Police

There are ten men in me and I do not know or understand one of them.
- Carl Sandburg

HELLO MY NAME IS: who cares what my name is? you need a name? fine. it's kevin. now, for the love of sweet baby jesus, if you see the girl have her bring me another double scotch neat.

An actual picture of me, no bullshit.

An actual picture of me, no bullshit.
1978-79 or so. I'm wearing straight legged pants so it's after I'd gone punk. I like the "KGB Surveilance Photo" aspect.

Thursday, March 11, 2010

My FB Average

Has dropped below 10%. Had one unfriend me and I picked up a couple new friends, that didn't qualify. So I'm at 6 for 70.

Don't fuck with me

I know a lot more Haitians than I used to. That's only mildly sarcastic. Anyway, I'm pretty sure I can do anything that is humanly possible, and a bunch of stuff that's not. So, like the title says...

Tuesday, March 9, 2010

This my kitchen, speak fuckin' english!

Meow! Miles complains
Meow! The fucking cat
Wants something. To go
Out? No. Petted? No.

Meow! He glares at
His food dish. Meow!
Miles is loud. Always
Mindshatteringly loud cat.

Somebody feed the fuckin cat
For god's sakes shut him up!
This'd be easier if Miles spoke
English, because we don't speak cat.

Sunday, March 7, 2010

Oh wow...It's been almost a month

Yeah so I been busy. Smoking a lot and drinking port and wandering around. I'm allegedly working on a book but it is just awful awful awful. But work on it I do. So, whatever. I can always smell the 11th coming up because I have court of some kind on the 11th of every month of my fucking life for some ungodly reason. And for at least another ten months. Some twisted joke the Universe is playing on me. I'm here, like a pigeon trying to make sense of random happenstances. Want to know what my first number was? 113811. Yeah. Har de fuckin har. Which reminds me that my whore of an ex-wife is suing me, again. Fuckin fuck me. What am I Job? It's not enough that I'm crippled, not enough that I'm crazy, not enough that I have an artistic vision that I can't seem to get out there, she's fucking suing me. She make three times the money I make. I mean...what the fuck, over. Anyway. Meeting with my new law-talkin gal this week. So... Without further ado I give you Monty Python's Flying Circus...I also like this becuase Eric Idle's hair is how mine looked, before I went bald.


Thursday, February 11, 2010

A cop once told me.

"Sir, your suitcase has a strong odor that I suspect to be marijuana. We'll need to search you and your bag"

"Really? Well, see if you can find any in there. If you do, let's you and me go out back and burn something. I can make a pipe out of damn near anything, unless you have your own. I been dry for three fuckin days on this trip. Can't hardly wait to get somewhere friendly so I can smoke out."

Ya fascist fuck.

Wednesday, February 10, 2010

Who Thought This Was A Good Idea? A Verse of Post-Modernity

No news is good news
Most news is bad news
There is point when I refuse
Lucidity to what humanity spews

Truth is, I don't need any of this.
I could probably use a hug and kiss
But me? Need? Feelings I'll miss?
All as ethereal as a flick of my wrist.

On the feelings thing, God has clearly spoken.
Sorry, Slick. That part of my brain is broken
If my destiny was ever more than a mere token...

Then, I must deduce that God would have probably
miracled my ass there by now because I sure as
fuck don't possess the any of the tools required
to fix any of this. Any of it at all. My life is soaring like
a pissed off raven, above and beyond my level of
competence as well as my paygrade. And since God
has not miracled me out of this, that means God
either doesn't exist, or doesn't care. Or is so far
evolved past my rat-like scurryings that I may
as well be a dust mite in God's eyebrow. Which is
Fine. Seriously. Irrelevant It really doesn't change
the grand scheme of...well anything. Any way
you slice your dice, God ain't pay the fuckin rent.
I stand here surrounded by this rich tapestry
of people and ideas. On my own, and with
no defense but my failed wits. And I don't
have a fucking clue what to do. I don't like
surprises. I've been beaten til my fucking eyes
bled way way way too many times to just trust
The Cosmos that things will eventually get better.

Anybody else out there tracking on any of this? Any of it at all?

I am actually, literally, certifiably insane so, this might not make any sense to anyone but me. And if it does make sense to you...you might want to consider having that checked out by a professional. I'm just saying here...

There...Ended on a joke. See what a hap-hap-happy motherfucker am I?

Sunday, February 7, 2010

For Kathleen

I hate to say I told you so.
But I will. Because I did.
Of course, you know I'm lying
I love to say I told you so.

Go work your wiles on them
Said I. Snap your fingers and
Strike them blind if you don't
Like them. Fuck them if you do.

While you're whirling around
You'll bump into one that closes
Your eyes and opens your soul.
That's your man. I told you so.

Dreamland

I'm living in a dreamland
Back on the in-betweens
Between joy and terror
between sanity and psychosis
between the quick.
and the dead.

Saturday, February 6, 2010

So I got a complaint...

A complaint that I never fully explained what happened to me and my dalliances with the NCIS. Well, it's all over. I pled out to a misdemeanor possession charge. I got 90 days (all suspended), $750 fine and one year unsupervised probation. If I promise (scouts honor) not to fuck shit up too much for whole year, they'll let me replead and drop the charges. So. There you have it. The judge acted like he simply didn't notice that he wasn't giving me the mandatory minimum jail time. And they all lived happily ever after.

Friday, February 5, 2010

Ain't No "I" In Team

But you fucking well best
Believe. deep in your soul
That there is a "me".
If I don't strike you as the
Sort of fellow who would
Just up and fucking bail?
Ask my boss his opinion
on that subject on Tuesday.
I'll get you the numbers of
About three dozen former
employers landlords and
women to whom I'd professed
Eternal and undying love.
You can ask them if I'm that
Guy who might just...evaporate.

And I'm about a whisker
Away from being the #1
Draft pick on the Legue's
Newest expansion team.
Team Me. The mascot
Will be the "Mikes"
The team motto will be...
Fuck everyone who ain't me.

I bout had my fill of all ya'll's shit.

Thursday, February 4, 2010

Red Cross Planning Sessions

I looked skyward, at the cosmos
And sounded my barbaric yawp
Why in the holy fuck did you send
Earthquakes during our merger?

Surprisingly, the Universe answered
My yawp, wildly barbaric though it be,
Seldom stirs the sublime starry sleeper
"Why are you merging during my earthquakes?"

Saturday, January 30, 2010

Poor

You know how fashion designers every few years come out with something like "Green, it's the new Black" And some other designer will reply, "Black is the new new black" But like, in a really snotty way? The point is, that what they meant when they said "brown is the new black" is that it's what everyone would be wearing. And that's what I mean when I say: Poor. It's the new Black.


Poor, it's the new Black.
Don't call me a racist.
I checked with numerous
Friends and associates.
All people of color. They
Said, almost every one,
"That sounds about right."
Those who didn't agree
Outright, all said "Poor?
That's the new black?
Funny, that was the
old black too.
Ya dumb ass white
motherfucker."
Or similar words.

Thursday, January 28, 2010

JD Salinger

One of my heroes died today.

Charity and Compassion

Listening to christians bitch about helping the poor and dispossessed is like listening to Jews trade pork recipes.

You people have two jobs. Two. Two jobs on this earth. Practice compassion towards the less fortunate and spread the Good Word. Near as I can tell you traded those two jobs for radical conservative politics and avarice. Sorry, that's redundant. What's one word to adequately describe both? Oh I got it.

Scumbags.

You selfish fuckers better hope I'm right when I say there's no such thing as Hell.

Fuck You.

Monday, January 25, 2010

Got another

Got another facebook friend that ummm...qualifies. That's seven. My average is staying above 10%. Which I find vaguely disturbing.

Sunday, January 24, 2010

Assman

I've always been an ass man.
Then for a long time, a leg man.
A breast man? Don't play the fool.
Lickable, suckable, squeezable,
Carressable. Boobs make me smile.
I kept exploring and discovered the
Best part of a woman that can exist...
The part between her ears.

And between her legs...
I'm not made out of fucking wood over here.

Tuesday, January 19, 2010

Bottom Line

The whole fucking world has been pretty lucky when it comes to me. Because I've definately given a fuckload more than I ever took. Fucking world better count their blessings. I'm actually significantly more skilled at taking. It requires a supreme effort of will to keep giving. Taking is like falling off a log.

Just getting tired...

Tired of phone calls, tired of bad news, tired of crush injuries and and amputations in the street. Gettin real tired.

Monday, January 18, 2010

Non-Violence

The key element to a movement that practices non-violence is the idea that we can shame those who would do us harm into stopping. That the reason they stop is because they can't bear to look at themselves while brushing their teeth. That human decency will force them to stop.

As near as I can tell, most of my enemies have no shame, even fewer have a shred of decency. If they ever had any sense or shame. other than the destructive type that clergymen hand out like candy, it was driven from them as children.

So...Am I supposed to just lay down and watch my deeply held values trampled under the feet of imbeciles? Is it reasonable for me, a man of letters, a man dedicated to making the world better, a man with a a temper, a man with training..to take up the banner that demands "Don't Tread On Me." ? Or shall I just putter along and watch these fascists destroy everything my grandparents and their grandparents worked so hard to build?

No. That's the least likely way this ends. If the ultra-right thinks they are the only scary motherfuckers out there contemplating direct action...well good. Let em believe that. That way we maybe catch em leanin the wrong way when the time comes.

So let me get this straight...

I'm a better parent than my parents were.
I'm a better citizen than most citizens.
I'm a better friend than all but one or two of my friends, maybe.
I've spent my life trying to make things better for people.
I teach people how to save lives.
I try to make people smile whenever I can.
I give away most of my time to charity.
I've fought for every single victory I have or have ever had.

And I owe whom? For what?

Humanity has earned something besides my contempt? What would that be? Mercy? Forgiveness? Sure okay, about as much as I've been shown, that's how much they've earned. I hope thay aren't expecting much.

