Monday, December 5, 2011
PS. Vote fer me and I'll set you free-( for a nominal processing fee of course.)PPS. Just stay home and vote for yourself in the mirror...the election is already over.
IMPORTANT UPDATE:Since I identifyed myself as THE DEVIL this morning there have a great many requests(civil and..um..not) for my personal contact information. I am gratified by this overwhelming response- however-in my capacity as the God of Hellfire and human destruction I find myself on the road quite a bit- Hence it is difficult to have any mail forwarded( rest assured the DEVIL DOES NOT TWEET.....ok?) I have arranged to have all personal correspondence forwarded to my personal assistant. Please direct all requests, inquiries, pictures of asses(bare and/or hairy),puppies and succinct advice or suggestions to:
c/o Mr. GROVER NORQUIST,esq-
Americans For Tax Reform, Washington ,DC 20001-hell
Thanks for your support.
PPS. Yo Momma is HERE with me. And she lookin REAL good.
Friday, September 30, 2011
Not only am I now certain the whole world revolves around me-I have irrefutable proof.
The newest scandal involving marketing Pinocchio-ism :I.E.- magical tennis shoes that tone your posterior, legs, and Kardashian shows that-now and forever(read al-fuc’n –ways) OLD SCHOOL still rules.
Screw objectivity- the Gawd of Get-Back is squarely in my corner.
Four weeks ago- in a fit of either misplaced guilt or uncharacteristic generosity- I offered to take my lovely (read long suffering) wife out to the *$ new $* Silver Spring to buy her a new pair of purple tennis shoes she had been lusting over -(Lusting is the right term folks- this story involves a woman and shoes..) There was a sale. And a coupon.
And I had been an asshole and a tightwad for a decade.
Lets just say my (shopping) Karma had run over my(anti-shopping) Dogma.
!!Okay- for those of you young un-married smart-asses-here’s a short lesson in modern translation between the sexes:
SALE in woman-speek=
A coupon and a sale means savings and the excellent get.
SALE in man speek=
What makes you think buying crap you don’t need is an economically sound maneuver in any way shape or form?
(Visions of a discount coupon on the Titanic come to mind.)
Or-in my case- Jesus Shana, you’ve only got TWO FEET…why do you need forty pair of shoes?
Or- when I’m REALLY determined to eat my own cooking (peanut-butter oatmeal-cold) for a week -I might conjure up a brilliant verbal hyperlink like:
Fer Chrissakes- I married an octopus!
(Attention unmarried smart-asses- Avoid saying the above. Or invest in fast food stocks and stool softeners.)
Ok. Enough eschatological suppositorial conjecture- She had a coupon.
Yer going shopping dude.
We enter the discount shoe store and browse. Browsing with mother and daughter means carrying a reader’s digest version of War and Peace to read between footwear choices.
Of course my wife-also nicknamed “The Finder” or in Levite tribal vernacular “Shops With A Fist, Bubke”- found the natty purple Chuck Taylors she wanted within forty seconds..but, there are so-oo many choices in our great Republic..why stop there?
I sit on a footstool (see what I did there?), and skim chapter 400 of my Russian masterpiece ,occasionally looking up defensively at the seriously most corpulent woman balancing in stiletto heels I have ever witnessed.
She is a little too close. I don’t want to be judgmental , unfeeling, or socially incorrect- but I don’t want this woman to lose her balance in those carnal pole-dancers and crush me like a ripe watermelon under a Semi.
There’s nothing safe about being the only man in a shoe store full of feral females in search of bargain footwear. Go climb yer lame ass Himalayan mountain or walk your tight-rope over Times Square, or hunt Bigfoot (skim-dick) THIS takes REAL balls. Attila the Hun would avoid this adventure and hide in his yurt counting yaks.
After reminding my dear spouse that we came in on a surgical strike for purple Chuck Taylor tennis shoes-(which are under her arm being squeezed in case they come to life and attempt escape) and adding that my prostate can’t take too much more bargain hunting- (I'm afraid to ask for directions to the 'Mens Room'-certain there isn't one..)
"The Finder" relents and we saunter over to take our place in line at the check-out counter. Our daughter has found some bunny slippers she doesn't need. And a jutted out lower lip daring me to mention the fact..(I know better.)
There are stylish young people ringing up the discount footwear with the quasi-superior air of college sophomores in the presence of three-legged gerbils.
Our shoe selling barrista, a well coiffed metro-sexual dressed in the hip clothes purchased straight out of a trendy catalog, eyes me with something bordering on the contempt one reserves for an old, fat, clueless Baby Boomer- and says:
“ I’m Jeremy- I’ll be your cashier today.”
“ Thank-you, Jeremy-“ I answer,” I’m so relieved.”
“ Shhh-hh!” hisses my wife pushing me to the side and in one magnificent motion relieves me of my Mastercard.
“ These are on sale I believe..I have a coupon.” announces Shana , with all the directness and certainty of a satisfied lioness displaying a kill.
