beach

Interesting people

Tattoos

Old cars


The Yard Dogs

July 8, 2006

Battery Charger Bulb
What we have here is a battery charger bulb. It is somehow used in charging a
car battery. Ebay says it’s worth about ten dollars. That’s all I could find online.
I wish I knew an old guy down here in Los Angeles.

July 7, 2006

My Front Steps, by Alina
photo of my front steps by Alina

July 6, 2006

It was a nice summer evening, my girl and I were walking from a Thai restaurant. On the corner where the free weeklies are in those metal boxes a homeless looking guy was standing around shaking change cupped in his hand.

“Can I have a quarter so I can get something to eat?” He asked me as I got closer.

“No, I don’t give out my money like that,” I answered him.

“Well fuck you,” he said to me.

I had been holding my girls hand, but I let go and stepped up to him. I started to say “Fuck you” back to him, but he punched me! He didn’t just punch me, he beat me up real good. I mean, I wasn’t expecting to get hit by a skinny old man with a dirty beard. He hit hard! And his left! He must have been a Golden Gloves fighter back in his day. Jesus! BAM! BAM! A real solid hitter! What soup line was he going to?

I fell backwards and my girlfriend screamed. The sidewalk hurt. The homeless guy was a wild animal, kicking me and calling me a yuppie asshole. Which isn’t true. I’m a hipster.

I laid there in a fetal ball until he quit booting me. He still had his change in his hand apparently, because he threw a handful at me as I lay there. My girl was screaming the whole time but didn’t try to stop him.

“Why didn’t you stop him?” I asked her.

“He was so dirty!” She said.

We broke up shortly after that. I think the homeless guy was part of it.

July 5, 2006

Boots
Pubic Hair Research Notes (females represented in adult magazines)

1960 Playboy did not show pubic hair, let alone vaginas.

1970 Penthouse shows unadulterated (untrimmed) pubic hair

1980 all magazines show it, the hair is trimmed along “bikini line”

Mid 1980’s thong swimsuit arrives in US. Brazilian wax does too.
Brazilian wax removes hair around anus and that which is very close to edge of labia

1990’s “landing strip” (only a thin strip of hair above vagina) predominant style

2000 totally shaved pubic region

2010 one would have to guess a return to total hairy-ness, including perhaps the upper thighs allowed to grow in.

I would like to thank the San Francisco transfer station (the dump) for giving me access to so many decades of porn, that made this research possible.

My research is culminating in a traveling peep show. This consists of a wooden box two feet by one foot, by a foot high. The box is covered on the outside in hair from fur coats. A single peep hole is cut in one end of the box. The other end of the box has a scroll inside that shows images from adult magazines that pictorially chart the evolution of American Female Pubic Grooming. I control the scroll with two arms that protrude from the top of the box.

A handout accompanies the viewing, for the patron to take home and consider at leisure.
Take a look at some results of my research:

Pubic hair is a secondary sex characteristic, meaning it isn’t actually part of the puberty process. This leads some to believe pubic hair’s purpose serves as a sign that a person has sexually matured.

Another theory as to pubic hair’s purpose is that the hair traps pheromones to attract mates. Specifically these pheromones are androgens; sex hormones released from the skin in the pubic region.

The Koran calls for all devout men to cut their pubic hair.

Ancient Egyptians “waxed” themselves with a recipe of sugar, lemon juice and water heated to a syrup. This syrup was rolled into a ball and then flattened on the skin. It was quickly ripped away, pulling out pubic hair at the root, just like the wax process today.

July 3, 2006

July 3rd, 2004

angel
Angel of liquor, spirit guide, bartrendress…
Don J. Klein
“My name is Don J. Klein. I’m a carpenter. My philosophy on life? The Song Remains The Same. I want that on my tombstone…if they find the body.”
Rocker
Rocker
Sailor?
Sailor?
Dad?
Dad?

That’s a mighty big can of Bud Light there. It kicked this guy’s ass before
he even finished it. Now I’m readin’ his Nike’s. And getting thirsty.