Sunday, January 17, 2010

And besides...

What fucking difference is it going to make even if we get there?

I mean seriously...

How fucking much is enough?

Saturday, January 16, 2010

Haiti

What am I doing for Haiti? Talking on the phone mostly. A bit of ad copy when we need it. It sucks ass but that's the job that needs to be done.

So...Other than that I'm just trying real hard to keep from going under.

Sunday, January 10, 2010

I cried.

I cried because I had no shoes
Until I saw a man who had no feet
Then I ran into another guy with
Six hundred dollar python skin boots.
So I sobbed my quinty little eyes out.

That's the greatest lie ever told.
That my happiness is in another's hands
Because even when I saw the guy with
No feet, I thought "I bet his feet feel
Better than mine do right now. "

It's not a contest. It's not a race.
It is simply moving from one simple
moment to the next as best you can.
If it was a contest or race, it wouldn't matter
You'd be the only competitor.

There is nothing to master in life
But one's self. There is no devil
But the ones within. Maybe it's a
Game. Perhaps a journey or a lesson.
Or random molecules moving from collision to collision.

If it's a game, it's a game you can't lose.
A trek? wherever you stop, there you'll be.
If it's a lesson, I think we all get A's if we participate.
And if it's realy just wads of matter smashing together?
Be careful you don't get yourself killed.

Friday, January 8, 2010

Redheads

I have this major thing for redheads. Always have. Dated blonds for a long time. Dated latinas for a while. I can remember when I thought dark haired women were exotic. Dated a couple Sisters. That's a whole other post. But I always came back to redheads. I just, dig redheads. And I've had my share. Invariably, the question is asked by some crude nonredhead chaser, "Do the curtains match the carpets?" The correct answer is, "Mind your business before I jam your fuckin head through that window." But in truth, in nearly all cases, in my personal experience is, and this is completely anectodal but very well reseached in the field. The truth is:

"Yeah well it's mostly hardwood. There is, however, a small but quite expensive, nicely arranged little rug there. And yeah. It fucking matches the drapes.

Thursday, January 7, 2010

Ronald on My Mind

I was living in Portland, up in the NE, driving cab and getting laid full time. I had a roomate. An Irishman from Pittsburgh named Jimmy. And a brother from LA, a musician. Forgot his name. Leon, I think, maybe...who cares now. Me and Jimmy worked together for a long time and he had a room and I was sleeping...wherever. So I moved in. Me and Jimmy were the only two white men in the neighborhood. A couple of lesbians lived across the street but that's as diverse as our neighborhood got. I knew a white bookie, lived about eight blocks away. Well...that's the NE.

So we go to this Fred Meyers one day. Jimmy needs some bullshit. I'm riding along. There's a McDonalds in the place so I go for a snack. Jimmy's trying on, who cares...gayest fucking straight man I ever met. Gaydar is off the charts. Totally het. But fuck him anyway. He once called me the stupidest genius he'd ever met so, paybacks muhfuckuh. Back to the story.

There's a bench there with a life size statue of Ronald McDonald that you can sit on. I sat down to eat...And the bench moved. Odd. I leaned back. It didn't seem to be attached to anything except gravity. Now, those of you without sin cast the first stone. But...I stood just a little and attempted to suruptuousley gauged the weight. It wasn't light, but it wasn't that heavy either. And we had an SUV in the parking lot. Oh and the best part. It was about...maybe 30 feet from the door. I look around. I don't see any cameras. None that would matter. Terry shows up. I lean back in the bench. He looks down.
"Is that thing not bolted to the floor?"
"Nope"
"Whadaya figure it weighs?"
"Not too much"
I smile
He smiles
"You know how fucking shit cool that would look in the front room?"
"Funny I was thinking the same."
We look around. This is gonna take seconds literally.
"Okay dude, back the Explorer right up to the door. Jump out."
He finished for me "Grab this fucker and go."
"Yep"

He went out, I waited pretended to still be eating, waiting for him to pull up, waiting where the fuck is he? I'm waiting for the Explorer to appear. In walks Jimmy. He tilts his head. Not tonight we ain't lifting this piece of coolness. Come on brah, you're talking to the man who once shoplifted a canoe. Nope says his face. I follow him out after a few minutes. Hop in.

"What the fuck chuck? "
"You know, not 15 minutes ago I used a a credit card to purchase goods in that store? "
"Was it under your name?"
"Yes it was."
"Well...we can't steal that thing then."

And I don't know who started talking first but it went something like this.

"Okay that place is open late"
"I disagree, that's when their watching closest"
"Good point okay so, middle of the day"
"Take the plates off the Explorer, or even better, borrow Corrine's van and take the plates off"
"Then we snatch it and run"
"Oh fuck man, we get coveralls and pick it up like it's our job. "
"Fucking perfect. How soon?"
"Next week too soon?"
"No, that should be good."

But we didn't that week. Shit was going on, or the next week. And then months blend together and it becomes something we're gonna get drunk and do some time. But sometime never came. I moved out. Back down to my old neighborhood, Felony Flats. Yeah and if you know Portland you know I ain't lying. I kept on driving cab, straightening up and flying right. Which, if you've ever hacked you know there is nothing straight or right about it. It's like being a cowboy. With girls. Few months later the DEA kicked in Jimmy's door over some misunderstanding. They questioned me for about 15 minutes. The whole fucking place was bugged the whole time we all lived there. They knew Jimmy did this all on his own. I knew nothing about it. The cops knew everything about everything. So if you were fucking me during that time. Ummmmm...The feds got it all on tape. Oops.

I moved on to my next personal paradigm. Jimmy got 25 years in federal prison for drug trafficking. Plus...No Ronald McDonald.

Tuesday, January 5, 2010

Fuckin Pigs

So I'm in fucking court one day and I have my little sit-down with my counselor and I asked her if she thought the cops were actively surveiling me. And she said yes. Yes they were.

I shrugged "Okay but besides what they normally do?"

"They're opening your mail"

"Yeah, like besides opening my mail."

"I don't really know what their priorities are."

"Well, what's your professional opinion? You are my fucking lawyer."

"Probably yes. I sure as hell would be. "

Fuck man. There are good points and bad points to having an ex-cop as your defense attorney. But there isn't much that sucks worse than having cops following you around. It's like your worst college professor ever, teaching a class that never ends, with the right to open fire if you answer any of the questions wrong enough.

Monday, January 4, 2010

Kim's Poem

For her birthday.

Your heart seems worried
Afraid the years pass too fast
Patience, my love. It took a
Mighty long way, finding you.

It took me longer to find you
Than the Israelites wandered
I expect to be loving you for a
Damn sight longer than that.

Sunday, January 3, 2010

Testing

Okay, I'm practicing this so if I fuck it up...well I'll delete it so that makes this whole line of thoug...

I've never had a brother. Two sisters. And most of the families around me, to this day, mostly just have sisters. My own family, all girls. My wife's family, mostly girls. I have had three male first cousins, ever. It's weird. My two best friends? No brothers. Both had sisters. My sisters had what seemed like dozens of friends that only had sisters. When I was a kid my grandparents lived next door to a family with four sisters.

I've spent my life in a sorority.


A Top 20 List for 2009

The Top 20 Things My Wife Said To Me In 2009*
*In order of frequency
1. "Do you have my lighter?"
2. "Give me back my lighter."
3. "You stole my lighter again, didn't you?"
4. "I love you"
5. Upon walking into my office..."GIVE ME MY FUCKING LIGHTER!"
6. "Go write something."
7. "No no no. I did not say tell me what you're going to write I said go write it."
8. "I'll take care of it."
9. "You should take care of that."
10. "Goddamn, you're good in bed." Okay that's not really 10 in order of frequency but it moved up a bunch of spaces because of sheer ego and intensity.
11. "Lower your voice."
12. "What?"
13. "Ummmm. Lighter...I swear to god Michael, you're like a fucking klepto or something. Lighters just find their way into your pocket like the One Ring don't they? You need help."
14. "Let me help you with that."
15. "Help me with this."
16. "Our daughter needs our help"
17. "We need to talk to our daughter."
18. "GO FUCKING WRITE SOMETHING!"
19. "You are the biggest lighter thief I've ever met."
20. "I still love you anyway."

Saturday, January 2, 2010

I'm just sayin...

They should take all that bonus money that they gave to the bankers and the insurers and all the rest of those ticks and give it to whoever designed the Mars Rovers. And chicks. Or dudes. Must be some women on the team. Or gay men. Whatever. Hotties of whatever variety is preferred. Because, let's face it. These people who designed this thing probably don't get laid much. And the money. All the bonus money, tax free and all the mad sweaty love they want. Forever. That should be their reward for designing the Mars Rovers.

More Facebook

Holy sheep shit! I got 50...that's five oh bebe, friends on Facebook. Which is wild because that's like, in round numbers, probably 46 or 47 more friends than I had in high school. Facebook is a little like a never ending high school reunion. I look around. I see these vaguely familiar faces and names. People talk to me, about things I remember doing, but I have no clue who they are. I break out my year book. Still no clue. Then I realize, I already know where the chowderheads I ran with in high school are. In Auburn, Georgetown, LA, Portland, Texas. No great fuckin mystery there. I want to chat up any of these jokers, I call em up. Fuck it. They'd all appear in court on Monday to testify, under oath, that I was playing cards at his house all weekend. Who's house? Pick one. Which weekend? Whatever one you're asking about.

This is different. These are a whole new set of people. We have something in common. We went to school together. Other than that, it's a whole new crowd, a whole new scene. Just with a weird hazy historical twist. And the lines don't run straight. Some of those I remember vividly became my friends once more. Like my sister's friend. I used to sit behind her, intentionally, in my sister's Mustang, because I could smell her hair. It was that long blond hair that only real California chicks have. Sorry if that came off as creepy. I was only 14 or 15 at the time. Or her sister. Who I remember from Journalism and about six semesters of English. I remember her being very polite, pretty but way way way too smart for me. A girl had to be pretty stupid to date me in high school. And she wasn't stupid. Still isn't. Still pretty too. Also I was secretly in love with her sister so...there was that. Then there were others I knew who I thought I knew. But who simply ignored or rejected my friend request. That was strange.