“ Oh, so sorry- but this sale only covers Athletic Footwear.”
“ These are Chuck Taylors..the sale only covers Reebok or Nikes..you know-Athletic Footwear.”
“ Hey thur Jeremy..” I chirp up-pausing to read his nametag-“ ..but I believe those Chuck Taylors are capable of being tennis shoes..as in tennis..or running shoes, as in running..in a jock strap as in chasing game balls. See? The original Athletic Footwear were Chuck Taylor high-top sneakers.. ”
Jeremy looked at me as if I had said the rumbletoadeatschikenbythemidnight scar- in Mel Gibson Aussie/Aramaic.
“ Excuse me?” he answered .
“ That’s what I’m trying to do, Jeremy. These are ancient mysteries only those born in the fifties- or ninth degree Masons ,could possibly know. But for you I’ll make an exception- listen carefully- I'll whisper..soylent green is people and Chuck Taylors are Athletic shoes.”
Jeremy had that frozen possum smile that people always get when a naked man asks them for directions. In church.
Jeremy apparently also has a microphone grafted to his palm.
“ Any available manager to the front desk please..the front desk..any available manager.”
Jeremy did what every good novice sub-management trainee does- he immediately passed the buck and abrogated all responsibility.
It is my guess that Jeremy had a future in politics.
I was secretly glad he used the intercom and interrupted that hideous Journey song:
‘Don’t stop belieeeee-vun- hold to that FEEEEEEE-eee-eeeee-EEEEEEEEEE-ul-lun!’
Jeremy and I were in a zoological smirk duel- He the possum, I the smiling chimp.
(Three guesses what a chimp is about to do when he smiles, chum..)
“ Can I help you, sir?”
It was the manager lady. She was 24 to Jeremy’s 22 years on my planet.
“ I’m not sure. But you can help my wife buy this pair of Athletic footwear..”
“ For the advertized discount.” Adds Shana.
The manager-lady looks at the purple Chuck Taylor’s in barely disguised pity.
“ Oh, my golly- our discount only applies to Athletic footwear..you know, Reebocks, Adidas, Nikes..”
“ Wow,” I smile happily at my wife,”..twins.”
“ I have a coupon.”
“ Oh yes! Good golly I can see that M’am..but those only cover Athletic footwear…not casual footwear.”
“ Romulus and Remus..country and western.” I mutter to no one.
Jeremy stands like his butt is frozen to an ice sculpture.
“ Okay..like my husband tried to tell you..Chuck Taylors are Athletic wear. “
“ Oh. I see.Yes-but not here.” The manager-lady says using her finest mommy talking to toddler tone.
Poor thing..she just made a big mistake trying to shut down ‘Shops-With-A-Fist, Bubke’.
“ I. Have. A. Coupon!”
All at once I know exactly what I must do.
I snatch the coupon out of my wife’s hand and ram it to my mouth and chew it like a secret agent saving the planet Treefrog.
Everyone in the line- including blimp-lady with the glittering stilettos -stop and stare.
“ I demand to pay full price.” I say, the delicate taste of coupon still caressing my tongue.
“ That was not helpful.” My wife’s eyes well up.
“ Ring it up Jeremy. Those who don’t study history are doomed to repeat it..here’s thirty bucks cash.”
“ Are you sure you don’t want to look at our new line of slimming –toning Reebocks? They are guaranteed to slim you down as you walk or exercise.. they are on sale”, chirps frightened manager-lady. (Coupon eating husbands were not part of her training at the corporate robot-mill.)
“Ok-that postulation is way-y more absurd than eating a scrap of sale paper..”
“Oh no sir;” says manager-lady looking directly at my wife;”..this line of Athletic footwear are scientifically proven to help the wearer reduce weight and tone the thighs, buttocks and abs.”
“ I have more science- Eating feeds you and jumping in water wettens the jumper.”
“Shh-hhh! You are frightening everyone.”
This time my wife and the manager lady both ignore me. I have Jeremys undivided attention. Now the coup de gras ..
“Wearing Chuck Taylors, however, are guaranteed to produce oral sex at music school.”
“Banality is as contagious as jactitation Jeremy.”
The only sound that escapes manager-lady’s lips is an A-hh-um-ahaaa reserved for mentally challenged shoppers with thalidomide children.
The manager-lady and Jeremy the metrosexual nod in complete misunderstanding.
We leave with the handsomely packaged hard-won(un-discounted) Chuck Taylors.
My wife walks a full ten paces ahead of me the entire length of Fenton Street.
I am content. Today has been a productive day.
Tonight The Nightly News reports that Reebocks has been exposed for BULLSHIT involving scientific claims of ass-ab-leg toning bestowed by their magical Athletic footwear.
Some corporate spokespersons' ass is going to jail.
To this I would add that wearing special shoes will not result in winged chittering magical monkeys flying out your ass.
So sue me.
If there's any money left over I’ll take the change in purple Chuck Taylor high-tops and distribute these to the fattest cities on the East Coast.
