Wednesday, November 23, 2011

In Which The Colloquialism For That Most Intimate Of Acts Is Used Quite A Lot

In Which The Colloquialism For That Most Intimate Of Acts Is Used Quite A Lot, To the Point That Even The Staunchest Colloquialers Out There May Take Small Offense And Wonder Whether I Seek To Offend Or Shame, For In Realizing That Sometimes The Shortest Sentence Is The Most Complex Conveyance, Your Humble Servant Has Elected To Quite Simply Say:

Fuck FOX. Fuck CNN. Fuck MSNBC. Unfuck PBS. Fuck malls. Fuck TV. Fuck “War On”. Fuck brutes. Fuck White Houses. Fuck corporate lobbyists. Fuck excess. Fuck celebrity. Fuck US magazine. Fuck People magazine. Fuck fuckity fuck TMZ. Fuck guns. Fuck pricks. Fuck Glade Scents. Fuck monoliths calling themselves “Family Companies.” Fuck Disney’s Fuck-Up-A-Kid Factory. Fuck idiots. Fuck dissemblers. Fuck Appleby’s. Unfuck intelligence. Fuck Pepsi. Fuck Coke. Fuck obesity. Fuck malnutrition. Fuck sponsor massas. Fuck recognition whores. Fuck social media. Unfuck outside. Fuck theft. Fuck religion without contemplation. Fuck collusion. Fuck Popes. Fuck Dons. Fuck moguls. Fuck oppression. Fuck depression. Fuck repression. Unfuck cognition. Fuck cable TV. Fuck NBC. Fuck “As Seen On TV” ‘cause it’s all utter shit.

Take a deep breath now and fuck texting, tweeting and poorly performed fellatio. Fuck the fact that the reason you can’t live in peace is somebody else’s version of peace involves their boot in your face. Fuck Abilify and Lunestra and words that fuck you up. Fuck the profit motive, fuck it till the cows come home.

Wait a minute.

Fuck the inability to be quiet. Fuck Wall Street. Fuck it once more. Fuck the dying of the light. Fuck Top 40 whores.

And lastly fuck those who withhold just enough to force us to beg for more.

Sunday, October 16, 2011

Occupy The World

Occupation: Human

Human: of or belonging to the species homo sapiens.

Text: Some wonder what the purpose of “Occupy” this or that is. Where are the demands? Who are the leaders? Is there an established model? What’s the prospectus?

It begins to sound like “return on investment.” It begins to sound like a business proposition. And that’s what got us here in the first place. Commerce should never override human needs. Commerce decries all social contracts because they cut into profits, and profits are a strange, shifting thing, rarely tamed and always in danger of snapping free in a messy frenzy of excess. Everyone knows the name of the beast: Greed. More pervasive and addictive than any drug. Greed will watch a million people starve and justify inaction by proclaiming, “There was no profit for me.” Greed will create complex systems those with more immediate concerns have little time to decode. Those with immediate concerns and uncommon decency are busy helping those who need help.

Greed impedes. Greed lies, greed cheats, greed steals. Greed says today I made 4 billion dollars and that is not enough. Tomorrow I need 6 billion. Not to distribute to employees or communities, but to feed...greed.

More than anything greed has shaped the world of every single person reading these words. Greed says kill personal achievement unless achievement is directed toward the corporate good. Greed is a cabal. Greed poisons fields then demands you eat its crops. Greed feels entitled to more and more because it has more than you. You were not born into wealth. You did not cheat your way into wealth, did not sacrifice relationships good or bad, or persevere or study enough or scheme enough or seize enough power or be lucky enough to win and win. You have not made yourself a necessary commodity. If one percent of the world’s population controls ninety-nine percent of the wealth—and perhaps my figures are wrong, but I don’t care because I know the margin of difference is slight—if one percent can retreat to an island while the rest must live in the swamps, then that one percent must surely shoulder a heavy burden, if burden be the right word. They are duty-bound as humans to ensure that those without food eat; those without homes find true homes; those who are sick are cared for; those hungry for knowledge are taught; those who have lost their way be guided by the light of lanterns held high. Pity those with more than they need; they are surely beset by indecision. Whom to help? How to help? When to help? Except they are not. Many do not help unless in doing so they help themselves.

Question: How can those who have so much content themselves to do little or nothing, when I have seen those with little to nothing somehow manage to find something to help others in need? Does responsibility occupy so little a space in their hearts?

What it means to occupy Wall Street is this: we are real. No political agenda necessary beyond a humanist reality. No demagoguery needed. No deception. No falsehood. My own small tale? I requested Bank of America decrease my interest rate perhaps a point or so on a home of which I’ve already paid out three times the initial buying price, and which is worth perhaps half the borrowed mortgage. They said no. Citibank: after being laid off I asked how I might take advantage of any hardship program they offered; I wanted to continue making payments on my credit account, just not as much or perhaps not as often. I was told that because I wasn’t working I didn’t qualify for the hardship program.