But some of the most interesting have been the friends I have made, of whom I have little or no recollection. I made friends with some people that hung out up at the art building. I was down at the wall. Well, hey, that's where a lot of stupid girls were. And it's where the dope was. I liked girls and I liked dope so I liked the Wall. Then there are others, who I should know. And I have no clue. One of them is a great FB friend to me. We have great conversations. She remembers me. But, I'm sorry Counselor. My mind lost your place in my history. That's when I understood. Why was I meeting all these really smart ladies on FB, with whom I had gone to school, but didn't know? It's the stupid thing. When I was in high school I had very few redeeming qualities, generally speaking. And the ones I had, weren't especially endearing. Like I said earlier. You had to be pretty dumb to want to go out with me when I was 17. And I didn't have girls who were friends. I had girls I thought I could fuck and ones I didn't. Again...Less of a young gentleman vibe and more of a don't-touch-me vibe. I been cultured since then. Been to charm school and shit like that. I grew up. Grew up some, anyway. I also now have many many friends of the female gender that I am not trying to fuck. Besides, I ain't trying to sleep with nobody. I'm succeeding at sleeping with exactly the one lady I want to be sleeping with. Another thing you get, that's weird, is ex-lovers. I have an even half dozen now. Poke Amanda. Poke Elizabeth. Believe me, if I was not married And I am married, happily, faithfully and forever...But if I wasn't, fuck yeah...I'd poke Amanda. You know what's funny? That website Funny things My Husband Says. If I was going to do Funny Things My Wife said it'd include "If that little whore puts her hands on you again I'm gonna fucking cut em off." And she meant it. She fucking meant it. God I love that woman!

So it's got this semi-reunion vibe but with much bigger and more detailed nametags. The best nametag I ever had was when I went to a radio convention in Vegas. Right before I left the Business. And when I say the Business, I mean the Industry. Anyway...My nametag was

HELLO MY NAME IS:

Legion

Pretty cool huh? Yeah you non religion expert types out there don't know what that means. Do you? It's from da Bible. Jesus asked a demon it's name and the demon replied "Our name is Legion for we are many." Way cool fucking line. And a vaguely hell-worthy joke about the satanic nature of mass media.

But what most nametags, at least the ones I wear, really should say is:

HELLO MY NAME IS:
who da fuck cares what my name is
you need a name? fine it's kevin
Listen if you see the girl would you
please for the love of sweet baby
jesus have her bring me another
double scotch, neat.

Friday, January 1, 2010

I Repent

I said fuck Idaho and...Maybe not totally fuck Idaho so I give you

The Top Ten Cool Things About Idaho

1. It was the last of the 50 States to be entered by disease bearing Europeans.
2. The skiing and snowboarding there are beyond killer. And not just Sun Valley. Or Bogus Basin. The same snow that falls on Park City falls on Grand Targhee. And Pebble Creek. Pomerelle. Good snow in Idaho.
3. They really do grow good potatoes there.
4. William Clark wrote, regarding Idaho "Nothing but high rugged mountains as far as the eye can see in every direction." That's pretty cool.
5. Ahhhh Geeze I already did the state Motto thing. But yeah, cool motto.
6. Evel Knievel failed to jump the Snake River Canyon near Twin Falls Idaho.
7. They eventually ran all the Nazis out of Hayden Lake.
8. Part of Yellowstone is in Idaho.
9. Craters of the Moon National Monument is a total trip.
10. Man, ya know...that's all I got. Oh wait! I thought up one more. Boise State's football field is blue.

Writing drove me mad

This is occurring to me as I write it down. The though occurred to me once before but I dismissed it. I think I was too hasty. I think writing drove me mad. It wasn't the act of writing, you see. Rather, the subject matter. The subject matter. It's the only thing written that is almost universally scorned. It's the only literature that the most PC person on the fucking planet would not hesitate to destroy. And there's a reason for that. Because the subject matter is evil. And we all know it, whether we want to admit it or not. We all know it. And that's why we hate it. It manipulates us and causes us to behave in ways that are counter-productive to our goals. It can make us jump and dance on strings like soap purchasing marionettes. You know the subject matter I mean.

If you want to understand, truly understand the human condition, you shouldn't ask a psychologist, nor a sociologist, nor an anthropologist, nor an artist, nor a pollster (but you're getting warmer), nor a priest, nor a Zen Master. No, those folks will give you some good information on demographics, learning theory, brain chemistry, instinctual behavior. They'll get you the words, music and the images you need to stimulate those little neuroreceptors that drive those behaviors. But none of those people really put it all together. I mean ALL together. No, there was a different bunch that put de Lime in de Coconut.

Advertisers. They can make you do anything they want. I know many if not most of you will object, standing to shout "Not ME! I'm different!" Yes you. And you aren't nearly as different as you think you are. I'm sorry to be the bearer of bad news if you did not already know this. This may very well be the ravings of a lunatic. But that doesn't make it untrue. The Advertising Industry can make you do anything they want. And I worked for them long enough to see it. If you don't believe me, read some history. Perhaps I'll write one if it doesn't already exist. Yes, you. They control you. And me. I got this whole other problem though.

I wrote advertising. A lot of advertising. Because I'm pretty good at it. And when I need money...People ask me what's the most famous thing I ever wrote. A lawnmower commercial. I got 1500 bucks green money for it. I remember thinking Hmmm green money for green lawnmowers. Neato. Second was a dog food spot. Get it? Spot...I was on salary so, who the fuck knows what I got paid for that. A thousand a week if I remember correctly. Third one was for a landfill. I heard that old piece of shit last week.

Well...I can be pretty distant emotionally when I want or need to be. And I got kids to feed. I can do the job when the job needs done. But I'm not some fucking sociopath. I couldn't go on indefinitely making money doing something I considered evil. And it is. Evil. Two reasons. First, it controls you. In many cases, without your knowledge or consent. That's essentially unethical. Secondly, they will use it on you in any way they find possible, for any reason desired. And that is also prima facie evil. There is no ethic other than effectiveness. And it is always for sale to the highest bidder, regardless of who that bidder may be or what their goals are.

I've been pretty unstable my whole life. So there is that. But after that gig. I was a true madman. A stark raving lunatic for a while. Several whiles, in fact. And sometimes still. Granted, I've been through some pretty harrowing shit during my years in this mortal coil. All harrowing shit on this blog is complete fiction. Utter flights of my over-active imagination. Just like to throw that in from time to time. Anyway....Oh Yeah, Harrowing Shit. I've been through way more than my share, and none of that drove me over the edge. But working for the advertising industry did.

Snow Removal

The following piece has nothing at all to do with new years day, I wrote it a few days ago in Idaho. Fuck Idaho. The only cool thing about Idaho is it's motto "Esta Perpetua" She Goes on Forever.


It's bitter cold here, twenty below
I heard some truck driver say
Breathing itself is more difficult
In the thin air the simple act of
Survival presents a higher bar.

Heaps of snow are everywhere
Great mountains of it, all dirty
Once pure and white, the stuff
Of greeting cards, now piled up
Like ex-lovers on a friends list.

Thursday, December 31, 2009

New Years Eve

Fuck New Year's Eve

Tuesday, December 29, 2009

One Year Over, One About to Begin

Did you ever lay there staring at the ceiling
December's last days, Christmas has passed
The new year upon us, the old one almost gone
And think, I would have been better off staying
In bed banging shit three times a day all last year.

Then I come to my senses and think, No way!
I love life. Life is fucking great. Fucking Great.
Fucking Great. Fucking Great. Fucking Enraged.
Fucking Great. Fucking Tragic. Fucking Great.
Fucking Agonizing. Fucking Great. Fucking Tears.

Tuesday, December 22, 2009

Hey everybody!

I don't want to bum out anyone's Holiday Joy or piss on people's personal parade. But, just a quick heads up. The world is supposed to end three years from today. Just making sure you got the memo. Am I worried about it? My fellow dudes and dudettes...I'll be lucky to see another three years. That's a joke. I'm sure I'll survive to a ripe old age. You know, the Navy Experiment thing. So...No. I'm not. Worried, that is. The people who made that prediction, intensely remarkable though they were, were swallowed up by the Central American jungle 300 years before Christopher Columbus was born. And Isaac Newton, who I trust my life to everyday, said 2060. And...I seriously doubt I'll see 99. Not sure I want to see what my scragly ass looks like at 99. Happy Yule! Spring is coming! Someday....

Monday, December 21, 2009

Okay You know what? Fuck Canada. That's what

I just found out I'm kicked out of Canada.
I've been deported six times in my life.
To be fair, three of those were from Canada.
Two were Mexico, but they let me back in.

The RCMP don't fuck around up here Bub.
Three strikes and you're OUT...more or less, yeah?
For a while. Eh? A reasonable length of time.
Canada has the most polite cops in the world.

Mexican cops don't give a fuck about much
Not really. Dead presidents in the proper hands
Can cover a multitude of sins. If they're happy
They'll just escort you to the border and split.

Tunisian cops, got a different system. What they do
Is beat the living shit out of you. Clean you up with a
Fire hose. You get clothes that don't fit, your passport
And a one way ticket to the first place that'll take you.

It ended up being London.

I am not happy about being barred from entry by a Member of the Commonwealth. What's next? I can't go to Singapore. No? Good, because fuck Singapore too. Fuck Singapore because they're a whole city full of nothing but godamn right wing uptight uber capitalist pretentious assholes all trying to make money as fast as they can. The're like Cambodians, with sticks jammed up their asses. Is that racist? Fine I take it back. Cambodians with sticks jammed up their asses would be way more mellow than most people in Singapore.