“Don’t you people sell just regular-old -normal frickin’ coffee?”
Friday, September 23, 2011
Who or what is this God thing who keeps spoiling the waxjob on my El Camino.
Is God using humans for target practice?
Was Dick Cheney actually the avatar of Jehovah?
Does Evolution mean humans are better than dogs at sniffing out Perps?
Does Evolution mean people should actually understand what Algebra and Trigonometry is used for?
Why does my mother cook better than any of my wives?
If Meat Is Murder are Peanuts manslaughter?
Does celery count as food? And if so, where?
If ancient Judeo-Christian law commands us that eating Pork is forbidden-does that mean Baseball is UN-Kosher and football is worse?
Is Kosher a term to use when discussing bikinis on Easter break?
Why are ugly men the best guitar players?
Why does Chas Bono think he looks any better as a man?
Does Aural sex mean a blowjob by a trombone played by angels?
Why does ANYTHING taste perfect with extra crunchy peanut butter?
Is saying God Dang taking the Lord Dang in vain?
Do I have to see young white males imitating young black males who forgot to tuck in their boxer shorts? Could this be the very essence of DE-Evolution?
Why do I have an impulse to claw out my own eyes when I witness the above?
If the Catholics have the Holy See- does the Vatican have a see-saw?
Are Episcopalians eternally pissed at God?
Are Presbyterians aligned with the dry-cleaning industry?
If there is no heaven or hell how do you explain Maui and Jersey City?
Are all travel agents in league with Satan?
Why are we encouraged to question authority when we know damned well that we will get our heads blown off?
Will God give me a trophy for just showing up on the Sabbath?
Is the Devil the patron saint of fire ants and poison ivy?
If Round-up can kill weeds growing out of sidewalks, why can't they invent something for my nostril hair?
Why do tomatoes, no matter how fresh, stink by noon in my bag lunch?
Why did God give me feet if God knew they would smell like this? (There are other examples-but this the only one that can be discussed in print.)
Is pre-marital sex dirty if we’ve showered beforehand?
If abstinence works for stemming the tide of wanton procreation,why wasn't Brisol Palin a wet dream?
Why must Mystery Meat remain a Mystery?
Are flashers simply psychopathic sous chefs trying to correct the above ?
If we are given technology by way of God-whose bright idea was leaf-blowers?
Why do we bother to rake leaves when we know it will be Fall every year?
If stupidity isn't contagious then how do you explain the Tea Party?
Why do we tie our shoes if we know we’ll only take them off before bed? Wouldn’t keeping them on save time?
Why do we wipe our butts if we’re only going to poop again shortly?
Wouldn’t holding our breath save air, reduce pollution and promote early retirement without Federal Entitlements?
If God- by way of human technological genius- can invent more than one can-opener; 400 cable T.V. channels , Television of multiple brands, types, and sizes; 30 varieties of apples: choice CUTS of beef, A hundred Friggin’ types of stiletto heels -Then WHY are we still stuck with only Republicans and Democrats to vote for?
Is anything-including the concept of GOD or my opinion -even approaching original?
In the name of God:
What the HELL is Country AND Western?
Saturday, July 23, 2011
..and used Jesus instead of Mohammed as an icon.
The next time you hear a friend or acquaintance babble babble babble about how the Tea Party or Political Christers can actually affect change in this country- read them the part in the Constitution about the ABSOLUTE separation of church and state.
What part of THOU SHALT NOT KILL is causing confusion out there?
Saturday, July 9, 2011
Luckily creative writing is not like a haircut from the Korean woman I used to go to (because -as I became aware)-there are 2 kinds of haircuts in Korea.
Short (and Shorter.)
Faulkner would not survive in the blogosphere.
Melville would never even sign on.
Somewhere Milton and Lewis Carrol are laughing their asses off.
Am I the only one who can hear the demented chuckles from the ether?
Does being bipolar mean that Santa Claus actually lives in Antartica?
Bald IS beautiful.
Thursday, July 7, 2011
"Definitively preposterously preposterous? Definitely?," she vacillated as he went about describing adjectives to an adverb-laden dilettantish malformed coquette enveloped in localized lamb-colored gravy spilt liquidly from the quavering blue-knuckled fingers of Bethesda's best cook turned writer's aid. The taste flecked spoon wavered like heat off a hot Arizona license plate.
Yet still, the moon rose haphazardly.
And yes-the night was as young as a newly blue whelped human tinwhistle screeching human caesarian section named, unbelievably....
Joe Emancipated Shmoe.
With a vitreous vitupurous toe.
Finis en Scarletta
Thursday, June 30, 2011
Lets just get that straight outta the gate. Life is too short for winter and I feel angry and desperate by being trapped in steel-toed boots seven months out of the year. Long pants- if manufactured out of light canvass- make some sense in hot weather because mosquitoes and ticks will drink your goddamned blood like mall-brats quaffing Diet Pepsi. That’s what they do. They drink your motherfuc’n blood, OK? This is their tick-ass job.
No debate here.
