Tuesday, June 30, 2009
Monday, June 29, 2009
I got an interesting letter the other day. Apparently, an old acquaintance believes that I bargained away my soul in a Faustian deal with the devil. This fellow is of the mind that I have my nose so far implanted up the "right" people's buttocks that I have relinquished said soul.
hamlet's small (very "small", in many ways) soi-disant oligarchy certainly is.
It is sad to see you departing from your valuable (and truthful to yourself) role as a sardonic local commentator and outsider, and cozying up to the very group of the local
(very local) "movers and shakers" who
you verbally flayed for so many years.
Read Van Wyck Brooks' "The Ordeal of
Mark Twain" (1920). Clemens left the meritocracy and cozied up to the Singer Sewing Machine fortune, only
to find that he had abandoned himself.
Sunday, June 28, 2009
Slip Away. Clarence is a bit past his peak here but is a classic and exceptional stylist who needs to be remembered. Known for some of his "nastier" pieces that could never get airplay except in some very areas of the deep south where the radio stations are still truly wonderful.
Saturday, June 27, 2009
Boogie Woogie virtuoso Carl Sonny Leyland is playing at the Hilltop Center in Fallbrook on July 12, 2009 at 7:00p.m.. Tickets are twenty dollars. This concert is a fundraiser for the Fallbrook School of the Arts. Buy tickets at the Campus or at Major Market. There will be wine and snacks. Bring your spats and your ducktails and get ready to party down.
She has been a busy beaver in office, introducing among other things the groundbreaking Light Bulb Freedom of Choice Act, to repeal the nationwide phase-out of conventional light bulbs. Bachmann recently stated that the last swine flu outbreak in the U.S. occurred under "another Democrat President", Jimmy Carter, and that she was not blaming President Obama for the outbreak but that she found it to be an "interesting coincidence". Contrary to her statement, the previous swine flu outbreak occurred while Republican President Gerald Ford was in office. Keep an eye on this one, nuttier than your Aunt Zelda, but she's a comer'.
Alan Keyes disowned his daughter at the age of 20 when she came out as a lesbian. He defied U.S. Judge Myron Thompson in the Chief Justice Roy Moore case when he refused to pull the ten commandments effigy out of the Alabama Courthouse. He refused to congratulate Obama after his victory because Keyes denied Obama had been constitutionally inaugurated, refused to call him president, and called him an "usurper" and a "radical communist". Many feel that he owed his position in the Reagan State Department to the fact that he was the only black person that could be found willing to defend apartheid in South Africa.
Mark Sanford voted against preserving sites linked to the Underground Railroad during his term in Congress. To his credit, he has taken many fact finding trips to South America in order to further his research. This guy is as randy as a college sophomore in Daytona Beach on Spring Break, so lock up the women and children if you know what I mean.
You can rest assured that we are in good hands with these folks. I am sure that we can all sleep soundly tonight.
Friday, June 26, 2009
I think it's kind of crappy that their personal emails got released, but then again, this is another republican who called for Clinton's impeachment for his loose moral code. What are they putting in the water at those GOP congressional retreats?
True to form and right on schedule, Sanford pulled out the bible card this afternoon, likening himself to King David:
" I have been doing a lot of soul searching on that front. What I find interesting is the story of David, and the way in which he fell mightily, he fell in very very significant ways. But then picked up the pieces and built from there."
For you biblically ignorant, as King of Israel and Judea, one day while walking on the roof, David saw Bathsheba in the bath. He shtupped her and got her pregnant. Craftily he called Uriah, Bathsheba's hubby, back from the Russian Front so that he would sleep with his wife and everyone would think he was the proud poppa.
But Uriah wouldn't leave the battlefield. So David gave an order that Uriah should be abandoned in battle, ensuring his death. Then he married Bathsheba.
If Sanford is my buddy, I'm treading really carefully right now. This guy could go all old testament on you at any second.
Thursday, June 25, 2009
I have been ruminating a bit today about this president of ours. If I had to give him a grade at this point it would be a c+ or maybe a b-. Barack Obama has shown us a side of himself through his actions that one would not be aware of listening to his pretty speeches. Now I for one, don't really have a problem with his health care push or his stimulus package. We are in a heap of trouble with the outrageous debt we have amassed but our economic problem was not going to get fixed by itself or by continuing Bush administration business as usual.