Well you know, it's Canada. They're pretty forgiving. Eh?

Sunday, December 20, 2009

Holy Shit

I got some reeeeeeeally good smoke today...I mean...goddamn brotherman... That's some good shit. Just stand there and stare in the refrigerator for 20 minutes.

"Before I have to go and push up on your esa. She's fine. sante fresca. Here homes have a hit of this yesca."

That's one thing that's changed in my lifetime. Pot is like 50 times stronger than it was when I started smoking. I got some in a legal dispensary one time was so fucking good it was like immobilizing. Now, I have on numerous occasions used my share of narcotics that were of a questionable purity. But fuckinay Billy Ray. Seriously, I've shot heroin that didn't get me as high as that superkush bud they had did. They were like little one gram brain grenades. But I got some awesome muhfuckin herbage today. Mmm Mmm Mmm. With a cherry on top for Merry Christmas.

Saturday, December 19, 2009

Yesca

I think when California legalizes weed, a good state motto might be "Yes CA!"

Friday, December 18, 2009

Legal advice

Once upon a time when I was no more than a lad
I asked my attorney if these people had
Nothing better to do than waste to their time
By harassing me for this meaningless crime?

She said:

"No. They get paid specifically to fuck with you."

Slices of Thigh

My doctor wanted a piece of skin
Sliced from the inside of my thigh
She said, "I don't want to hurt you"
I laughed. You could never hurt me.

This made me walk a little funny
My boss asked me why the limp
I said I donated a DNA sample to
Science. To study why I'm so fuckin good.

Wednesday, December 16, 2009

Paper

Buried under paper that never ends.
Ten thousand little yellow sticky notes. Each
Bears a name a number a cryptic message.
Call Illegible at the Port Authority illegible.

What this means I have no fucking idea.
I don't know anyone named Illegible.
The Port Authority? Did they act like cops?
How do I even know this message is for me?

Stacks of reports and instructor evaluations.
Each must be dealt in the same fashion of
Meticulous detail with which I conduct my life.
"Fuck it. If it's that important, they'll call back."

Yeah hey, I'm an artist. A red rats crazy artist.
Some will find "crazy artist" to be redundant.
If I can't be an artist I'll teach. But for today,
I'm responsible for thousands of three ring binders.

Tuesday, December 15, 2009

So...Yeah!

Didn't get locked up. That was good. My lawyer has some major questions about whether the law enforcement agency (hint, there's a TV show about them. I can't tell you the name of the agency but their initials are NCIS), whether they had jursdiction to initiate an investigation against me, and more importantly, interrogate me. The judge just sat there staring at the complaint for like ten minutes. Flipping back and and forth with a WTF? look on his face. I keep hoping a judge, any judge, is going to look at this and look ast me and just say "Beat it! Stop acting like an idiot." But they didn't. They continued two weeks to see if we can unfuck this cluster.

Saturday, December 12, 2009

What about tools instead?

Me and some guys I knew were hanging out in the pool hall where we...hung out. And a guy we all knew walked in. He was greeted with a whole lot of enthusiasm, handshakes, hugs and a frosty cold brew. He was an important man. One to whom you paid respect, because he'd earned it. He ain't The Boss. But he was sure as fuck my boss. After a little a dis and a little a dat, he strolls over to our corner. He takes a look at two of my guys and gives me the look. Tha Cat is on it. "Hey, Mark, go grab us another round of beers. Andy, you go with him."

He had a little job for us. Cold as ice. But he needed it to be anonymous. That's the beauty of working with junkies. People expect them to steal shit. There was a little section of a warehouse. There was something in that warehouse that someone did not want to be delivered. That something was cosmetics. Very high grade cosmetics. We were assured there would be no security or alarms. We could go in anyway we wanted. He gave us a price and a date. Tossed us 3k as an advance and split.

We checked the place out. It was a dump. In a part of town nobody gave a fuck what you did after dark. Great big main roll up door, with a padlock. Talk about easy. Yeah, hey we're going to need the big van and like ummmm...bolt cutters, pinking shears? People like this should put up signs that say "STEAL ALL MY SHIT" Christ, we'd need more sandwiches than tools to open this can of corn. So we got it all set up. Got some warehouse space to hold the shit til it was time for it to go to...wherever it was going. Got the bolt cutters. Made the sandwiches. It was time.

We pop the lock on the door and open it up. Our van (an old UPS truck) pulls in. We shut the door and hit the lights. I glanced around. And made one of the most gross understatements in my career.

"Hey guys? I think we broke into the wrong place."

"Yeah, this looks like a construction company or something."

Felix was about to have an aneurysm so I went over to settle him down some. Crazy ass shit jumping off in the middle of a job was my department.

"Look, we find out who's this is. If we don't know them, we get what we can outa here and go with that for tonight. We've already missed our chance on the other thing. It's a dead deal. It had to be tonight and it's too late to go now. We should get something for our work."

Me and Felix checked the logo on the trucks and the business cards on the desk. Went through a file cabinet or two. Nobody we know. I ask the guys. Nobody knows the outfit.

"Cos your friends don't dance and and if they don't dance well they..."

Pleased to make your acquaintance Mr Construction Company Owner Dude. We're gonna go ahead and take all this stuff off your hands. Oh look! A cute little safe. Nice. Great idea, the portable safe. I'd like to thank whoever invented that.

Felix continued to vibrate. "Eddie's going to kill us all, kill us and have our fucking heads mounted."

"Yeah, he might" And he might. "But you let me worry about Eddie. You get those worthless humps to work. I want everything we can carry. "

Which ended up being a surprisingly juicy amount. It was a big place. They had several large trucks and a whole bunch of smaller ones. The keys were hanging in the office, very nice of them. We loaded every thing that could be driven with as many tools and construction materials and little safes and office furniture. We took the fucking Coke machine. Shit, we took the fridge in the break room. Basically, we cleaned the place out like a horde of hungry huns. And drove it all back to our (What's that Felix? You think the warehouse I got was too big? Not anymore it ain't motherfuckers) now nicely full warehouse.


I needed a hit, a big one, and some sleep. Eddie is going to kill us all when he finds out we didn't get the shit we were sent to get. Or not. What about tools instead? Tools move well. So does office stuff. So will the eighty-five hundred doll hairs we found when we popped that safe. But that's all later tonight.

Eddie didn't wait til later tonight. He almost waited for me to wake up. As I became aware of his presence, his guy, Iggy, dragged me out of bed and threw me against the wall, hard. I hit the floor and he kicked me three or four times til Eddie was satisfied.

"What the fuck gives you the right to take my fuckin money to go do a job I set up. But you don't go to the job I send you on. You go pull a whole different job. And do I see the boxes I told you to steal? No. I see you in sleeping in bed with fucking needle marks up your arm. Like you ain't got a care in the fucking world."

He reaches for his piece. He's bluffing. I know he won't kill me. I'm in deep shit for fucking up, that much is crystal clear. But if Eddie wanted me dead, I'd simply wouldn't have woke up. He didn't go in for all the dramatics. All that, rolling guys up in rugs or burying guys under a hundred pounds of lime in a construction site, digging holes in the desert, concrete galloshes bullshit. And he also didn't beat, harrangue or lecture people he was about to kill. Most guys don't. I don't. And I learned that from Eddie. Get in fast and quiet, do the job, get out fast and quiet. Leave Mr. Target-Head wherever the fuck he lands. Drop the piece and fucking evaporate. You absolutely gotta move him? Try the nearest dumpster. You need to tell someone why you whacked this fucker? Try the nearest priest. But don't make the mark sit through your yammering bullshit about why this and that. That's just mean. Besides, it ain't gonna matter in 30 seconds anyway. So who da fuck cares?

"You fucking little piece of shit. You've sat in my home, at my table and eaten with food my wife cooked, eaten supper with my children! And you treat me this way? Like I never meant nothing to you? My wife tells me how fuckin smart you are. What the fuck does she know? "

"Eddie, you got it all wrong."

"Wrong? I'm wrong? I don't feel wrong. Iggy? Do you think I got it all wrong?"
Iggy kicked me in the ribs. Harder than he had last time. "Yeah see there, Iggy thinks I got it right. I think I got it right. What say you put some clothes on your worthless ass and tell me why it ain't fuckin unanimous? Is there anything to drink in this shithole? Michael how can you live in this fucking dump. Christ it's like your raise goats in here or something. It smells. You need a woman. And in this fuckin neighborhood? Christ. I gotta bring extra guys just to watch my car."

I think, I have a woman. She doesn't like to clean. I live here because it's close to the dope. That's what I think. What I say from the fetal position on the floor of my shitty little apartment, so I assumed Iggy was going to pour, was . "Yeah...Jesus Christ Eddie...There's ahhh, fuck...Wild Turkey in there, some pretty decent scotch, Stoli in the freezer and ahhh....fuckin brews in the fridge. "

"Is that scotch from what you guys took off that Fremont thing?"

"Yeah Eddie, same stuff. I ahhhh I got a a few bottles still here, help yourself to few. "

"That was a good score and you already paid me all I had coming, and two extra cases. So, I'll drink your scotch but I'm not here to take it from you. Not your scotch anyway."

By the time I was up, and not in my underwear. Eddie was drinking my scotch at my kitchen table, and a glass had been poured for me. It was now time for me to atone for my sin. I didn't know what it'd be. I knew he wasn't going to kill me, but a broken arm wasn't out of the question. This guy didn't get to push buttons because he was nice. Even though he was. And I had been working for him for a long time. And we were good earners for him and his guys. And we always paid. Any job we did, we kicked up. If we stole a pack of fucking smokes, Eddie and his guys got three of them. But this was bad...How bad? A couple other guys walked in. Guys I didn't know

"Eddie I fucked up. You know I would never do anything to intentionally hurt you. It was a mistake. A stupid fucking mistake on my part that will never happen again. I'm really sorry. How bad is it Eddie?" I tried to sound sonly.

