Desperate thieves, fear not. There is still much left to hoist into your sack. Look at us, it is sprinkling outside and dark. No one will do more than sit up in bed if you hook a chain around the local atm and pull it out of the wall. When the Muslim run goverment funded by oil profits owns us, I hope they let us have the sexual freedom they never allowed at the lower classes. It’s like Texas beating San Francisco, maybe it will happen, somehow, but don’t put us in prison for whatever weird intimacy we have as adults in our homes.
I’m voting for the legalization of marijuana because I don’t want anyone else going to jail for possession, even if it’s 200 tons. Is that on the ballot in Texas, anywhere?
I’m ready for bed and game three.
That decade had a powerful effect on everyone’s idea of a good time. Even good ol’ boys were donning pastel collared shirts and purchasing minimalist paintings in steel frames. Who would have guessed The Oak Ridge Boys were spending Christmas at Don Johnson’s Miami Beach condo in ’84 where they could do lines off the glass coffee table! How did those guys hook up? That whole period is so confusing. Preppy Country?
It’s Yes! on No! time again. Retired Firefighterers With Friends In Government have some strong opinions on the budget this year, and all the dudes growing illegal weed are getting the word out that we shouldn’t legalize the stuff or their personal economy’s will collapse, so I go ostrich hunting and stick my head in the sand.
Christmas came early this year from Santa’s wayward elf over in Nottingham New Hampshire. A 12 box of Sammy Adams had been stripped out and retrofitted with sawdust sweepings from the shop floor as a type of excelsior we haven’t seen since the days of wooden ships.
So many geegaws had been crammed into this package I was forced to burn off the sawdust lest a sterling silver pickle fork be lost in the excitement. It wasn’t until the fire was alight that I noticed an old pamphlet proffering knot tying instructions to those who may be in need stuck against the inside cardboard wall. This extraordinary piece of ephemera was rescued and festoons the refrigerator, dangling from a magnet adorned with a moose knee deep in either a bog or a field of grass, hard to tell with the crude photo transfer process it underwent, and the legend “Live Free or Die” writ underneath. (Here writ takes on both meanings, the general past tense of written, and the sense of a governmental command)
There was an old brass belt buckle with a rifle impressed upon it, a tortoise shell glass doorknob, leather buck knife holster, carpenter’s flat pencil with a fine point intact and plenty of stock left to whittle down.
Yes that occasionally drunken but always earnest elf had been quite busy digging in the back corners looking for just the right rusty old thing to quicken my blood and make me dream of the old days.
However it was not the oldest item that gave me the biggest thrill. It was a rolled up piece of black velvet cloth that, when unfurled, was signed illegibly in fabric paint and dated 1962. Above the signature was a portrait of a man and his prize cock, the man wearing what could be a Vietnamese rice paddy hat, or perhaps a Phillipino peasant cap. This man, with a hand rolled dangling lit from his lips, squints against the bitter smoke but keeps his eyes turned to the rooster held lovingly in in his arms. We are invited to imagine the untold fortunes this fighter has won for his master, how well he is loved, as though the man himself is the fawning orphan nephew of a rich uncle rooster.
I’ve been called “deerskin” for a number of years by the boys from the old country, and it was so because I returned one winter from California with a slick elbowed brown corduroy jacket lined with faux sheerling that was a bit matted and quite a bit farther off white than its designer’s original intention. The Black Sabbath patch stitched on like a tramp stamp at the bottom center of the back was what brought this former migrant field worker’s necessity into the realm of grunge doll hipsterdom in 1993. I suspected the streets of Portsmouth saw me as a prophet in this jacket, but that was probably my own vanity speaking to me. But it had some power, for it was what made me into Deerskin. The fact that, a few month later, back in San Francisco, I left Deerskin behind after leaving a small club where Run DMC had just performed, sealed the coats legend.
So I humbly present to you, dear reader, a new Deerskin, perhaps a Cockskin, in honor of the gallus theme, or perhaps, for familiarity, I’ll just be called Dickskin from now on.
While a mondo hunk of San Francisco was watching the last game of the pennant race for our Gigantes (en espanol) I was in a small theater watching a different San Francisco giant, Lawrence Ferlinghetti, have the story of Howl’s censorship trial played out by actors and cartoon images.
(And I care more about this World Series than any one since the first time in my life the Red Sox won.)