What I was not really aware of us was what an appeaser this president apparently is. How utterly squeamish and pragmatic he has turned out to be. I heard someone liken his policies to Kissinger's realpolitic the other day and thought how true. Constantly weighing the cross and prevailing winds like a weatherman or a junior bean counter, Obama subverts his own agenda for change in this country. He has caved on many environmental issues, from delisting wolves to allowing mountaintop removal in coal mining. He basically has rubber stamped Bush's policy on warrant less wiretapping and government transparency. His CIA Director, Leon Panetta, is afraid to cross the crusty tradecrafters in his domain. Obama has shafted the gays in the military where apparently it is okay to be a white supremacist but not a homosexual. The President seems to capitulate so much that I find myself longing for the recent past when at least the administration had an ideology, no matter how twisted. He seems more like a people pleaser. I fear that we could better use a prick.
Abbie Hoffman once talked bout the danger of being co-opted by the machine. I think that you quickly get institutionalized in Washington and tempered by virtue of how things have always operated. It is hard to make any kind of shift, let alone a radical one, in all of the centrifugal miasma. In constantly asking himself what is feasible, I fear he has surrendered the point of his javelin. Now he acts like an accommodator. The greek philosopher Zeno once proposed that an arrow can never truly reach it's mark because it has to travel an infinite number of half steps. In not setting his sights on the highest target, our president is diminishing his ability to effect change. Perhaps he would be best characterized as an incrementalist.
In the mid seventies, I worked for a spell as a picker for a couple of frenchmen who had a company called Roadrunner Records. They collected rare pyschedelia and I would comb the flea markets looking for stuff to sell them. I would go up to the Capitol Records Swap Meet with the late surf movie producer Chris Bystrom and buy stuff from some very cool people including the late Bob Hite from Canned Heat. Scored great Kaleidoscope posters from Bob.
Somehow I ended up with many boxes of obscure albums that still sit in my garage so that the cats can scratch the album spines. Amongst the Rotary Connection, Ultimate Spinach and Red Crayola, I have probably twenty or thirty Seeds albums, and they have to be one of the worst bands ever to walk this earth. Not to speak ill of the dead but they sucked.
Farrah never really floated my boat either, nothing personal but I hold her responsible for a lot of bad seventies haircuts.
Doug has a poster company Lotsarock.com. Check him out.
Tuesday, June 23, 2009
A majority of people vote for the losing candidate. A group of people take thousands of names of minority voters off the official rolls in a key state. The supreme council overturns a recount in order to "save the republic."
Kent State and Tiananmen Square
Monday, June 22, 2009
Much has been made of President Obama's listing of empathy as a relevant criteria for his Supreme Court nominees. Federalist judges and their supporters scoff at the idea that a jurist empathize with the real world implications of their rulings, preferring a matter of fact originalist application of the constitution and appropriate case law. Ideally, such readings should be performed under candle light, since electrical illumination had not yet been conceived during the time of our founding fathers.
Sunday, June 21, 2009
In these days of economic turmoil, one can not overestimate the importance of cheap mexican food. In the spirit of brotherhood and all that, I will turn you on to one of my secret spots, Carlito's Chicken in Oceanside.
Saturday, June 20, 2009
Friday, June 19, 2009
I know there are McLauglin haters out there but I love him. Saw Birds of Fire show in Central Park as a lad. Love Shakti. Bitches Brew. He plays too fast for Grumpy, I can read it now - the apotheosis of all that is wrong in the modern world.
The zircon encrusted drill breaks on Blake's thick mastoid. Discovering that it is a Craftsman bit, one of the orderlies is directed to Sears for a free replacement. Aliberto "Beto" Borracho, part time janitor and full time CEO emeritus of loser street gang Los Mojados calls up his homeboys for throwdown with guys in green jackets that he mistakes for rich Master's golf tournament marks invading his turf. Sensing a breach in the natural order of things, the chasidically dressed men in black from command H.Q. swoop down from central casting to thwart attack on pentagram boys. In the hubbub, Dolores walks into the hospital and shoots George Blake in the head. Evidently, he had always pissed her off.
Thursday, June 18, 2009
In the morning Mr. Blake was awakened by a team of nurses, technicians and doctors. They wanted to do a few more tests on George. "What kind of tests?" George asked the pretty redhead nurse. She replied "Oh just the usual ones, blood, urine, and a uranium crystal pentolobotomy." Still drowsy from the sedatives that were administered the night before, George mumbled and nodded his head in assent to the testing.
"Nurse? could you tell me where I'm at and what's the name of this hospital, and how did I get here?" enquired a puzzled George. "Oh that stuff is for the front desk sir, I'm just a nurse here, I'll have someone on the staff brief you, but now I have to prep you for your tests," explained the nurse. "Where's my wife Dolores? At that moment a large fellow who stood about about 6'5" started to wheel the middle aged patient down the long hallway towards the elevator. Before he knew it George was in a dark room with a staff of about twenty doctors, nurses and technicians, all wearing day-glo jump suits with an unusual Pentagram on them.