"Pretty fuckin bad Michael."

"Give me the chance to fix this Eddie. And I'll go back to work, better than ever."

"I was really hoping you'd say that." He reached across the table and placed his hand on my arm.
"We can give the stuff back." I offered.

"What you're hung up on that crazy bullshit thing from last night?" He laughs. Iggy laughs. The muscle doesn't laugh. "It's taken care of. The guy you hit, he's known to us. He fucking owes us. He still owes us. Not as much now." He laughs again." His insurance pays. All that swag your boys took out of there clocked in for more than double what we figured to do on the cosmetics. Fuck, the trucks alone were worth more than the other thing" He raises his glass. "Here's to making chicken salad out of chicken shit. We gave Felix and all the guys their end. Your end I keep so you remember not to fuck up no more. Yeah? And that other thing? Hey, Mikey we get em next time, no? Drink your drink...To a job well done. You think on your feet Michael, you always make me money. That's why I came here today."

Yeah let's talk about that Eddie. So...how's come you got all the muscle with you. I know why I got the beating from Iggy. For fucking up. I was lucky it was a light as it was. I got a half-assed beating and my forfeited end. But those two guys had come in while we were having our beverages. Then a third one. These were people unknown to me. And there is no good reason for them to be there.

"I didn't come here to talk to you about the jump last night. I came here to talk about those bruises on your arms. My son did the same fucking thing. He's dead, almost...15 years now. Overdosed. "

"Eddie, I got it under..."

"Shut your fucking hole. I talk, you listen. You tell me nothing. I tell you everything. You understand? You think you're a big man now because you know how to grab a little swag? Got your little crew. Fuck you, Michael when I was your age I'd been in prison since I was 12. You so smart? Want to hear something you dodn't know, genius? I was going to kill you. I should kill you. You endanger my interests. You put me at risk. But my wife said no. She said, help him. Look, Mikey, you're fucking up my business with that shit. Fucking up other guys' shit too. Guys that maybe don't know you so well as I do. Now, those people who work for you, I don't give two fucks about, they wanna die let em fucking die. Felix I don't worry about. Except when he's around you. "

"Felix has nothing to do with this Eddie."

Without even being told Iggy clocked me in the eye. Not hard enough to knock me out of the chair. Enough to say what Eddie was about to re-affirm.

"Is there someone else here talking? I thought I told everybody to shut up but I hear these voices. I should get that checked out maybe, yeah? Iggy, you hearing voices?"

And he tags me with a right cross to the other eye. What is it with me and two black eyes? I always end up with two.

"See? Iggy hears them too. Listen, I know what the fuck the Cat does and doesn't do and let me tell you this shit-for-brains. Felix is is carrying you. He set up the deal to make everyone happy. Yeah, that's right. Mr Bigshot Capo. If you're crew wasn't so busy acting like nine year olds in the candy store, the Cat would have clipped you and taken your crew a year ago. But he didn't. Because he has loyalty. So do you. So do I. But only to a point Mikey. You're good. But you ain't even close to that fuckin good."

"So...It's settled then. Don't fuck up like this no more or that's your fuckin ass and I ain't kiddin. Now. You're gonna go with these guys. They're gonna get you off that shit. Then you're gonna come back to and we make a shitpot full of money."

I just sat there looking at him. Finaly, he sighs and holds his hands up to his face and stares at them. I know that it means. I've seen him use it on me, his wife, his boss, his kids, the cops. It means "What have I done that I have to put up with all this bullshit? I just wanna make a livin for Chrissakes. I coulda been a fuckin priest"

"Fine Michael. What? You have to say something. Even though I said shut up. Even though I said it's settled. You have something more you need to contribute to this sitdown. What? What the fuck do you need to say?"

"Well, geeze Eddie, no disrespect intended. But, how's this going to work exactly?"

"Always with the fuckin details... How's it gonna work exactly? That's part of your problem. You think you gotta to know fucking everything but you don't. It makes you nosey. It makes people think you don't believe they can do their job. It's insulting Michael. I know you don't mean it as an insult. But it is a little insulting. "

"Fair enough Don Miguelito...How's it gonna exactly work? Exactly, you go with these guys. Bada Beep Bada Boop Bada Bop. They gonna clean you up and straighten you out. Do I look like a fucking doctor? How da fuck do I know how it works exactly! They ain't gonna put you in the trunk of a fuckin car in the weeds. That much I know. Not fuckin yet anyway. You thinkin maybe that instead Michael? "

I shook my head. No, not in a trunk in the weeds. I like dope but not enough to fuckin die for it.

The leg-breakers stepped to either side of me. We were, in fact, going to do this easy or hard. I stood up, raised my glass, drank it down, poured another generous serving, filled Eddie's glass. We raised a toast. I drained mine again.

"You're the boss, Eddie. You know me. Whatever you say, I'm all in."

And then I went to rehab. It was okay. Weird. Lots of pretty girls lots of pretty nurses. I got clean. Eddie paid for it. Then he made me pay it back over the next two years. Fucker. I did some of the most inspired work I've ever done. For close to three years, me and the Cat and our guys were like fucking pirates. Cruising for fat Spanish galleons We'd spot our prey, move in close.

"Run up the Colors if you please Mister Weiss!"

We were the Lords of All Ports. Blackguards Highwaymen Smugglers.

Then...then life happened...Felix got killed. I quit working so much. Then hardly at all. Once in a while but my heart just wasn't in it anymore. Eddie went away to Lompoc for...whatever they finally pinned on him. I didn't really have any hobbies so I just went back to banging dope full time, for a couple years. Did whatever jobs I needed to do to stay high and housed in the manner to which I was accustomed. Which meant living near where they sold dope. Nothing more than a common thief.
Is this a nightmare? Or the American dream?
So think twice if you're coming down my block.
You wanna journey through Hell? Well shit gets hot.
Pregnant teens children scream
Life is weighed on the scales of a triple beam.
You don't come here much and you better not
Wrong move BANG! ambulance cot.
I gotta get more money than you got.
So what if some motherfucker gets shot.
Ice-T

And that's how it went for me until I saw a chinese guy in a white shirt stare down a tank. But that's another story.

Friday, December 11, 2009

May December

So I'm talking to this guy I know and he tells me all about how he's banging this little 20 year old skin toy. And I think. Hmmm. 20. That's a year older than one of my daughters. You're 47. And I think about what I might do if my daughter was seeing a man more than twice her age.

I guess I'd have to invite him for a drink. Get to know the guy. Feel him out His intentions. Make sure he's a serious man. Make sure his drink is always fresh. Then maybe a little small talk about the weather or the game or what the fuck ever. Then, make sure I have his undivided attention:

"My daughter... I love her so much. She's my special princess. So much so, that if you ever go near her again, I will shoot you in the back of the head then hack you up into little pieces and feed you to my dogs. I'm not even fucking kidding, friend. You do not want to test me on this. Just walk away. Never see her or speak to her again. She'll get over you soon enough. "

You see, this is my tried and true, bad boyfriend speech. It's worked on...geeze, well, I have three teenage daughters so you do the fucking math. More than a few. See, I'm kinda crazy so...life working out the way life works out, my daughters some times bring home, let's say, more than their share of crazy boys. And a little crazy is fine. A little crazy is interesting. But say for example, "you committed an act of violence against my daughter" crazy? No. I can't allow that. I won't allow it. Before I'd allow that, I'd kill you and a dozen more motherfuckers that look just like you.

And if there is the slightest glimmer of misunderstanding, rebellion, argument or badassery on his part, if he so much as says "Yeah but...". I follow it with round two. Round two always works.

"Hey Hey...Take it easy buddy. That's fine. Look I can see you don't take me seriously. You think I'm just full of shit and you can kick my ass. And I understand that feeling. I want to help you, not hurt you. So, to prove to you that I'm a serious man I'm not just talking shit when I say I'll kill you...I'm going to break both your thumbs with this little crowbar I brought with me. Or, I guess if you'd rather we can go straight to hacked up into dogfood. It's no skin off my ass, man. You tell me. I don't give a fuck one way or the other. " Then I show him the gun I'll use to kill him. This is important stuff for you non-militant types to know. If someone threatens you with a gun or a knife and doesn't actually make sure you see it...He's bluffing. Anyway...That's usually when he takes off running. And I let him. Provided he does...run, that is.

This is a very sexist view on my part. I think that an older man (let's say, 45) , seeing a younger woman (make her 21) and I think...must be some kind of predatory element to this relationship. All sorts of dark thoughts of objectification and mistreatment.

But if a woman of 45 is out with a young man of 21, I think "Yeah!. Good for the both of you! Get some, baby! Get it while it's hot!"

That's kinda sexist on my part. I have daughters. That probably makes me less than objective.

Wednesday, December 9, 2009

I Saw Him One Day

I saw him. It was him for sure.
Standing in line at Ralphs or
Safeway or wherever the fuck
I was shopping when I saw him.

Standing there, in line with his cart
Nadine hon, can I get a price check
On maggots, monsters and murderers.
I walked closer, it was him. No question.

The kitchen utensils section had my tools
Selecting the most expensive and sharp
Serrated carving knife the store carried.
I slipped it from the cardboard package.

Into my basket with my bottle of merlot
My cans of tunafish, cat food and my bread
The knife waited, nestled amongst the food.
My next meal will be that worthless life.

Working in closer, he was second in line.
Plenty of room to move. Room I'd need
To crack his fucking skull with the merlot.
Get him down, gut him like the animal he is.

Three feet and he sees me, I look in his eyes.
It's not him. I mean. Fuck, I don't know. No.
It's not. A muttered "excuse me" and move on.
Setting my basket down I head for the exit.

It's not him. After I got to my car, I knew
It couldn't have been him. No question.
He hadn't just had his eyes gouged out.
And I hadn't just taken a bite out of his liver.