I now bank with a credit union and am working to pay off my credit cards so I can cut them up and forget the entire backhanded scheme of credit cards exists. My next step will be why bank at all.

To Occupy Wall Street is to make real the inequities. To Occupy Detroit is to make real the inequities. To Occupy Edmonton, Denver, Washington, the world—to Occupy is to take up physical, dimensional space; to be real, not idea, not absence of void but the presence of dignity. The presence of truth. There is no good reason any man, woman or child should be without a home but we see the homeless everyday. There is no good reason anyone on this planet should wonder if today is a day they will get to eat or have water to drink, but there are millions upon millions who do. There is no good reason more children are familiar with sex and guns and prisons as part of everyday life than they are with laughter, and no good reason that, as winter approaches, we are guaranteed a news report of an elderly person freezing to death because a utility company turned his or her heat off.

There is only greed. For all its size, teeth, mass and hunger greed is actually a timid, fearful thing. “If I don’t turn the power off on an old man,” it will say, “then two or three will come up, and then more, and what of me then?” Greed knows one true fact of its existence and howls against it with every resource at its disposal. And that fact is this:

Greed is its own downfall. Wealth for wealth’s sake is a fallacy of logic. Money is an illusion, and you cannot hold onto something that does not exist.

We exist. You exist with us. You are us. An island surrounded by a swamp is an island surrounded by a swamp, regardless of its cost or the excess of its amenities. The movement will grow and grow until the ninety-nine embrace the weary one. We will occupy New York. Boston. Madrid. Geneva. Berlin. Iraq. Jerusalem. Kyoto. Melbourne. Peking. Burkina Faso. Bangalore. Toronto.

We will be made real until the world itself is made real.

Occupy this one truth: everything we do as human beings should not be for money, and when it is for money it should not be to excess.

Occupy a soul and join your world.


Thursday, October 13, 2011

The Weight Loss Blog, Part 6

File this one under "Thigh BB's." Brand new pair of sweat pants, brand new. Worn twice. So why does the apex of the inner thighs look like the Wife's beady beads (who, in case she's reading, has nary a single beady bead and I'm thoroughly ashamed of the low attempt to use such imagery for cheap humor)? I'll tell you why: magic. And not even good magic. Bad magic. Bad, bad, bad magic. Doug Henning still trying to score a kid's birthday party bad. Magic is channeling the fat in my body to my inner thighs. What's that you say? I sound like a woman? Listen, I'm as Helen Reddy as the next guy. Hear me roar, dammit. I know why the Caged Bird sings; it's trapped between your thighs, little beak tweating like mad for help.

So what I've done is this: Squat. Not squats as in lunging like a lunatic hoping a knee pops so you don't have to do this again. Squat as in nothing. I'm not trying to spot reduce and I'm damn sure not trying to not eat cider mill doughnuts. Nor have I shaved the thigh bb's off. They'll stay as my shame every step of the half mile I walk in the morning (bumping it to a mile next week) and the mile in the evening (2 next week). The best way to defeat magic is with reality. The reality of thigh bb's is that, yes, they look totally gross but unless I'm sitting there wearing short shorts with my legs wide open (which presents a more disturbing scenario) nobody will know. When the bb's disappear -- and they will disappear, I guarantee you-- no one will know. They'll wonder what that light is, the one shining 'tween my legs. But they won't know of the death of thigh bb's.

They won't know that Doug Henning could not defeat my crotch.

Only I will.

And that's as it should be.

Friday, October 7, 2011

Let Me Pull You Close And Get All Gravel-Voiced On You

I'm Zig Zag.

Not the same oomph as the Dark Knight, I'll give you that, but there it is, alter ego in the open and rather sinisterly proud. Zig Zag Claybourne: writer, lover and ne'er do well. Why a pen name when the number of people who've bought my books wouldn't be sufficient to lift a Kia off a trapped child? One, because the coolest pen name in the universe, Minister Faust, is taken; two, because Minister Faust himself bestowed this name; lastly, there's some old dead dude named Clarence Young who wrote "books for boys" back in the day. That is not me.

Me, I wrote these:

Buy them. Buy them a lot. Buy them because America needs jobs. When I'm rich enough to be considered a Job Creator I'll join the ranks of those saying, "Yeah, I got your job for you."

Do America proud for once in your Socialist-Emo life. In the pantheon of 3-word phrases ("Yes, we can!" "Pass this bill!" "Mission Accomplished") BUY THIS BOOK is the clearest and certainly most beneficial of easily-heeded directives.