"Have you ever had a uranium crystal pentolobotomy before?--of course not, how silly of me to ask. This won't hurt...." said one of the doctors to George. One of the technicians put a clear plastic mask over George face. Instead of being sedated George was now clearly paralyzed . He could not move but he could see and hear everything that was happening. Or could he? Maybe this was a dream? Terrified he could not move, he could only experience what was going on.
He tried to scream but nobody seemed to hear him. He tried a trick that he had learned years before in the Military-rapidly blinking his eyes back and forth. No one paid attention to him. Suddenly he heard loud noises, the type you hear on a science fiction movie, like the noise of a drill in some mad scientist's lab. He could only see in one direction as he could not move his head. As soon as the noises became deafening, they stopped completely, and the room grew darker and stars started to appear on the ceiling. He heard a faint sound, one like a nursery rhyme that repeated itself over and over. By then George was frantically screaming but no one either heard him or was paying attention to his desperate pleas for help. As he stared at the ceiling the stars started to move faster and faster until they seemed to vanish into a blur. The nursery rhyme became louder and louder. He felt like his ears were about to explode.
As he lay paralyzed he noticed from the top of the ceiling a large drill slowly moving towards his cranium. He could hear everything the doctors were saying in some weird language that he had never heard before. But he understood every word that was said. "Help me!!! Help me." cried out George. Soon the drill was inches away from his eyes. Then the room became brighter and brighter, until George could not see anything but pure white light. He could hear every ones conversations and even their thoughts but most oddly he could hear the nursery rhyme about the little girl that had a little curl, and it was the key to everything that had transpired!!! My god! He felt strangely elated. It was the key to unlocking the universe! Yet it was slipping right through his fingers. George felt an intense pain in his forehead..................
Wednesday, June 17, 2009
Tuesday, June 16, 2009
My friend Bigdave drove his supersonic BMW M5 down the coast this weekend from the Bay Area. Dave is raising his late brother's son who is something of a prodigy, scoring a perfect math SAT and they scouted UCSD, Caltech and a few different universities.
Monday, June 15, 2009
George stared through the pulsating tunnel with wonder. Why were these men dressed like Good Humor Ice Cream salesmen and why did they have giant squid wrapped around their necks? It was very curious, to say the least. He couldn't make out their language but they seemed to be trying to communicate with him. Unfortunately, they spoke in a modulated foreign tongue somewhat like a slowed down family of bassoons on an underwater diving expedition.
"Mr. Blake, Mr. Blake, can you hear me?"
George Blake blinked his eyes twice as the picture suddenly started to come into focus. The ice cream man had morphed into a thirty something intern, staring at a clipboard. He put his hand on the side of George's neck and sought to measure the size of his glands. George tried to raise his head, but the effort was beyond his strength and he dropped back onto the pillow.
"Where the hell am I," George muttered.
"Please Mr. Blake, don't try to talk. You are in the hospital and everything is going to be ok."
George looked at him suspiciously. He never trusted young doctors. What the hell did they know, you can't learn anything out of a book? Give him a man who had time to already make all his mistakes, he always said...
George's mouth was dry and he made a motion like he was raising a glass and the older nurse who had been staring at him brought him a styrofoam cup of ice chips. The taste of the chips was antiseptic and thoroughly unrefreshing but provided just enough lubrication to allow him to speak.
"What the hell happened to me?" Blake asked.
The doctor sat on the edge of the bed and tapped the edge of his clipboard. He turned his head quickly and looked Blake straight in the eye.
"Sir, we are still running tests, but you have some very unusual chemicals in your system. Can you tell me what you took?"
"I didn't take anything," Blake indignantly sputtered. "I was on my way to work and I ate breakfast, and the next thing I know I wake up on this gurney." "I won't even take an aspirin. Ask Dolores."
"Who is Dolores, sir?"
"My wife, goddamit." Scanning the room, he realized that they were alone. Where was Dolores?
"I am going to be frank with you Mr. Blake. Our preliminary tests show that you have a very rare alkoloid in your system called dimethyl tryptamine. Have you ever heard of it?"
George silently shook his head no in amazement.
"In the sixties it was called DMT. DMT contains a 5-HT2A receptor. It creates a very quick, very powerful hallucination that is even more intense than lsd. Lately those new age shamanic types have been using a form of it called ayahuasca that grows in South America. Have you been tripping around with the new agers lately, Mr. Blake?" he snickered sarcastically.