(Shorts , also,are stupid. Especially for the tragically hip Caucasian with translucent white legs who favor plaid. Different tirade- later for that..)
Hot ass clunky boots- for no prophylactically protective reason -are hellish bunions and stink-sweaty vinegar gaseous toe bloat trauma waiting to happen.
They’re great for busting bricks and bending nails at the jobsite or a Metallica moshpit- but if you step in a pile of Great Dane hooey on your front lawn in August and try to enter yer momma’s house, and track that delicacy across HER carpet- yer fuc’n done.
Toast is served, boots guy.
I wear sandals.
Nope. No fuc’n way- my hardcore East Coast dignity would never allow THAT putrid gas-hole- travesty of a fashion bomb to go off.
I have seen this rancid sandal-based Golden State cultural upchuck with my own eyes.
Yes- I have personally witnessed those Marin county Californicators wear that type of sandal.
..with something approaching a disaffected accismus of self-empowering pride.
If Jerry Garcia were still alive he simply wouldn’t countenance this Left Coast affected twee-ass blasphemy.
It should be mentioned that if faced with this fashion tragedy his band name would be tenfold more appropriate.
I’m the first to show active disgust when confronted with that special hippie-dippie west coast sox n’sandals nonsense- no! no! I mean I wear black functional heavy soled kick-ass krav maga loving Hebrew Tevas sandals that would make John the Baptist drool, throw down his staff, knee an un-baptized heathen, jump out of the Jordan River and head to the nearest Hudson Trail outfitters for a pair of his own.
Not only are my black nasty Tevas built to withstand the vicious rocky Sinai desert trails, full of Jerusalem stone, two-headed vipers, dirt devils and biblical variety poisonous rat-sized scorpions- but they are tough enough to wear while walking through( or on) water.
Their straps unbreakable truck-straps and the soles are as thick as yer Uncle Fob’s R.V. tires and yer Auntie Em’s army boots.
I Bullshit you Not.
I try to change my own oil.
It keeps me busy, saves a couple bucks and makes me look like some kind of mechanical genius to my Bethesda-raised Jewish wife. I can’t say I’m really fast at it- there’s a certain amount of showmanship involved in protracted controlled simplistic mayhem- and the harder it seems, and the more colorful a man’s cursing, the longer his oil-changing- screen-mending- garbage wrangling sacrificial man shit -the more of a world-weary and loyal hero you appear to be.
Yeah right, cowboy- I wasn’t married yesterday.
(Whatever works, right guys?)
~Editor’s note: That wouldn’t be the first recorded instance of the mesmerism of an ‘old testament girl’ by fire and wholly smoke.
One of the reasons I bought my house is that the Car Parts store is walking distance. I consider this a prudent move.
There are a few things you want to be walking distance from -just in case the power grid goes down or your transmission takes a dump or the terrorists strike.
A few of these establishments-besides the car parts store- are gas station(obvious), grocery store(obvious), bank(obvious), gun and bullet store(x-tremely obvious) and a 7-11, (for those small snacks, power drinks and coffee necessary before joining your neighborhood vigilante militia).
Shooting looters, non-Christian zombies and false prophets requires stamina.
Luckily there is also a* Kare ~Bear* dance studio next to the gun shop.
Life doesn’t have to be all stress, stress, stress.
I’ve seen some pretty hefty beef-eaters out there who couldn’t get into a combat stance without popping their pants and zinging their Levi buttons like deadly projectiles- a little ballet might actually improve their dexterity.
There is something to be said for being light on your feet when chaos reigns, zombies rove and the Rapture comes to collect the really annoying neighbors down your street.
Good Riddance. Exactly.
Knee-capping Wrangler button trick shooting could become an Olympic sport in this country.
There should be a Reality T.V. series devoted to it.
The old guy had a cane, forty-odd extra pounds, little hair or left-over visual beauty- but he did carry the definite vibe of an ex-combat Marine from ‘outside-the-beltway’ farm country.
I was in a hurry but I stopped to politely hold the door for him, even though I saw the Parts counter was busy. My oil-changing mission would be delayed by letting the old geezer butt in front of me.
My politeness and deference became inordinately taxed when,as the old guy slowly limped and wheezed toward the door, he greeted me with the remark that:
“ ‘Am ol’ thangs don’t look right on a man, “
” Yer feet ever get wet when ya piss?”
“ Yer welcome, partner- I’d like to think my aim is better than that.”
I had my instant insulted chimpanzee( I’d- like- to- slap- you-HARD!) smile spread wide on my face.
“ Never could stand ‘am thangs myself, make a normal feller look a little light in the pants.”
‘Ok,’ I thought, ‘Maybe he thinks I’m a raw recruit and this is Camp LeJeune.'
Mr. Old Phuck General Geriatric Hard-Ass (Ret.) has advanced Tourette’s syndrome brought on by sustained generational disdain.
I understand this syndrome. I guess I can keep my mouth shut and allow his gas to pass.
That’ll be me in a few years.
