My Robot Is Pregnant theme song!

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

August 11, 2006

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Man’s craving has always been to see God, to think he is near Him, as far as possible to get in touch with Him; and therefore the aim of religion is to know God, to get upon intimate terms with Him, to live for Him, and a burning demon of lust for God, to see Christ nude on the cross suffering.

One of these interviews was with a young man who was a graduate of one of the largest full gospel Bible schools in the nation. He told me an astounding thing.

“I am a married man with a nine year old daughter. I don’t know what has taken hold of me. There are times when I have a desire for my own daughter. Something has gripped me until I am afraid to be left alone with her. It overwhelms me. I must leave my family or I may commit an immoral act.”

Friends, that was a demon spirit troubling this man. These things are real. Though this man was a Bible school graduate and doing some preaching, he was demon possessed.

Lucifer, son of the morning, then became the devil, and the third part of the angels who followed him in his rebellion against God became the demons.

This man eventually found his way onto the streets, drinking alcohol and using drugs in a useless Godless attempt to relieve his sadness. The Burning Demon Of Lust destroys. Had he prayed with me, this demon would be gone, and he would still be with his wife and daughter; a happy family.

The only absolute protection against demon powers is to stay covered by the blood of Jesus. A small shack in the hills used to rape girls. Ropes and devices were discovered.

(this was taken from my imagination fueled by reading the religious tracts The Burning Demon of Lust by A.A.Allen and Confidence in God by Rev. Daniel Considine S.J.)

August 10, 2006

I believe these are signs for sweatshop laborers
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The women of Saigon wear long silk gloves that travel past the elbow, fitting snug all the way within an inch of the shoulder. These gloves are paired with a blouse of which the sleeves are short enough to not hang over the glove, but show just a sliver of white skin. Paleness is a attribute of beauty in this city, which explains the gloves function, as the women of Saigon are driving unshielded motor scooters on the streets and roundabouts under their hot Asian sun.

These silk gloves are dyed pale shades of a solid color or have floral prints. Most often they are solids though, and closely match the high heels the woman wears on her feet. The heels, dress pants, blouse and gloves are accented with a surgical mask of the same print as the gloves. The point of this mask is to keep out the soot of coal fires and a million motor scooters exhaust. It also keeps sun off the face.

Finally, a dark pair of sunglasses creates such a stunning effect that as the women pass by on their Honda’s, backs straight and arms angled to the handlebars, the flesh of their feet in heels, their delicate toes the most tantalizing feast imaginable as they rest near the hot engine, the men cry out in the agony of witnessing empowered beauty and faint in the streets. Many are quickly run over by the constant motored flow, death by beauty. Pretty girls do make graves. Especially in Saigon.

August 9, 2006

What Big Hands You Have!

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We’re playing chess with very odd pieces…

August 6, 2006

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L.A. faces, paying gigs with names you know: “I’m Dustin Hoffmann’s gardener”. You don’t think you care, but here you are repeating it. It means something…you just met Dustin Hoffman’s gardener…it means…Dustin Hoffman. He played in Tootsie. He’s famous…

When you say his name, a lot of people know him. He’s A list. Then you meet someone, the rapper MF DOOM, only a few recognize his name. Someone had to tell you. Now you feel like you share a secret. Both Dustin Hoffman and MF Doom make people feel connected. They can be talked about. When will your name be recognized?

L.A. Los Angeles. City of lost angels. Lost souls. So many people wanting to be talked about that never will be. Why you here? Because a city can do something for you. Why this one? Because Boston will make you mad, San Francisco will make you gay, New York will make you tough, Seattle will make you cool, but not cooler than Portland. Austin gives you Texas and that’s gonna be hot, but Boulder will give you calm, and that’s cool, and LA. LA will make you famous. People will talk.

So you chose LA.

You are here because you hope to move next door to someone who can make your childhood turn out correctly. The guy at the coffee shop will teach you the lost chords to make your song a hit, the woman you meet at the farmer’s market will sell your boarding school coming of age script, then standing in line for street dogs someone signs you to their fashion label.

Maybe you learned to tap dance and speak with four different accents. Maybe you can juggle midgets on fire. Maybe you want to write something that will be turned into a big screen production.

So you move to LA. You aren’t the best tap dancer. They don’t need Austrian accents this year. You drop too many midgets. You can’t write quite well enough. But you stay here. Because you believe in magic. And chance meetings. Here’s where things get bizarre.

You move in next door to professional skateboarders. That was a childhood dream…for a year. You’ll switch dreams. Why not? You had so many back in that little town. As long as something happens to make you feel like you finally did something right. Whatever it takes to make your name something people can talk about.