Blake again shook his head in the negative. They were Lutherans for god sakes. Once in a blue moon they would have a beer and a shot after the thursday bowling league but his sciatica had been acting up and life had been pretty much stone cold sober.
"Didn't think so. I'll tell you what's curious about this."
Blake raised an eyebrow, conscious of a bead of sweat that now rested on his brow.
"DMT is usually smoked and rarely effective orally ingested unless bound with another agent, a fluorescent alkoloid called harmaline. Many plants are producers of harmaline. Technically it's a monoamine oxidase inhibitor. Passionflower contains harmoline. Are you with me, Mr. Blake?"
George's head started spinning. Wasn't that one of the beautiful exotic flowers that Greta had been growing on the porch? He would remember if he had eaten a flower, wouldn't he?
"Oh, and another thing. I did a little quick research. DMT was used by the CIA during the MK Ultra experiments in the sixties as a form of mind control. I don't really know much about it. Have to go the Bio-Med library and read up. Please rest now, Mr. Blake. You are going to be fine." The doctor stood up, turned his back on Blake and left the room.
George Blake sunk back into his soporific stupor. He soon fell into a quick coma like sleep and had the most unusual dreams of gray helicopters and straightjackets and reptilian gods resting on purple toadstools.
“Granddad? What're you doing down there?”
George looked up from all fours into the festering pierced navel of the sixteen-year-old manifestation of every parenting error he and Dolores had ever perpetrated upon the girl's lost mother. His eyes wandered to the left of his granddaughter's crusty wound to a tattoo that read, “LOVE,” except the “O” was replaced with a deftly rendered hand grenade. He tried to imagine what would make Greta equate love with explosive destruction, but he was distracted by a dark object in his peripheral vision, galumphing down the driveway. He wondered if it was a dog, a very large dog running on its hind legs.
“Granddad? Like, what's up? Shouldn't you be on your way to work?” She twisted her long black hair and clipped it to the top of her head.
George grabbed the stuccoed porch pillar and tried to pull himself upright, but blood seeped from his eyes, his nose, the tip of his Johnson that hadn't see the inside of a woman in a full sales cycle — and with the cost of the vaporware he was peddling, that was maybe eighteen months, perhaps more, but George was still adding on the extra fingers he had sprouted when it came to him that the upright dog might be that idiot boyfriend of Greta's.
“Granddad, are you OK?”
“I just have a little bloody nose, Sweetie.” He wiped his nose with the back of his hand and watched a torrent of Mountain Dew gush from his knuckles to the porch floor. It made him thirsty. “Do we have any soda, Gret?”
“Your nose isn't bleeding, Granddad. It's just runny. But you do look kind of weird, like, really weird.”
George managed to climb his way up the pillar to a standing position and then hugged it, enjoying the texture that he imagined might be like that of a large cat's tongue, a two-story tall cat. “Hmmm, feels good. I feel really good, Sweetie. Maybe a little leaky or-. I don't know. I think there was a slug in my waffle. Or it could have been a vitamin.”
Greta blanched. “Your waffle? You ate a waffle?!”
George bent over to wipe the Mountain Dew from his Florsheims. “I think I cracked a crown. Do you know how much I love you, Sweetie? So much, so much, so just say no to drugs, OK? Wow, just look at that Mountain Dew pouring out of my thumb! I didn't know it could hold so much.”
“Oh shit. Shit, shit, shit, fucking shit,” Greta mumbled as she texted Corky in shrieking caps: COME BACK GRANDDAD DROPPED A WAFFLE.
George toppled over and Greta was dismayed to learn just how threadbare his boxers were.
“Shh, shh, shh, shh,” George sang. “We don't want to wake up your grandmother, Sweetie.”
“No shit, Granddad.”
Sunday, June 14, 2009
I am always amazed by the places this blog travels. I just got my first hit from Kathmandu in a while. I am assuming that it is my friend Shawn checking in. Take care of yourself my friend. Careful with the yak butter. Hope that you are having a nice time. Dress warmly. Try the temple balls.
Thank you all for visiting and please understand that we come in peace. We at the Blast have no intention of taking over your planet, we are just interested in observing it and possibly taking a few choice specimens back to our world.
Saturday, June 13, 2009
I am sure that it would be pointless to whine about how bad business has been lately. If I dare to complain, certain members of my blogosphere will immediately pillory me about being a fat cat who doesn't know what poor is, about the undocumented workers who can't get a square meal, why don't you sell some of those expensive guitars, etc.? How dare I kvetch when people are going to bed hungry in Darfur?