That's how I knew it wasn't him.

Bad Dreams

Saw a guy jump off a bridge today. A big bridge. One you don't survive. One where they usually don't even recover a body. The tide takes them away to, who knows? I guess that big floating mass of plastic between here and Hawaii or wherever. Elsewhere. I didn't personally witness his death, but we got there right after. There was nothing we could do there except be in the way. We drove off. I beat on the steering wheel and yelled "Motherfucker motherfucker motherfucker motherfucker" til I just started crying.

So...I guess I'm officially still human.

Tuesday, December 8, 2009

29 Years

John Lennon was gunned down in the street in front of his home 29 years ago today. One of his values I have always tried to embrace is his view on gender equality. Therefore I will play, in his honor, the best feminist protest song I know. If you are offended by it, ask yourself why before you tear into me.


Monday, December 7, 2009

The Rest of The Sexy Girl Rocker List

There were some protests over my lack of inclusion of certain ladies on the first list. So, I've expanded it somewhat. I give you numbers 11 through 15.

11. Belinda Carlisle. Someone had to be the first full frontal nude on my page. I'm just glad it was Belinda.














12. Jane Weidlin. As long as we're discussing the Go-Go's. Let's not overlook Ms. Weidlin. She totally rocks, is an animal rights activist, likes to bowl and is allegedly a dominatrix. That certainly sounds like the makings of a fun date to me. Jane, you had me at "Is that real leather?"


















13. The Jonas Brothers. No I'm just fucking with you. You know, because it's 13 and...yeah, so... The real number thirteen goes to:
13. Exene Cervenka. "Grab her throw her in the tub, she says 'Coffee and a piece of pie." I can't help it. I love X. I love the Knitters. I love her spoken word stuff. I saw every band there was to see in the LA punk scene. X kicked all their asses. Watch her in "Decline of Western Civilization." Not to mention that she was once married to Vigo Mortensen. That's pretty fucking cool.

















14. Tina Turner. Always had It. Always will. Technically an R&B artist, I know. But...Come on. Can I get an amen for Miss Anna Mae?


















15. Tina Weymouth. Like I said. My list. My choices. I choose Tina because when she played her fingers bled. Stigmata is sexy.
That's all for tonight

Sunday, December 6, 2009

My Birthday Post

I have a list fetish. No lie. I love them. And don't be looking that way. It's not like it's my only fetish. I'm a grown man with passionate feelings who's been around the block my share of times. My share and a couple other guys' shares too. Besides, what's your weirdest fetish? Weirder than lists, I bet. Yeah, well so is mine. Weirder than lists, that is. But I do really really dig lists. So a list is what shall be written for today, the day of my birth. Sorry for the fucked up graphics. I'm on my shittiest computer so this piece just barely has a pulse. But without further yammering I give you...


The Ten Sexiest Women in Rock and Roll


1. Chrissie Hynde. Okay this list is in no particular order of sexiness. But holy shit... she's fine. She always gets the top spot on my countdown.









2. Etta James. If you are hip to her music, I'm not telling you anything you don't already know. If you aren't, you need to be.













3. Meg White. Seriously, how do you not love curvy girl drummers? Number six is her mother-in-law. Heh.


















4. Terri Nunn. I was a huge Berlin fan for one reason and one reason only. That reason would be Terri Nunn.



5. Joan Jett. I know she's gay. I don't care. And her with Carmen Electra? Gives me a headrush just thinking about it..."Going faster miles an hour now. I got the radio on" I bet their amps go to 11.











6. Patti Smith. My list. My choices. I love this picture of her.


















7. PJ Harvey. I'm not sure I even know the words to describe her. How about, I need a fucking bib when I listen to her music because it makes me salivate like a Pavlovian dog hearing bells. And not just because of the leg licking thing. Not entirely.




















8. Candye Kayne. But dont take my word for it. Ask anyone who's ever seen her sing. Or go see her show. Or watch it on youtube. Mmm mmm mmm. Yes please and thank you.














9. Shirley Manson. See..I got this thing for redheads. And Garbage.





















10. Sinead O'Conner. See...I got this thing for radical activists who used to belong to religious orders and have honest-to-god moral courage. Courage is way fuckin sexy.















So that's my 10. If you like them, I'd love to hear from you. If you have other suggestions for future lists, I'm all ears. If you want to say mean shit about me or my stuff, and you aren't among those allowed to say mean shit to me...fuck off.

Friday, December 4, 2009

Angels in the Highlands

We're bouncing down a track in No Se, Peru. Or Ecuador. Hard to say. We were on our way to No Se, Ecuador. Or Peru. Hard to say. Martinez knew. The driver allegedly knew. I had a decent idea of the direction back to Lima. We had something that almost passed for a map. That was good enough for me. It's not like we had that many roads from which to choose. We had the one we were on, which was deteriorating rapidly. I swear to fucking God that if we end up walking more than 50 feet on this mission I will quit when we get back. I do not want to hump this bush. Not for a few minutes. Not for an hour. Not one kilomter up this hill. I had a picture of the guy me and Collins were supposed to grab. Or clip. Hard to say. We'd make that call after we arrived at...wherever. All this was entirely based on the premise that the shitty little car we were crammed into was going to survive the trip. And that the road held. Otherwise we'd be at least in the ballpark of totally fucked. Hard to say.

Nobody gave a good god damn about this guy we were picking up. Not us. Not them. But they wanted him less than we did so that made him ours. Therefore, deeper we bounced into the People's Republic of Vines, Bugs and Crazy Little Fuckers With Guns. I hate this shit job. I mean, don't get me wrong. It's awe-inspiring, it's intense, it's indescribably dark at night, it's a billion shades of green everywhere you turn during the day. The mountains are spectacular. The people here, tough as old shoe leather but still kind. With weird clothes and interesting music and art and food. But then there are the vines and bugs and crazy little fuckers with guns. Someone told me they invented potatoes near here. So, there is that. And Rio's kinda close. Close enough to bail to in times of extreme crisis. I mean seriously, can I get an amen for Rio. No extradition and...It's fucking Rio.

This was gonna be routine. A walk in the proverbial park. Cruise up there, drop this fucker and cruise home. We had the toys. We had legit papers. This had official sanction. Well, as official as anything was that happened down here. Shit, we even had three cases of bibles in the trunk. We were missionaries, sent by God Himself to bring the Love of Jesus to these poor raggedy-assed indians. Bring it to one of God's children in particular. One who was either going to ride back to Lima sitting between me and Collins or his head was going to make the trip stashed in the trunk under those bibles. Nobody seemed to care much one way or another. And look, I don't want to come off like some fucking sociopath or anything, but the car was already mighty goddamn crowded. This guy better have bathed recently or that might be all the reason I need. I hate this shit job. This was all speculation on my part. None of it actually happened.

We rounded a corner and like magic the jungle peeled back for a few hundred meters. The track ran down the hill to one side of the clearing. Up the hill from us was a little knot of buildings, a little farm, didn't look like coca, A barn looking building, a couple hootches, pig pen, the usual. By the time we got stopped and had more than a half-assed glance at the place, we saw the gunman. What was worse, they saw us. What was even worse was that they appeared to all be armed with Chinese-made weapons. Which was a bad thing.

Bad for us. Good for them. We, conversely, were not so well-equipped. I had a .38 revolver in my pocket and five extra shells. It wasn't even a real Smith and Wesson. It was a knockoff I picked up in Quito. I didn't plan on needing it more than once. The only reason I brought the fucking thing was to shoot this guy. I was going to drop it there and ride back unarmed. So I got nothing. I doubted there was much more defensive ordinance amongst the four of us. I'm sure Collins has something because he's my spare tire. Martinez had a nine strapped on during the briefing. For all I knew the driver had brass knuckles. Martinez is the honcho. He makes the call.

"Keep driving. Slow, but not too slow. This is not our mission. I don't give a fuck what this place is. Keep moving."

Good idea. Fuck it. I'm the only anglo in the car, and they can't see me too good anyway. Just delivering some bibles to poor oppressed peasants. And then we're gonna shoot one of them and cut his head off and hide it under some bibles. Even I chaffed some at that part of the plan. I mean...Shit over. Bibles? Collins, who was more religious than me thought it was funny as hell. One fact that has been noted by many people, myself included, was best expressed by Clint Eastwood in a film entitled Heartbreak Ridge. I know of no better way to say it. And it is at this part of our tale that it becomes relevant.

"This is the AK-47, the preferred weapon of your enemy. It makes a very distinctive sound when fired at you."

It really does. Make a very distinctive sound when fired at you. Theirs were no exception. We hadn't moved 10 meters when everyone of those little fuckers (who wasn't reading a map, taking a crap or cooking breakfast) lit us up with small arms fire. Most of them couldn't shoot for shit but at least one or two could. Somebody raked the driver's side of the car with what I'm sure was all 30 rounds. The driver was dead. Most of the his head looked like it was in Martinez's lap. Collins was hit bad, slugs had penetrated the side of that car and hit him, Christ...everywhere. Upper thigh wounds with severe bleeding, multiple abdominals that were bleeding just as bad. Chest wounds, at least two. Bright red, arterial. I'd seen this movie before. It end with a folded flag. I had a couple small fragments and some glass in my face. How I wasn't chopped up into ground pork I have no idea. I sure as shit wasn't waiting for the next round of target practice to begin. So I kicked open the door and dragged Collins out. Martinez looked hit. He'd taken at least two of those rounds. But he was moving. He was out of the car.

The car, after being ventilated, along with three of our guys, had actually rolled off the road and down into a little ditch that gave us some degree of cover from the enemy position. At least that was what I was telling myself. That and, Hail Mary,Full of Grace, The Lord is with thee. Blessed art thou among women, and blessed is the fruit of thy womb...You get the idea.