Maybe these neighbors will teach you how to acid drop or land a 1980’s judo air which you never could do, not back in New Hampshire in that two hundred year old barn full of apples and hay where the Kroitzsh boys built a half pipe. A full size plywood skate ramp on the second floor of an old cow barn. There was a cider press in the basement. Tractors and apple sorters on the first floor. Twelve boys trying to be a part of American youth culture in town full of dirt roads and hard workers. Twelve boys learning how to drop in around banned pesticides and broken farm implements.

The smell of cider is a cold one. The apples are ready late in the season, and it is cold in New Hampshire late in the season. The cider press is in the basement, granite slabs pulled from the fields are the foundation of this barn and it keeps the air cold down here. It’s dark in the corners.

Cider is made from drops – apples that have dropped off the tree. They bruise so easy, just a little fall from the tree, and no one buys a bruised apple. Drops are thrown in large laundry service wheeled carts. These bruised fruits that aren’t good enough to be sold are fed into a grinder. The pulp is sprayed on trays, the trays are stacked and hydraulically squeezed. Filters keep seeds, stems and skin from flowing down into the stainless steel holding tank with its two spigots at the bottom that release sweet dark brown liquid the color of a bruised apple. A hundred apples to the pint. Pure apple cider is a dark storm river water brown. The compressed pulp is scraped into buckets and fed to cows.

This is you in Los Angeles. The little bit of sweetness is squeezed out then you are fed to cows. Because you aren’t a perfect shiny apple sitting in a bushel basket at the farmers market.

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Probably the gayest thing that’s ever happened to me happened to me last Tuesday in San Francisco. Maaannn was it gay. (gay in the sense it was derogatory to my manhood, not that I had a gay experience with a man)

Take a look, I got hit in the ear with a baguette so hard my ear ripped open. Day old and hard as hell. I’ll have a scar for life from bread. This is humiliating.

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Honest to god this happened. Sean MacDonald, the perpetrator, hit me with the French food. We had previously been sword fighting (not gay). The baguettes were our swords (not gay).

Having parried MacDonald into a group of recycling bins, I believed victory was mine. I turned to receive my accolades from Matt Conway when MacDonald chucked his crusty bread at my head. Mr. Conway was the witness. The loaf made contact with my left ear, causing an exploding sound. My ear had exploded.

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I thought the baguette had stabbed my brain. Stunned, I fell back in Conway’s arms. He held me and said, “Hang in there, buddy, we won’t leave you behind,” but he muttered under his breath I was soft as a grape, then dropped my head on the sidewalk.

Not receiving the attention I hungered for, I got to my feet and cursed MacDonald and Conway in a way that would be expected to cause anger, then left them and approached a young couple out for an evening on the town. “I’ve just been hit by a baguette by that man over there, can you call the police and report an assualt? And ask for an ambulance?”

By now the blood coming from the wound was significant, running down my ear lobe and dripping in my shirt pocket. The shirt pocket was slowly bulging out. Probably a pint in it already. If I didn’t lean forward and let it run out, the doctors would be able to re-administer it to me in the ICU ward.

“OH MY GOD!” the woman screamed, as she reached in her purse for her cell and a Kleenex or two.

It was at this point the sourdough rolls started to rain down on us like a hail storm with a yeast infection. MacDonald and Conway were crouched behind the garbage cans with the day old bread, an ammo dump of french and sourdough rolls at their feet. Suddenly Conway stood – partially shielded by the big plastic container on wheels – and threw a speedball across the street, catching the gentleman in the ball sack. He curdled and staggered backwards into a shop window, smashing it with an amazing effect. Alarms were triggered. His screams drowned mine out.

The woman ran to the man who had fallen through the window, asking if he was okay as she put a pair of pumps from the window display in her purse.

At this point MacDonald, Conway and I all ran for our separate cars and escaped. It is possible, in the excitement, I didn’t get this story exactly right, but it is how I remembered it to the best of my ability. After the whack I took with the baguette, I feel like a lot of things took on a delusional quality. Both Mr. Conway and Mr. MacDonald are invited to recount in their own words their understanding of the events on the night of Tuesday, August 1st, 2006.

Peace be upon you.

August 5, 2006

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When I see homeless people holding those signs that say, “anything helps, even a smile” I don’t even give them that.

This is Los Angeles. Get your own.

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Jesus is coming to Echo Park. This is not a rave. Jesus come to see lilies, biggest in America. You will want your own water. Ten thousand people must come, there will be a yard sale. We raise money for hotel room for Jesus. No sex. Don’t make Him sleep in bushes. He loves you. If you had sex on Mary you a sexual assualt. Meet at red bridge red like blood and ten thousand doves. This is not a raid. Jesus has not good english. Spanish more good. Come early to be close.

August 3, 2006


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