When you see a successful life portrayed onscreen you look for where you went wrong. Let me correct that. I look for where I went wrong. I believe my dashed literary hopes rest on the rocks of a fear of New York City. I have no memories of Manhattan in my twentysomethings. I drove right through it. Doors locked.
Of course the time for poetry is over. Like Chinatown sparklers, it’s kid’s stuff. I’m off across the city in a big truck with my name proudly painted on the box. Ginsberg gave up a good job in advertising in downtown SF to smoke pot and write poems. He could because he felt like he had proved to himself he could be in the world, but just didn’t want it.
I’ve never felt like I made it in the straight world. For a while I thought I was gay, because it’s the gays that have to do some much introspection to find out why they aren’t feeling like everyone around them. Disinterested in girls, horny for boys. I kept wondering what was wrong with me. I forced myself to be with men just to be sure. I hung around truckstops, mingled among the urinals, played elaborate footsie under stalls. But I wasn’t interested. So now what? Is it the kids I’m after? Or horses? Was I just shy and lacking confidence? Maybe I was perfectly normal and didn’t want to be…
Anyway, I bury myself in work, moving refrigerators up stairs, painting gable peaks on bad ladders, jackhammering out cement footings. I don’t worry about poetry. I watch my savings account creep upward, I go to bars and drink till I don’t have the ability to make plans for tomorrow, it’s a drunken bliss where people are my friends, things are funny, I don’t have to do a good job.
That’s what happens when you watch a movie about an epic poem rather than catch the last playoff game in your hometown.
hi How much Kool-Aid is needed to make the entire Pacific Ocean one big vat of Kool-Aid?
Hi what the name of a film in which a passenager airline locates a lost light aircraft over the pacific.?
Those are comments left for the last post. I deleted them as spam. It’s the new face of marketing. It works like this: leave a comment and a link to your website. When someone clicks on your website, you redirect them to a third party who is selling something. Every person you redirect earns you money from the third party.
One of these spammers was actually reading my posts and leaving appropriate comments, versus the above that are just silly but make more sense than “V1aGra V!aLis cheep”. I clicked to see her website and was redirected to a page advertising items for pregnant mothers. Running “pregnant” in a search engine and then spending an afternoon visiting each site and leaving a comment sounds like a tough way to make a buck, but if I ever want to drive traffic here, I know what to do.
This online gaming community turned out to be a cult and doodle jumping is all I care about. Cell phones, the steam engine across America of it’s day. How many baffled Indians saw that thing chugging across the plains, rifle barrels poked out passenger car windows dropping buffalo with Winchester’s, and said, “I want one.”
1829: Peter Cooper of New York in 6 weeks time builds the Tom Thumb, a vertical boiler 1.4 HP locomotive, for the Baltimore & Ohio Railroad. It hauled 36 passengers at 18 mph in August 1830. It had a revolving fan for draught, used gun barrels for boiler tubes, and weighed less than one ton.
But it was the progeny of the Pacific Railway Act of 1862 that old stub bearded Lincoln signed into Law that the Natives saw puffing smoke across the prairie. And those rifle barrels, harking back to 1829 steam engines?
Benjamin Henry continued to work with Smith’s cartridge concept, and perfected the much larger, more powerful .44 Henry rimfire. Henry also supervised the redesign of the rifle to use the new ammunition, retaining only the general form of the breech mechanism and the tubular magazine. This became the Henry rifle of 1860, which was manufactured by the New Haven Arms Company, and used in considerable numbers by certain Union army units in the American Civil War. Confederates called the Henry “that damned Yankee rifle that they load on Sunday and shoot all week!”
note to reader: I took a few paragraphs from the internet and refuse to cite my sources. Just know that whatever doesn’t sound like me, isn’t.
Worked with a guy today, he says to me, “I gotta work some more, save up for Spain.”
He wants to watch the running of the bulls in Basque country. “My Uncle went there after ‘Nam, looking for a way to die without killing himself. He ended up falling in love with it. Been going for 36 years straight. Bought a place on the main square a few years ago.”
The two of us were eating cheap Hawaiian BBQ, he was drinking a 7 Up. Taking lunch from house painting up the street. It was breaded chicken over rice with macaroni salad on the side. Katsu chicken. I think it’s Japanese actually.
“It lasts like 14 days in July. The local ranches each have one day to run six bulls to the arena. Each bull that enters the ring will die in that ring, but they’ve lived like kings up till then: well fed, out to pasture, siring offspring all day long.”