"What Collins' status?"
"He's bleeding to death."
"We gotta get the fuck out of here"
Geeze boss, ya think?

We're crouched by the side of the car, Collins is...bleeding. And a fucking RPG flies over our heads, missing by a comfortable margin, but still. It came from close. Real close

"We gotta move now, what're Collins' chances?"
"Fucking expectant."
He's going to bleed out and die, right here in this ditch and there ain't a fucking thing anyone can do about it.
"How long?"
"Three to five minutes, maybe less."
"Let's move"

Then something jumps from my peripheral vision, a flash, a flare, no a smoke trail, no it's another RPG. Bright flash of light. My head feels like it's caught fire. I hear it, it sounds funny, not right, but it punched me in the eardrums, and they screamed. And it then it was as if someone hit me with a giant pillow. Darkness, that seems to last forever. I can't move. Can't move. My eyes won't open. My ears are ringing bad. I force myself. Think goddammit. Move motherfucker! You want to die in this shithole? Open your fucking eyes and move! Okay okay okay, I see. I remember. We were hit. I see Collins' body. Next to the car. About ten maybe twelve feet from me. That's not right is it? The car's on fire. So is the driver. But he doesn't seem to mind. And Martinez. Jesus Christ, Martinez. What appears to be roughly the bottom three fifths or so of my boss is laying a few feet from the car. The rest of Martinez is...elsewhere.

I gotta move, right the fuck now. I try to stand. Indescribable pain explodes in my both my leg and arm at nearly the same instant. Things get dark again. Wake up now, now now. Think motherfucker! What's your status? Okay, head to toe, just like they taught me. Minor burns on my face and neck. I'm covered in blood, some of it mine, most of it Collins'. My left ear is bleeding and feels perforated, I'm at least 75% deaf. I'm certainly concussed and probably getting shocky. I have what appears to be a severe wound, probable fracture to my lower right arm and wrist. My right foot was there, but attached kinda sideways. I was also pretty sure all the hair was burned off my head. Not that there was all that much there to burn. Yeah haha, laugh it up Chuckles. I'm seriously wounded in hostile territory. I'm just barely armed. My entire fucking team is dead. And I am standing by to be overrun. One of the tires on the car exploded. I saw it, but I didn't hear much of it. My left eye was swelling shut by now so I was evidently about to be half blind and 90% deaf. For chrissakes, I can't even crawl into the bushes and try to hide.

Hail Mary, Full of Grace, The Lord is with thee. Blessed art thou among women, and blessed is the fruit of thy womb, Jesus. Holy Mary, Mother of God, pray for us sinners now, and at the hour of death. Amen.

Repeat as needed.

Why aren't they shooting? Because they think we're all fucking dead. Here in a couple minutes they're going to send some poor shitbird down to make sure we're all fucking dead. I had a decision to make. What was going to happen when one of the fucking maggotshit bastards who just killed my friends walked down here to make sure I'm all the way dead? And here he comes, then his buddy, and another...what the fuck is the whole platoon coming down for a look? I saw 16. They don't see me. Not yet anyway. Sixteen to one, huh? Custer was a pussy. And I thought about how things didn't end so good for Custer. Okay well, sorry about that, Good People of the Free World, but I'm going to keep rolling the dice. Missionaries don't carry guns, not even little ones to shoot people behind the ear with. So my piece and shells all went in the bushes. Even if they do find it, one of them will just pocket it. I wrapped my head around Pastor David Pullman. American missionary with the right to travel this road. I figured about 70-80% chance they'd just shoot me outright. Why bother finding out if they hit the wrong car when they can just bury the four of us and move higher upcountry? Plus I was hurt, hurt worse than they'd be interested in troubling over. But it was the only chance I had. So I filled my lungs and in my best bad junior high spanish, shouted:

Ayuda Ayuda, tu ayuda! Help me please! I'm hurt, por favor! Estoi uhhhh Estoi danado. Please. Ayuda. Help me.

Well, that got every one's attention. Which is a bit like saying that the Loma Prieta Quake really fucked up the World Series. And they all came charging down. I wondered if anyone was back at the hootch area making sure breakfast wasn't burning. The kid with the map was certainly there. One of his boys skidded to a stop in front of me. I can see his mouth moving but I can't hear anything. He's saying "Levanto, levanto!" Get up! I mutter "mi pierno, no puedo" Another soldier steps in next to him and...pretty much says the same thing. The rest of the unit, I count...fuck 20 at least total, just sorta standing there like self propelled land mine detectors, waiting for the kid in the clean fatigues to make a decision. At least now I knew who it was I was up against. Let break it down. Chinese weapons, poor marksmanship, itchy trigger fingers, a vague sense of military order. I mean, someone was clearly in charge, but mostly just a bunch of kids trying to look tough, some in fatigues that didn't look like they'd been washed, ever. Some in civies. All of them malnourished. No doubt about it.
It was El Sendero Luminoso.

The Shining Path. Peruvian Maoist guerrillas that were so fucking poor they used to receive support from the Pathet Lao. There was a time when they were a cohesive fighting force. And not one you would take lightly. That time is long past. Their leaders are all in jail or dead. Their base of support among the peasants has disappeared. They've broken into a dozen (at least) splinter groups, all vying for control. God knows which one these clowns belonged to. One with RPG's anyway. They got the shit beat out of them regularly. You almost felt sorry for the little bastards. Almost. Almost felt sorry. But they killed my brothers.

My brothers? Well yeah, it wasn't like I was on the softball team or anything back in Lima. But we were all on the same side. Honestly, I never even learned the driver's name. We'd met that morning at the briefing. They gave us our passports, wallets with ID's and shit. Mine said David Pullman. Missionary. Nice. My second favorite position. I guess that beats the shit out of Mike the corpse. Anyway, me and the driver were both to busy eating and reading our briefings to exchange pleasentries. I'd been working for Martinez for about six months. He said shit, I said what color. I knew next to nothing about him. He once said he was divorced and had a kid. We never really talked much to each other. And why would he? He had an actual place in all this shit. I was less than nobody down there. And I liked it that way.

The only things I knew about Collins was that his real name wasn't Collins and he liked the Dodgers. Martinez was the only one who was an actual real live person. God knows why they even sent him on this chickenshit job. I guess to make sure it went smoothly. So far so good, Skipper! Collins and I were both contracted. Freelance was the term I liked. That's what it really means, freelance. A free lance, a knight not currently in the service of any specific noble. Well hey... I say freelance, you say contract murderer. Let's call the whole thing off. But that really was the really real deal on this place. Work when there's work, drink when there ain't. Here today, burning in hell tomorrow. Eight months of this had me ready to bail. I was just trying to scrape up enough cash to get to Rio or maybe even home. Expendable is a harsh word. One that the Good People of the Free World don't much like. But that doesn't make it untrue. If any one of those guys had been given orders to kill me, they wouldn't have hesitated. That was a two way street, and they knew it same as I did. But we were all on the same side. I looked around. Guess I'm on my own side now, bros. I fucking hate this shitty job

These cocksuckers will either execute me on the spot or beat me to death trying to extract information. Make no mistake about this. The Shining Path fighters had reputations as stone fucking murderers. They hadn't yet entered their "Just sell the guy to the highest bidder." version of communism. They would soon. Assisted by their Colombian allies. The Capitan over there is going to decide. I can't see shit. Jesus Christ my ankle hurts. This is taking a while. He doesn't know what to do with me. I give him a little hint.
"Usted ayuda por favor Capitan, Help me please. I'm hurt..."

"Shut the fuck up."

He said it like he was telling someone to turn down the TV. In perfect English. His accent sounded LA. He's smart, he's a kid, but an evidently an educated one. And that was good for me. Becuase as long as he thinks I'm worth something, I'm still rolling the dice. And he's thinking. Then I see it come to him. They aren't going to kill me. He doesn't think I'm a missionary. He thinks I'm an operative. No fucking way in the world is he dumb enough to just eliminate someone that valuable on a whim. He nodded at the gomer closest to me who stepped in. I thought I heard a crack but it's so far away now. Hard to say. I remember there was no flash. I always assumed there'd be a flash. But there wasn't. My life didn't pass before my eyes. Just exploding darkness and black fire.


Motherfuckers. I really didn't think they'd kill me.


They're dragging my body up the hill. It feels like wet clothes. Cold. Sticky. So this is dead huh? My physical existence began to just slough off. Then my body is gone. And I'm floating in a darkness that seems to go on forever. I'm not seeing or hearing any angels, maybe they come later. I feel warm, safe. I know the angels are coming soon. I can hear them singing now. In...Spanish.

I hope they get here soon, my ankle is starting to hurt again...my ankle? I look down. No ankles down there. No feet either. No legs, torso, arms or, I assumed, head. Just my mind floating in the dark. I hear something, maybe it's angels singing, but it sounds like bees or something. Maybe angels sound like bees. I see a light now. It's there, then gone, then there again. I try to move towards it, but it flashes once more then is gone. Bet that light is where the angels are. I don't think this is hell. I don't see any fire or demons and shit. It's not bad, it's just dark. It hurts some, it feels like i'm bouncing around like a roller-coaster in the dark. What's that one at Disneyland? Disneyland? What the fuck is Disneyland again? Oh yeah, with the ears and princesses and jungle cruise. The roller coaster jumps it's track and everything explodes into blinding unbearable pain. Pain so intense that it became my entire existance. I can not so much hear as I can feel someone screaming and I realize it's me. Waves of it seem to wash over me. Then nothing again. Nothing at all. Again I see the light. And again I try to move. And again I can't. And again the light disappears. And again I slip back into...Hell?