He chuckled at his own joke and pushed past me like an un-oiled rusty John Deere combine tractor chugging on two cylinders.
He had the wafting old guy smell. A mixture of Preparation H, joint crème, unlaundered pants, ten day old Folgers coffee and sour apple pie- he was one of those speak-yer-damn-mind old geezers.
The hair stood up on the back of my neck.
I was psychologically conflicted.
The old geriatric peckerweed was greeted with happiness and familiarity. The Parts Guys at the counter all knew his name. It began with ‘MISTER’.
He was a regular.
The Parts Guys and Mister Hardass (USMC ret.) began jostling good natured insults back and forth as I moved into position next to him at the counter and waited my turn.
After the wizened creaker took ten minutes to unwrap an antique part from a first-issue turn –of-the-century (19th) lawnmower and bitch out the Auto Parts Guy because he didn’t carry spare parts for this (*or his other chariot-)he took time to take a breath and look me over.
“..‘ave youz ever seen sich a thing? Look at ‘am shoes! I go down to Flerdah every winter, got some French neighbors wear them things around all day long..”
General Geezer-Jigger looks back to his buddy, The Parts Guy and zings his punchline;
..”but hell, they’z French-whadda ya expect?”
The entire store of grease-worshippers, Parts Guys, undocumented Toyota owners and one large woman ,with a name-tag that read SAL, holding a re-manufactured piston, laugh in my face and look at my footwear.
Like this was some kind of insect petting zoo and *POOF* I’m the roach.
They are deriding my manly Teva sandals in public. The whole fuc’n store.
And Geezer –Twat (USMC ret.) has equated me with some dastardly French snowbirdy touristas from Montreal.
There are times Alzheimer’s is just no excuse for sequacious verbigeration.
Ditto for public displays of wandering redneckism.
Age be damned. His shark oil greased ass would be mine.
This pinguid rack-of-dust just called me a French queer in front of a bunch of mechanics at the car parts store.
This is like pissing on a monk’s feet in church.
Still -I repress my need to strangle all humanity, starting with General Hard-Ass-Ass (Ret) and smile genially, and say in my most even tone:
“ If they are good enough for the Son Of God, they should be good enough me to wear while I change my oil.”
“ What you say there?” Old bag scowls, “ ain’t no call to be sacrilegious, son.”
He glowers at me, slacking his jaw and opening his mouth wide enough to drive Sarah Palin’s tour-bus through.
“ You appear to be a devout follower of Jesus Christ, sir..and Jesus wore sandals.”
“ You ain’t him.”
“ If I were Jesus and in this parts store my guess is one of three things would happen.”
“ Such as?”
“ Well, the way I figure it- either y’all wouldn’t recognize me, or when you did I’d immediately be offered a job..in which case I'd lay hands on the collective Toyota there would be damn little need for this parts store.”
“ What’s the third thing?” piped in Parts Guy. I had his attention.
“ Stick his righteous sandaled Jewish toe up anyone’s asshole that insulted an innocent consumer in public by calling him a French tourist.”
I glare at General Geezerpenis(Ret.) and lean on the Parts counter like an experienced oil-changer wearing psychological steel-toed boots.
“ Now look here, son..I fought for this country in KO-rea, I have a right to say what I think.”
“ You ever heard of Joshua? The mega-kick-as Jew in sandals who beat the shit out of entire armies, charred their heathen bones and danced around the pyre howling like a wolf with a boner? I bet you might coulda used HIM in KO-rea. Or how about ol’ King David, the mega kick-ass pussy hound who wrote poetry with one hand and decapitated his enemies with the other? Was he wearing construction boots? I’ll bet no one in here would laugh at them fellers chosen footwear, would they now?”
“ No cause to get riled up and call Our Lord Jesus Christ a Jew.”
“ You shouldn’t say boner.” Added Sal. “ They never said boner in the bible.”
“ Not only was he a Jew, he was a sandal-wearing peace and love hippie. He ate figs and hummus. He ate lamb with a parsley garnish, drank wine and herb tea…babes flocked around him, dudes wanted to be him; in fact the entire Sermon on the Mount was like a mixture of a Hebrew Rave and Poetry Slam- minus the sub-woofers, of course..talk about free ecstasy! AND he woulda hated Wall Street..you betcha.”
“ Ah think yer talkin’ out yer blaspheming ass, son..”
“ That’s a matter of perspective, General Sandal-Hater.”
“ Ahem…fellers..fellers;” interjects head Parts guy,” ..let’s stick to car parts. No need to get in a pickle.”
“ Or say boner;” adds Sal.
Sal has a very sour look upon her face.
“ Ok now- Mr. Sandals..what can I do you for?”
Head Parts guy is being sequacious. And condescending. And making a stupid redneck sales-quip I’ve heard too many times before.
He is also looking at my footwear and mentally pissing down my leg.
“ Tell y’all what..lemmee have six quarts of 5-30 S.A.E. and 2 quarts of that S.T.P. smoke treatment…I gotta Burning Bush out back I need to deal with.”
