My Robot Is Pregnant theme song!

Dear deerskin

It’s been 8 months since i had anything to alter my mind, excluding caffeine which is a drug of my choice. I feel good, but tired, head is clear, maybe too clear.

I rented Red Dawn last night, I had a daydream the defense secretary gave the finger to a KGB agent and Russia sent paratroopers over here to pillow fight.I wanted to drink like a fish when osha entered my life, I stubbed my toe this morning that made me want to drink. I just want the fuckin simple life back. Like the apple farm. Remember when Matt changed the letters on the billboard that said Pick Your Own Apples to Pick Your Own Ass Cheese?
, I haven’t laughed like that in literally years.

I liked to know how your doing but i am too absorbed in my own shit, How is your foot? still hobblin like susie rock soccer? I beat my osha fine, now i am in the process of the freedom of information act

Or how about Frank the ole bastard pulling over while I was walking home in 4 degree 63 mile an hour wind, he pulled over ,,,,and i said to myself, this guy is gonna give me a ride thank fuckin god,,, i reached for the door handle and he locked it and rolled down the window and said ” Hey what are ya doing ? I am not giving you a ride I just wanted to know if you were Chip’s son?” I said yeah,,, and he took off, I never forgot that, I had dreamed about taken that guy out to the dressin shed and let him bleed out like a grey haired goat.

I want the days when we put on helmets and shot eachother with one pump bb guns. i always snuck in about 3 or 6 more pumps, now you have to be careful not to be too friendly to kids, cuz someone will think it’s weird and call the cops,shit i drive a van, I get nervous driving through school zones, sometimes i make myself laugh and say “get in the van kid”, and laugh hard, surely under my breath and not meaning anything but humor, is that sick or hilarious??? If you look at a girl jogging she give s you the hairy eyeball,like how dare you look at me while i jog down the street in public. everyone is on edge cuz there face is gued to the TV getting EXTREME weather reports, amber alerts, wes nile watchout, scary recalls and watching cops beat the shit out of a cuffed perpertrator yelling “stop resisting”!!!!! fuck the world ……….sometimes I want to bury my thoughts with 1800 Tequilla, but then that will get me feeling like shit, But I have this alcohol problem, Someone said “There is no shame in having a problem, but there is shame in knowing you have a problem and not doing anything about it. So do I want to fight to be a better person or give up and be the person i don’t want to be. The fight goes on………….Bottoms up ,,,,burp …….cheers Love ya like a sister brother

Kent Haskins

I got a letter from a friend, he wanted to write but never went to school for it. Everyone of us has something we want to do but we don’t know how to get started on it. The thing to do, the only advice to give, is TRY IT. I’m purposefully avoiding the Nike slogan here. Okay, I’ll say it. Just do it.

here’s a little poem to inspire you.

no evidence of struggle

hands and feet duct taped

her uterus cut open

These are a few phrases I noted in an article about a woman who wanted a baby so bad, she drugged her pregnant friend, immobolized her with duct tape, and stole the unborn child out of its watery womb by knifing a new rift in the mothers belly.

These lines from the AP wire came together as near a natural born (no pun intended) haiku as you could ask for. A terrible and sad crime, and I want it to make sense. The woman, Andrea Curry-Demus, wanted to create a child, but biologically could not. Using crude implements, like Copernicus, she revealed a celestial body that she claimed as her own.

Let nothing stand in your way. That’s part one of a lesson in fullfillment. Lesson two is, success is unimportant. If Andrea had been happy with the effort of creating a child of her own, her failure to produce one would not have driven her crazy enough to kill for someone else’s. She should have been having sex the night she was cutting open another woman’s belly.

We all fear failure. We all hate to feel stupid. We want diplomas and badges and letters tied to us like shields from unanswerable questions. We want guns and bombs and knifes to forgive us for our mistakes. Each one of those weapons are erasers, all weapons are erasers, look how a knife gave Andrea a baby when Andrea couldn’t do it herself. With a hand held weapon she was no longer a failure. Our Presidents use the Army to erase traces of their mistakes. I punch my truck when i forget my wallet at home. None of us are innocent.