No, not hell. Pain. Ungodly pain in my head, my leg and my arm. I was waking up. And God Almighty I hurt. I tried to remember where the fuck I was. I was...What the fuck was I? I was...shot in the face? What the fuck? I reached up to touch my face and found a sticky mass that hid a whole new level of pain. So, after I almost passed out from touching my nose, I tried to see. My eyes were fucked up. Swollen shut. Yeah. I got shot in the face. My left arm was burned a little but still pretty good. I felt around. My right ankle felt broken badly. There's no way I can walk even with crutches. It had a folded blanket wrapped and tied. That was good. It was about the best you were going to get this side of a hospital. And maybe it was the vibe. But even laying there, half dead, half crippled, half deaf, half blind, and half blown up. I got the sense I was not in any sort of hospital or aid station.

My right arm was, broken? Below the elbow, ulna radius both. But at least it was closed. Hurt like a motherfucker but it'd heal. And my wrist was broken...again. You know how some boxers have a glass jaw? I have a glass wrist. Anybody says limp wrist gets to see that I can still throw a punch with it. It's been broken like a half dozen times and is so fucked up the if you kick it real hard more bones fall off. My right wrist. I'm left handed. So don't get any bright ideas. I felt around a little more. Carefully. My passport and wallet were gone. So was my cheap ass watch and my cheaper ass wedding ring. I was on some kind of litter. My fucking shoes were gone. I decide to continue playing possum for a while. Problem is, I can't hear shit of what they're saying.

I knew what must have happened now. That kid with the RPG reloaded and his second shot was better than the first. But he didn't get a direct hit. He couldn't have. That little car would have gone off with a lot of force. We (especially me!) would have all been killed instantly. No, the shot had to have been deflected. It must have clipped the top of the car, then detonated, sending me flying assholes over elbows into that ditch. I guess that's why the all buzzing and bleeding in my ears. A fucking grenade exploded right fucking next to my fucking head. Not decapitating me. Is it still decapitating when you lose like the head, and arms? No, I guess then it's just considered dismemberment. Not decapitating me, because I was crouching behind the car. And more importantly, behind the grenade primary blast field. Martinez wasn't. Crouching. The shaped charge that's designed to take out a fucking tank? Most of that hit him right in the chest. I reckon Collins just bled to death quietly. Looks like I was the only one out of all four of us that wasn't going to get a painless death. I half-assed wished that bastard would have actually shot me.

He didn't, obviously. He hit me with the butt of his rifle. One of them heavy ass old wooden ones. Pretty goddamn hard too, if the brokeness of my nose was any indicator. I was in a room. No windows. One door. An indian kid sitting in a chair in front of it. He was asleep. I decided to let him keep sleeping. On the floor was a cleaned plate once full of what I guess was cooking when we pulled up. I hadn't been out more than an hour, tops. As soon as they see I'm awake their going to come in here and kick the living fuck out of me, for starters. I hate this shit job.

Saturday, November 28, 2009

The best laid plans...

Bearing in mind the nothing you read on this blog has ever actually happened. The only true facts are that I made it all up in my fertile imagination. I have a story to tell. Also the statute of limitations has run out on this not that long ago, so...Here goes.

Me and Felix always worked together. And before you ask, yeah, everyone called him Felix The Cat. But he was also my good friend. We understood one another. We traveled well together. I liked to cook, he liked to eat. I pulled more jobs, more jumps, more jacks with him than anyone else since I was a kid. Half the time we were room mates for fuck's sakes. We first met in a CYA camp up north. He was smart and big. I was smart and vicious. In case you're wondering, most of the people who do well in prison (even baby prisons like this one) are the smart ones. It helps to be big and vicious and smart. But unless you're a total basket case, being smart is usually enough. But don't take my word for it. Victor Frankl said the same thing. In places worse than...Well, worse than I've been. If they strip away every last vestige of your humanity, with what are you left? Your mind. If all you have is your mind, It'd better be well-developed. But this place wasn't a Nazi sub-camp. This place was a training program for apprentice criminals. I knew a fair amount when I got there. I knew a hell of a lot more when I left. And when I left, we had six guys working for us and a dozen more who wanted to.

What are you fucking kiddin me? We had the makings of an honest-to-god crew. And we had big plans baby, big plans. Regrettably, the Great Golden State had somewhat of a problem with recidivism in those days. An issue I understand still plagues the good taxpayers of California. Furthermore, the political climate was rather...down on criminal behavior. More so than normal. So, before too many months passed, it was just me and The Cat. We went to work. We did well for ourselves. Earned a reputation. And some decent money. Some guys we knew helped us get into jacking trucks out of Oakland, Long Beach, Portland, Wherever. For a kid from a small town like me, that was pretty intense stuff. Intense, but pretty fucking cool too.

One day, some guys we knew threw us this job. A jewelry store. Supposed to be very money. Lot's of green, lots of merchandise. There was even a hint that we had someone inside. Or at the very least, not to expect much of a fuss. A jewelry store. This was a gift.

"Uhh yeah, okay. Sure"

We got the details, checked it out and set it up. Easy squeezy. The day came, we hit the place. The guard actually said "Don't Shoot!" Every detail went down just like we planned. It was fucking beautiful. The shit was all there. The package is delivered right on schedule. We get paid, even a little extra (everyone was very happy) . Me and the Cat divied up and went our separate ways. Lay low. Enjoy. And then...

Bam...Bam! BAM! BAM! CRASH!

Hey uhhh, wake up baby. I think we're either about to be murdered by my ex-girlfriend's brothers or the cops are here. No no, that's definitely the cops. And here they are in my bedroom. With weapons drawn. I'm naked in bed and they have shotguns. This must be serious. Yeah yeah yeah I'm getting dressed. I had nothing, absolutely nothing in my pad. A little dope. But they weren't looking for a little dope. They were looking for evidence. Like the cops on TV they wished they were, they began to sift for clues. I was hauled in and they went to work on me. I knew they had jack squat, so I watched them step on their dicks for a while. I want my lawyer. They booked me in. I settled in. And waited to be arraigned. The real problem was for Felix.

Everyone knew we always worked together. It was common knowledge. If one of us got pinched. It was a foregone conclusion that they were looking for the other one. I said earlier he was smart. And he was. Smart, but not brilliant. He was (evidently) absolutely certain that we were going all the way down for this, that the cops had some damning evidence and we'd be found guilty and Tra la la. Away we'd go for 10 years in Chino, or worse. That was going through Felix's mind. Poor bastard. What was going through my mind was, "fuck man, spaghetti again?" I was at peace. My shit was stashed so deep nobody would ever find it. Nobody was going to rat. Even if they did, no one even knew the whole story. Except me. And I wasn't talking. I also wasn't losing any sleep.

Not so for The Cat. Usually I was the twitchy one and he was the calm one. The way it worked was I paced the floors and spazzed out over every little ridiculous detail right up until it's time for the job. Then I'm as cool as the other side of a pillow made out of cucumbers. Felix, on the other hand, was Mr. Jello-Puddin Pops through the planning stage but was lucky to make it through the actual job without having a full blown seizure. This time was different. Of course. He was on the run with no idea what the cops had. I had the benefit of having been interrogated. Generally, when dealing with the cops, it's not too hard to figure out patterns to which questions they are asking and which ones they aren't asking. After about 20 minutes, I knew they didn't have shit. They just figured we must have had something to do with this deal, or some other deal and they had lot's of activity and blah blah blah. They were fishing. I wasn't biting. I was staring down the business end of a misdemeanor and a violation of my parole which was ending in 74 days. So. I was looking at the real possibility of three whole months, hard time. I did the math in my head. Yeah, okay.

"Listen uhhh, hey there Officer Crew Cut? Like I was telling the other cop earlier? Can I go back to my cell now? Lunch is in like an hour and if I don't get my baloney sandwich and kool-aid, it fucks up my whole day."

But my partner didn't know this. While I was busy being a drain on society, he was busy freaking the fuck out. His thinking ran more towards, "The goons have found Tom! Open up Harry! We dig. Round the clock." In other words, the Cat was gettin' the fuck outta Dodge. Right this minute. There was another thing about Felix. It's only worth mentioning because it plays a pivotal role at this point in our story. Felix was Jewish. Orthodox. His grandfather was a Rabbi in Haifa. Guess how fast he was on a plane to Israel?

Yeah, about that fast.

So how do you like that kick in the balls? Felix is soaking up rays in Tel Aviv and dancing the nights away, with pretty Israeli chicks (I assumed). I'm sweating my ass off in the Kern County Jail, awaiting transfer to god-knows-where on a parole violation for the chickenshit they found in my apartment. And if the story ended there, I'd have one more friend. But god-knows-where was all fulled. So I didn't get transferred anywhere. Just short of five weeks in the can, all the charges were dropped due to lack of evidence. I was sentenced to time served for the dope, and I got a ticket home. To my sad little life, my fucked up apartment, a stern talking to from my asshole parole officer, my bitchy girlfriend doing what she did best, and my 45,000 green american dollars.

That's the lie about best laid plans. That they oft go astray...It ain't true. They oft do not go astray. And the money end of this one most certainly did not. Nothing like getting paid to brighten your spirits. I told you they had nothing. I told you I hid it so deep no one would ever find it. Both me and my boy beat those charges like a rented fucking mule. We walked out clean as a Safeway chittlin. And aside for a few hiccups, it looked like it was going to be a good year. The Cat heard it was all happy good times. He said that he would be home soon. He was busy having a good time spending his end in Israel. He'd be back.

But he didn't come back. Not soon. Not late. Not ever. Apparently, a couple months after I got out of jail, Felix received some official correspondence from the Israeli Government. The Army part of the Israeli Government. The silly fucker went and got himself drafted. Drafted right in the middle of a particularly nasty stretch of a particularly nasty war. He called me after he got out of basic. He was upbeat, but he sounded scared. That was the last time we spoke.

I never saw or heard from him again. A couple years later I talked to his sister and learned he was killed in a rocket attack. Felix the Cat was a criminal. A good one. Smart. A damn good thief and top-notch muscle. But none of that was enough to keep him from ending up with his guts splattered all over some worthless fucking rocks in southern Lebanon. He was 26.

I still miss him.