“ Yer Hell-bound, son-I’m damn sure;” (Ret.) General Gawd-Dong righteously wheezes.
“ My guess is yer a lot closer to meeting yer maker than I am. Maybe you can put in a good word for me?”
“ Thur ain’t no reasoning with you sandal-types-izzair?”
I ruminate carefully my response and opt for :
“ Soaking figs don’t stay wet long under the harsh biblical sun of an open air market.”
The deer-people in the car parts store stand, eyes wide in perplexed confusion, their assembled thought processes annexed by my random psychedelic wisdom.
Right. I’m wearing sandals.
You twats wanna dance?
Let’s do this thing.
Wednesday, June 15, 2011
ON PURITY-a little morning meditation
Rock is a beautiful mongrel-cur...adaptable as a pure-blood can never be.
The dog-soldier prophet of music. The dirt-farmer poet. The blue-collar angel with a dirty face, big heart and skinned knuckles.tough as a steel forged ten size nail being driven directly though the heart of despotism and hypocrisy.all these things with a healthy dose of serious B/S and (now) hamburger sales.
There is a bikini in there somewhere.
And tight jeans stained with 30 weight motor oil,mustard and red clay hardened with sweat and beer.
And laughter born of the national absurdity and true realization of individual freedom- mixed with healthy cynicism and a revolutionary kick up of dust in the face of the Landlords-the self-appointed Bosses- who suppose ownership of our spirit.
Don't tread on me, I'm the mongrel, the mutt, the real deal, the eater of lies, the mirror of deceit, the fixed glare and sinister smirk. All in the Key of E...which stands for Everything they ain't.Everyman. Everywoman.
The profiteers,posuers and bean counters will never win especially because obscure rockers NEVER grow old and NEVER die.
Everybody drink a Coca-Cola and burp in unison. Do this harmonious burping in church because God-indeed- has a SERIOUS sense of humor, and ALL body noises are natures symphony.how daggum amurican is that?
Ok...I'm done.For Now.See you beautiful rocker-mutts tonight. Somewhere.
Tuesday, June 14, 2011
Dearest Norine-RE: THE ARK: Off BATS WILL SCATTER by M.T.F. (http://www.soundclick.com/player/single_player.cfm?songid=4579429&q=hi&newref=1 )
NOTE: This was all told to me 3rd hand and is probably greatly inconsistent with any semblence of accuracy- But it's a good story nevertheless-
There is a funny dark backstory to "God's New Noah's Ark" - which is a ..um..faith based initiative that has been going on in a little town west of here(Dc/Md) in the hills(3,000 ft) in Frostburg , Md. The Town name FROSTBURG, is apt as the mountains get the "Great Lakes Effect" which results in early and massive snow and sleet storms.
THIS is where my family ended up after leaving South Georgia.(Read: place of NO hills or SNOW.) My Mother was an English Professor in a small mountain college there. (Can't you tell by my spelling and typo prowess? Ability to proof read?)In any case-"God's Ark Of Safety" has a billboard advertising it as such, and soliciting donations- has been "under construction" for about 35 years. Apparently progress has been slow-possibly due to the inflationary costs of construction and the care and feeding of the (now deceased) Preacher who ,by direct word of God Almighty-was anointed by a vision that came at Thanksgiving dinner-it is by this afore alluded to Divine Word He (the Preacher-now deceased)has instigated the ARK project to begin with.He did seem to have a new pickup every year.The Lord didn’t expect the New Noah to solicit in a rusted out Chevy Nova. This was clear.
The area is coal mining country, and has been since about 1790. An area rather depressed and full of generations of poverty and inbreeding. The result is predictable. The Preacher in question was pretty famous for damning all those who made fun of his structure-yes a concrete church built in the shape and EXACT dimensions of the Biblical boat, and consigning all detractors to the fiery furnaces of Hell, or worse an extended lifetime in the coal mines. He was, to say the least, a bit of an egomaniac. He had followers. Not many- but enough. A few wrangled positions on the county school board. They also seemed, by some mysterious osmosis of divination, to have the power to damn all those who detracted the ARK to Hell as well. The rumor is that a city councilman drowned in his own pool because he publicaly questioned the (now deceased-and I'm getting around to that) Preacher at city Council meetings and in the newspaper. The only thing that gave credence to this Voodoo was that the City Councilman(now also deceased)was that the City Councilman(now drowned) had skimmed educational funds to build his swimming pool,one of the maybe quarter-dozen private residential pools in the entire county. You gotta admit- it is a little spooky. But the guy(drowned fund-skimming religious bashing City Councilman, now deceased by divination) was a drunk and excessive party-slut who forgot that cocaine, water sex and a half a gallon of vodka mixed with pool water is a serious breach of ethics, biology and the realities of existing in the 3rd dimension.. OOPS.