I was drinking coffee and thinking about travel. It was better for me to sit in a small joint like this and hear about the world over lunch, just down the street from work. I get to another place and want to look for a job more than take a stroll through the tourist part of town. That’s how I am. Look what travel does to a bull.
It’s time to get on the wagon again. Nick and I were at the bar so long we were drunk and broke and could only scrape together enough change and brains to order a couple Rhode Island Ice Teas.
The bartender didn’t get the joke.
My old pal Sonia came by and picked up an extra arm from me.
Is this thing working again? Dang party line. I hate how slow rotary phones are. Stupid cordless phone gets no reception. I can’t blog on my iPhone.
Still can’t use the phone for blogging so I don’t blog. No time for sitting at the computer. That old dinosaur.
Anyone read New Moon from the Twilight series? Not very good writing, but it is somehow very revealing about a young girl’s psychology. Bella, the star, is a human who wants to be a vampire. Only because she falls in love with a gorgeous vampire at high school. He’s older, about three hundred, but still looks 17. He’s also very strong, and is capable of killing her. That is a big turn on for Bella.
There’s occasions when I’m so horny I want to choke the hell out of my girlfriend. Or I want to squeeze her till she poops I’m so excited to see her. I’m always biting her arm until she knees me in the balls.
Apparently this is part of the human dance of attraction.
Bella wants very much to make love to Edward, the vampire, but he won’t do anything more than light kissing, for fear he may hurt her. Or kill her. Or turn her into a vampire. So she pines away after this ideal man who is wiser and willing to go slow.
Of course New Moon is the second in the series, and introduces werewolves, but I’m not gonna try to explain how this describes teenage boys, you’ll just have to read it yourself. Or watch the movie.
I hope to be able to upload photos soon. In the meantime, with less frequent posts, maybe you can get more work done…
More complaints from the internet. I got a wordpress app so I could blog on my phone, the latest update broke it. So I have to come home and go to this ancient dinosaur desktop and feel very unhip. That’s the worst part. it hurts my hips. Is anyone out there successfully blogging from their Iphone? Can you tell me how?
does anyone mind if I take a few personal days, PTO as they say, and figure out how to make better love to my woman? Or is that illegal somehow?
Things you didn’t know: The five yellow lights on the roof of my newest truck never worked, but after spending 388 bucks, they do. And if you didn’t know, those running lights are cool.
I powerwashed a house today. That is incredible fun. No one can hear me talking to myself over the sound of the gas engine turning a garden hose into 4000 psi of pressure that peels paint and gouges into wood.
The Blue Angels are practicing over the neighborhood this week. It’s Fleet Week.
Two things to talk about. One, an online service I used to upload photos from my phone for the last two years recently pulled the plug and without warning all those photos are gone.
That hurt. Scroll back and notice all the blue boxes starting in August. Scanned images uploaded from my computer weren’t affected. This Internet sure is fragile. What if Flicker crashes? What if terrorists fly planes into Amazon and eBay? Where will we dispose of all our junk? One massive country-wide yard sale I guess.
The other thing is, is it only here in San Francisco people spend time inventing food?
Like, “I want to cut up hot dogs and put them in hamburgers so you don’t have to decide what you want at a BBQ.”
This must be an American activity. It has the hallmarks. When we sit around inventing foods, the desire is to save time and get rich, not increase health and stop hunger.
Take for instance my other food idea: caffeinated donuts. It’s simply a more efficient dual drug delivery system than coffee and donuts separately. Apparently someone else has had the same idea and made it reality.
The American mindset treats food as a commodity. Through branding and the stock market food seems to all be a corporate invention. If I want to be a CEO and don’t get computers, maybe I can make it big another way…with campfire marshmallows infused with chocolate chunks!
No more buying both a Hershey’s bar and a bag of the white puffy marshies. With the chocolate inside, there’s never left over chocolate to accidentally drop in the sand.
This is another American dream to add to the list. Is there a limit to how many we get?
That’s a couple of drag queens. Anyway, back to the tandem. It’s because a tandem bike requires two people to operate that so many weird people want them. Can we go so far as to say they are un-American? It’s totally socialist! People working together to subvert the single passenger car paradigm!
All in all Americans are taught independence and learning to operate a bike while conjoined to the single looping chain of a tandem is not independence. It’s team building.