The only hope we have is to forgive ourselves. Allow the remnants of past mistakes to lie unburied. Stop trying to erase them. If there is something inside of you that wants to come out, let it come out. Most likely it will be ugly and misshapen. Let it live. Make another. Enjoy the effort, not the result.

Use crude tools if that’s all you have. You aren’t supposed to discover something new, you are supposed to interpret what you see. That’s the only way to discover something new. Listen to yourself and let it roll.

The above is an age progressed photo of one of the two below. You decide which is the original lobo.

Mr. Landry sends along some photos that present a whole new set of questions about Lobo.
“It’s really Adam Sandler with a wig on playing the roll of Gene Simmons in the 70′s.”

There is a new item available for chronic shoppers. Look for more new items daily in Shop Roboutique. The link is up on the top left.

photo posted from my iPhone

With my ankle dangling by shredded ligaments I have to get the hustle on. A sit down hustle, which includes selling everything that crosses my path. There was a quote from a guy who ran a salvage yard which has stuck with me through the years. “I’d sell my father’s wheelchair,” he said.

I’m selling a used shower. Or rather, I’m hoping to find a buyer for it. Twenty bucks takes it home.

I’m trying to figure out what happened to the margins on my home page…I’m taking suggestions.

Yes, he has a Kawasaki t-shirt on over his butterfly collar. Yes there is a turquoise medallion the size of a coaches stop watch in the center of his chest. No, I don’t have the cassette so I can’t tell you how he sounds.

Poll Brown in Urban Moto -
“As I head over to 415 Clothing I’m not sure what to expect. I had met the owner, Rudy, some years ago when he worked the parts counter at California Choppers. I remembered him as a quietly spoken, mild mannered guy, who was extremely helpful. I also know that he’s a lifelong member of the Hells Angels and that the backs of his famous shirts read “when in doubt, knock ‘em out” Outside the store a tough looking, older biker strikes up a conversation. He’s friendly but his mere presence highlights the fact that I’m not at the Honda dealership.”

I got these delicate ankles. I’m like a slim and fragile-boned racehorse where the shin meets the foot. Always have been. The foot doctor says with my high arch I’m unstable. So there’s the medical explanation for all my problems. High arch induced instability. The bad news is I tore the ligament that comes over the top of my left foot.

How do I make some money sitting down? I haven’t done it since I worked at Cumberland Farms running the register. So up for grabs is “Our Lady of the Beeches” by Bettina Von Hutten (a barroness we learn on the masthead’s page).

The provenance is not clear, but it appears this book belonged to a courtesan of William L. Harding; Mary Thompson arrived in California in 1917 when the hopeful Govenor of Iowa paid her hush money in the form of a train ticket and stake money in San Francisco. Her effects were recently uncovered in a secret floor panel at an alleged Roaring Twenties whorehouse, this book being among them.

It has a wonderful irreproducible mildew stain on the top right corner whose grayish smoke color compliments the four color imprint on the cover, beech leaves in a black brown, the stem in cool green, the veining in the leaves a warmer green. The title has a bad ass vaguely Celtic or Norse Epic font.

Some unknown red stain in the lower left area. Adds a wonderful touch.

First person to leave a comment expressing interest gets it for $15 dollars. That includes express three day shipping for free. Published in October 1902, possibly 1st edition from Riverside Press in Cambridge Massachusetts, you’d have your head up your ass if you didn’t make a move on it.

This will include a hand made MRIP calling card. Highly collectible among people who are into that kind of thing. Useless to those who aren’t.

God I wish I could write like this.