THE JESUS TRUCK
Two days(or so) later the plot thickens considerably. I was already in DC eking out an existence as a courier and Punk star(minor)- so I have to rely on second hand eye-witness accounts of Chot- (the husband of Pattigurl-drummer of Wall Of Chick-http://www.soundclick.com/bands/default.cfm?bandID=609996) who recounts the following-
He had made his daily stop at a Liquor Store on the South Side of Main Street, when-while attempting to light a cigarette- a sudden rush of wind made him -in a life-saving moment of(dare we say it?) DIVINE reflexology- Duck BACK into the doorway- Whereupon a runaway Coal Semi-Tractor truck- having lost it's airbrakes coming off the 45 % grade of Big Savage Mountain- narrowly missing Chot and his unlit cigarette proceeded to demolish 12 parked cars, set off an inferno, and commit manslaughter on 4 unfortunate victims.This calamity even made the National Evening News.
The four victims were-1 very amenable old lady who owned the competing Liquor store across the street-who was much loved by all the inebriated town folk and several generations of college students for her legendary bad eyesight which led to a great deal of under-age sales of alchohol to minors. This was where the unfortunate Truck(and poor beloved lady and truckdriver) finally came to a fiery stop, setting off a blaze that consumed 4 adjoining buildings.The remaining two victims were-(You guessed it!) The Preacher and the wife of the deceased(drowned) City Councilman who had been waiting at a stoplight in the brand spanking new Chevy Pick-up 4 X 4 after- (and this is pure conjecture and very possibly declamatory)-what must have been a miracle conversion and private "prayer session" with the grieving widow.Uncanny.
Chot, having had both a near-death experience, and witnessing FIRSTHAND the hand of Divine Providence in Dramatic full scale technicolor- took this as a sign that God wanted him to continue cigarette smoking. And he does to this day.It is he who named it The Jesus Truck.
The ARK is still under construction and under-funded. It was gossipped in a slanderous fashion that:The Preacher's WIFE ,has taken over the holy concrete pour. The insurance paid off handsomely. She drives a Cadillac.
The song THE ARK is written and performed thru the eyes of a small child of an unfortunate a deluded(pipe-hitting) parishioner living in a Western Maryland Trailer Park.I couldn't really make the entire backstory fit the meter of the song. So I'll admit to a certain esoteric essence to the lyrics.
Norine Braun, a musician from Vancouver BC wrote her impressions of the meaning of the song:
very cool works of artU fit the profile is great very intense very artful would love to see a slideshow visual with it with paranoia flashing intermittently ...rednex is a strong statement , great insight to the inner workings of the southern white male, the agrarian separation is a good point, love the smokin slide too.The Ark Funk trailer trash with hints of Red hot chili peppers and zappa so the fact that he is feeling no pain from smoking the pipe makes him a poor decision maker because stone boats don\t float right . ok is this because he is a drug user or only his denial or a combination thereof. If he is accepting the truth that stone does not float his dreams will never actualize(denial)Cheers, nb On Sunday, October 22,
Sunday, June 12, 2011
of Alleghany County Maryland
THE X-FANATIX and the spawn that followed.
Pedigree**Full Steam Eddy + Last Lariat Band = X-FANATIX+The Names= Shock Opera= MYSTR Treefrog.
X-Fanatix was formed when Jon Brayton, in an intoxicated state, threatened to jump off the roof of the apartment building in Frostburg where Kim, Danny Brayton, and Roger Freary (rymes with Fairy...but NEVER pronounce it that way or you risk an ass-beating)- were living(crashing?homesteading?Passing out?) above a beer establishment on W. Main St.
Danny told his brother to hurry up and jump. Kim Garcia pulled Jon Brayton off the precipice of doom and threatened to beat his lame ass (assuming he survived the fall) and sat on him until Jon Brayton sobered enough to drink in the bar downstairs.
They decided that this was the PERFECT drama quotient for a new band line-up.
The X-Fanatix also included one Charlie ‘Cash’ Cunningham of Wheaton, Maryland on piano/keyboards.(Current whereabouts uncertain.)
They played originals and what was then termed ‘New Wave’ music;(which Kim Garcia accurately described as ‘Bug Music’), thus committing the unpardonable regional sin of not playing Van Halen , Ozzy Osbourne or Jade in preference for compositions by Elvis Costello, and the Pretenders and Danny Brayton originals. They were not booked at The Other Place, (or any other place) requiring renditions of Foghat or AC/DC again.
Heavy Metal took a vacation.
No one particularly mourned the decision not to immediately return to the cultural Mecca of Ridgely, West Virginia, for artistic acknowledgement and quasi-lucrative door deals.
ROCK LORE: X-Fanatics once played 21 out of 24 hours-including travel time- at the Cresaptown Democrat club (next to the Salvation Army and down the street from the German restaurant-; where young J. Brayton was once physically ejected for drunkenly attacking an accordion player who had greased ‘Elvis’ hair’,and who insisted on playing ‘Orange Blossom Special’ next to his plate of Hasenpfeffer. Beer was spilled, sauce worn, elbows skinned.)