July 1, 2006

July 1st 2006

Richard Champion was a 16 year old Hellraiser well known to the Constable in the small town of Greenland, New Hampshire. In the year 1889, at the tender age of twelve, he corralled a swine herd in the Parson’s garden. At 14 years of age he had painted the police horse green as the Irishman who rode him. He was notorious among fretting mothers as well; children were called off the dusty streets onto the porch around 7 pm every work day. That’s the hour the menfolk doused the fire by the forge and laid down their blacksmithing tools to clean up and head home, or in Dick’s case, get to the tavern at the other end of Main Street.

Dick had a two horse buggy, one of the lightest in town, built by a Boston outfit for a whole year’s salary at his journeyman wages. It consisted of a black laquered cherry wood body with velvet seats and a removable weather drape. The family that gold leafed the capitol dome in Concord was contracted to leaf “Dick Champion” on the seat rail and filigree the dash and boot. How his name flashed in the sun! And his power? The local shaggyfooted farm horses looked like prehistoric mammoths compared to his sleek 16 hand high-steppers.

The carriage house gate would open at the smithy’s and nervous mothers closest to it would call out, “You children get up here on the porch and out of Dick’s way, or that fool headed boy will trample you dead!” And like a tumbling line of dominos, all down the street the little boys would stop throwing rocks at each other and run to the porches and wait anxiously for Dick to roar through town, kicking up a cloud of dust that wouldn’t settle to the ground before he was pulled up short in front of Carlton’s Saloon.

His sprung single-seat two wheeler was a fast looking road cart, out of place amid the springless seat buckboards with hay loads piled high you otherwise saw up and down Main Street. The previous winter he had spent cold nights at the forge’s heat where he custom wrought drop heel horse shafts for a brand new Bradley coupler. This was fitted for dual-bow straight buggy sockets at the other end. Hitched to the pair of saddle horses, he was close to 12 miles an hour coming out of the carriage house, the horses reared up on hind legs for a hundred paces.

At the pinewood bar at Carlton’s, Dick would set his heated forearms to rest and call out for a mug of beer. This afternoon John Thomas was there waiting for him, and called out from the far end of the bar, “Dick Champion, you crazy goat, you and that hotshot sled of yours run over my bitch Goldy last night.”

“I’m sorry to hear about your wife, but she looked like a dog to me. Otherwise I would have stopped, sir.”

This riposte was not met with good humor, and John Thomas sprung to his feet and rushed for Dick in a rage. Dick was not generally appreciated; his humor, as you’ve heard, was not the self-deprecating kind. Two coal shovellers from the General Store grabbed Dick and held him while John Thomas landed four of five solid blows to the nose and eyes. Dick was bleeding and barely standing when they released him and stopped Thomas’ from any more quick judgment.

“I want 3 dollars and fifty eight cents restitution from you, boy. By Friday. Or this won’t be the last time your nose runs with blood.”

Dick wiped his upper lip with the back of his hand and pulled away to look at the thick red smeared there.

“I suppose your right, John Thomas. It won’t be the last time.” Turning to the bar keep, he continued, “Forgive me for not finishing up this fine aperitif, but I’m concerned about staining my good starched shirt.” And so he left.

The truth was, John Thomas was a good friend of the coal shovellers, and built twice as big. There was no sense in fighting. No, fisticuffs were useless. Dick Champion would seduce his wife.

The reader of course knows what happened next, how Dick came knocking at the back door one afternoon, his shirt off, his young muscles strong from working iron, how the wife of John Thomas allowed him in to dress the cut he had on his lower abdomen (given to himself with a file from the farrier’s box).

The reader is no stranger to the ways of men and women, how nurture of one kind leads to one of another kind. I needn’t bore you with details you can well imagine yourself – how she brought him to the bedroom, how he sheepishly took down his breeches…

The point is Dick Champion had one hell of fast horse and buggy outfit, and it got him into a lot of trouble. I want you boys to remember that, and be happy to ride an old swayback nag.

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