(a 4th grade level photoshop job and a story written by me trying to make a sentence as hard to read as Cormac McCarthy’s)

I walk around the city streets and we got people driving around in city issue pick up trucks grabbing the junk people in apartments so butted up to each other a pigeon couldn’t shit between neighbors leave out on the edge, the high edge, of the curb – where other city workers paint colors on to tell you “No Parking”, “30 MINUTE ONLY” and other bad motoring news.

It’s all day long, someone sets a chair on the street. Someone comes by and looks it over, picks it up to walk a few blocks with it, then thinks twice. He sets it down and if those city trucks aren’t quick, someone else will pick up the chair and bring it back inside out of the waste stream. But for how long? Possibly years. Possibly hundreds of years. All of us have a little street trash in us. A book here, an end table there.

Those city workers hopping out of trucks like cowboys chasing down a stray calf grab anything close to that thin red-painted “No Parking” strip rubbed in black splotches by curbed tires have dark blue union suits, one big zipper all that stands between them and whatever fecaljuice dust they’ve spent a shift collecting on themselves picking up what no one in the city could use – crusted kitty litter trays, moldy boxes from basement storage, abandoned camps of homeless tramps.

But the point is I’m not a hippy. I walk around 16th and Valencia and there are two wars our country is fighting on the ground somewhere – with an all volunteer army – and I can’t even tell. Things feel good. I’m making money. Everyone seems to be making money. Guys are selling hot dogs wrapped in bacon on little four wheeled carts like any ice cream hawker would covet if he found himself suddenly in the cold North Coast of California and no one was buying Choco Tacos or that one with the bunny face. That guy is making money.

I’m like, “Where are all the hippies?” How did we get to hating hippies so much? All they wanted to do was stop a war and listen to music. A lot of it happened right here in my city. What am I doing? I’m growing my hair long. Not only that, I’m committed to my beard. That’s not a hippy. Doug plays a banjo. I just ate a pot cookie I got as a tip for delivering some furniture. (The cookie came in a little plastic ziploc sandwich bag – the good kind where the two separate colors on the grooved plastic parts that create the ziploc action combine to form a new third color? I think it’s blue, that new third color. That’s the bag the cookie came in.)

I’d like to be a hippy. But I work too much. Not true, actually. Maybe I am a hippy. Not the kind that stops wars. Just the kind with long hair, eating pot cookies while everything seems fine that’s going on at home. Home is this dicktip San Francisco. That seven square mile foreskin. That diverting piss stream of the Bay and Golden Gate bridges. More closely, it’s The Richmond District, not The Mission. Out here I open my window and watch tall grasses in the yard behind me bend in the breeze. No one walks by. There’s always a little breeze out here. It carries cold water in it. Drives a lot of people away.

I hear an occasional motorcycle engine working through gears, the sound of a skateboard’s tiny brittle wheels chattering over the aggregate in the tar. The engine house a few L-shaped blocks’ walk away calls out a howling dog on 26th Ave. That dog wailing emotion back at the electric spirit of the ladder truck’s siren breaks my heart every time. If I ever leave here I’ll always remember that dog and the steam-hiss of the gas meter when it came through a cycle. I picture gas coming up through pipes behind the lath plaster and paint on the walls behind my bed as I lay down in the dark, waiting for the sound to cease. Unable to sleep. Not gas to kill me, it worried me that I couldn’t see it. I could only hear it.

So maybe I should be a better hippy. Care more about war. Play music to try to stop it at least.

Can’t remember where I got this. It’s a notebook with these drawings on the cover, done by a man going through heroin/alcohol rehab. Inside are his notes about Post Traumatic Stress Disorder and 11 Rules For Understanding Others. According to notes in his daily calendar, he quit heroin May 1st, 2002. He was a military vet, I’m assuming 7/17 Air Cav, since he wrote this on the notebook. He charts his weight gain and dates for getting Food Stamps. He starts out weighing 166 pounds, tops out at 215.

An old scrap of fabric I found in the garage. I like the details of telephone wires, mailboxes and birds to help reinforce the concept of spreading the news.

photo posted from my iPhone