( The above digression should help the reader ascertain the effects of alcohol and illicit substances on the behavior of the singer in question.)
At an all night all day Bikers Bash Kim Garcia once again saved Young Jon's life by shouting the CORRECT words to BORN TO BE WILD in Brayton's ear just as a small surly crowd of bikers gathered below the stage with murder in their eyes. An apparent blasphemy was taking place , live and in-person by JB. He couldn't have fuct this up any better had he sung the words to the Star Spangled Banner in Russian at a V.F.W.
J.B., realizing he never really memorized that classic lyric, began an improvised free-form scat version of that sacred hymn thinking no one would notice. This was illogical and stupid. While most bikers could never hope to solve a Rubix cube, they have the words to this Steppenwolf classic tattooed on their foreskin. When the power was cut and there was a collective growl the band knew offence might have been taken.
Large heaps of dried wood were being added to the bonfire.
A deal was struck between Garcia and the Governing Biker Council, that Brayton-while not actually deserving death- could be carried pant-less and jostled over the heads of the Bikers- perp-walk parade fashion- for three-quarter of an hour. Brayton was spared being ritually peed upon as he didn't bring a proper change of Rock Attire for the upcoming gig.
This was yet another Testament to Kim Garcia's formidable skills as a canny diplomat in the most trying of circumstances.
At hour 14 the X-Fanatix decamped to the Creasaptown Democrat Club for three sets.
Tired hungry men make mistakes.
The marathon evening gig was capped off by Jon Brayton breaking his brother Danny's nose,3rd rib and pinky finger(left hand) between the second and third sets- in a fit of Irish Brotherly Love.
The third set, while shorter than usual, was completed by all original members.
The X-Fanatics returned to the Biker stronghold where the proper pain drugs were administered and the band played until dawn.
He (wisely) moved away from Eckhart Mines and eventually received a degree at Cal Arts in LA and became a set designer. He went on to design the first set for the W.A.M.A. awards in Washington DC.
The X-Fanatics, in a whiskey-fueled group decision, moved to DC and broke up after the whiskey ran out.
Danny and Kim continued to write and play, and consume truckloads of Jack Daniels, jam together, and bail one another out of the Montgomery County detention center.
Jon Brayton and ‘Fast’ Eddie Arnold, formally of MAJOR STRIKER, (Steve Whiteman was the drummer of MAJOR STRIKER and went on to form KIX..)formed a band in Alleghany County a year later called " The Names" with Don Ullery from Cumberland,on bass and vocals and " BleeChild" Dennis..a 14 year old Drummer from Keyser W.V.
They played originals songs, punk, new wave music by The Clash, The Ramones and The Dead Boys and Cher. Needless to say they played everywhere once as Allegheny County and the surrounding vicinity were not quite ready for their particular talents or musical direction.
Intoxication and volume were mandatory. Bathing and civilized social discourse were not.
The NAMES were responsible for touching off a minor riot in FRIENDSVILLE Maryland for playing the song FASHION by DAVID BOWIE to a gaggle of whiskey -drunk inter- bred inebriates who had returned from the Friendsville fiddle festival. After hearing Orange Blossom special for the preceding 18 hours straight, the locals tried to kill the members of the NAMES for playing" THEY-UT QUEER ENGLUND MUSIC" and distracting the homies from humming the soundtrack of their lives, (namely the eternal sacred hymn, Orange Blossom Special.) Friendsville was not ready for the new decade of the eighties, and the 3-part punk rock harmonies being performed, having been stuck in the 40’s for the entire decades of the 50’s, 60’s, and 70’s. They were understandably disturbed by what they saw and heard.The NAMES were ahead of their time in Friendsville, but so was the steam-engine.
The State Police were called in to serve and protect and ended up helping the locals beat up the band. Law enforcement wanted to hear Orange Blossom Special too.
No one in the band has returned to inquire.
The Cd was re-released by one of the first internet labels (JAYBIRD RECORDS) and even less money was earned. The CD can still be found on Amazon.com (being resold by some unscrupulous peckerhead that MYSTR Treefrog would DEARLY like to locate for a good ol' fashioned Alleghany County-type HOE DOWN.)
Jon Brayton(aka MYSTR Treefrog( www.myspace.com/mystrtreefrog www.cdbaby.com/mystrtreefrog ) continues to record, write ,perform in the DC area.
Don Ullery,bassist and vocalist with THE NAMES, moved to Seattle Washington to be an Animator. It is rumored he has been the first to animate Tai Chi lessons with the omnipotent Zen Master being rendered as a pink marsupial in burgundy lace ballet slippers.
Eddie Arnold's whereabouts were generally unknown during the years 2005 through 2007. He moved to Taos, New Mexico until he passed away in 2008 as a result of contracting Meningitis. He still makes rare appearances as a non-threatening apparition during impromptu jams- (where he “does unexplained flickering lights” and “unexplained speaker malfunction”) It should be noted that his input is always appreciated – indeed, mourned for. There will never be another like him.
The Police have been notified.