But Zig Zag, you say--at which I swoon--purchasing an ebook is a huge committment--at which I punch you in the throat, but continue-- Time is limited, man is mortal, and there's a chance one of the Kardashians might be in a bikini.

I completely understand.

But I don't care.

(Job Creator material right there.)

Get ZZ or Zig Zag Claybourne in your lives. Reap the whirlwind. Taste the rainbow. Pop that coochie (the magic of 3's). The Glorious Revolution proceeds apace without a shot fired, without a punch thrown. I shall occupy your mind. They may zig but we will zag. The dance goes on forever. The Joker's laugh becomes a bit nervous.

Who are we?

We're Zig Zag. Now cue that moody dark music and reach for a wallet.

Friday, September 23, 2011

The Hypno-Toad Is Everywhere

It’s Friday night. I’ve got pizza in me. I’ve got Butter Pecan ice cream. That’s the kind of combination that makes a man think. Thinking about entertainment. The Wife’s downstairs watching dreck. I don’t know what it is, it’s all dreck. Either it’s a show that’s pretending to be smart, like CSI started out with all its beakers and people looking thoughtfully at dust motes; or it’s pretending to show that man’s inhumanity to man ultimately loses out to telegenic folk, ala standard cop shows; or it involves a doctor or a lawyeror a sexy woman pitted against something or other.

I think she’s watching something called “A Gifted Man” about a high-powered, driven doctor (gifted man, get it) who sees dead people (gifted man, get it) and likely solves crimes or mysteries or medical mysteries or helps the dead move on or somesuch dumbfuck drama. “Medium” plus “Ghost Whisperer.” Dreck.

I tried watching a few minutes of it but the epidemic of wino cameramen who can’t hold a shot steady and randomly zoom is too much for me. And the editors, my god, what happened to the editors? Is there a telethon or fund to donate to? Jump cuts. Jump cuts within jump cuts. It’s like the editors are caught in temporal displacement and screaming for assistance.

TV has always served advertisers. But weren’t there shows that wanted to do just a little more? Star Trek, the Twilight Zone, I Spy, The Prisoner, Dr. Who, Twin Peaks, In Living Color, Seinfeld, Chappelle’s Show, Kids in the Hall, The Storyteller, Homicide: Life on the Streets, MASH, The Wonder Years, Tribeca (a dollar to anybody who remembers that show), Mary Tyler Moore Show, Room 222 (swear to god if anybody mentions “Glee” in the same breath I’ll punch a hole in a squirrel), The Gary Shandler Show, Northern Exposure, Frank, Roc—it’s a proud list. There have been creators wishing to engage an audience as opposed to simply sitting them in front of the Hypno-Toad long enough for commercials to sink in. I’m not even going to explain what the Hypno-Toad is; look it up. Everything is online.

After I turn my TV off there’s nothing about “A Gifted Man” that’s going to stay with me. I won’t be able to discuss an idea, an image, a turn of phrase, insight or creative visual flair. It’ll just be over, flushed to make room for whatever show follows it. Maybe I’m trying to watch 21st century TV with obsolete eyes. But there hasn’t been a television show that excited me enough to want to give it an hour of my time on a regular basis for quite a while now.

Which is sad. I’d really like to get one of those cool, flat panel HDTVs, but there’s nothing on.

Wednesday, September 21, 2011

Why Does Everything About Politics & Diplomacy Have to Taste Like Wet Ass?

I've got no particular beef with Israel. God's chosen people? Bullshit, that's crazy talk no matter who's trying to claim it. The whole "You can't exist," "No, YOU can't exist," Israeli-Palestinian tournament: dumb. Boom. Done. Bang the gavel, next order of business. How much saving face in the world does there have to be before one more death is too many? Is land holy? Last time I looked the heavenly glow of the vacant lots around me weren't replacing the broken street lamps. Land is land. You occupied it, means you were an aggressor. Am I pretending my country tis of me knows nothing of that? Hell no. United States of America was schizophrenic from the start. "All men are created equal...except for the indentured servants, slaves and women, and those folks who pretty much welcomed us here with open arms--yeah, sorry how that went down; oh, and the French, fuck the French, plus the English, fuck 'em all. Inalienable rights over here, bee-yotches!" Probably have to paraphrase that a little bit for teaching in grade school.

But Palestinian State? Boom, done. Palestinians, stop fucking killing Israelis. Israelis, stop fucking killing Palestinians. Both of y'all grow some vegetables and chill. Blinding light of the obvious, Palestine: Israel has the bomb and is crazy enough to nuke your ass. So y'all chill over here; they chill over there; anybody unchills the U.N. freezes both nations' twitter and Facebook accounts. Damn right I went there.

Yes, all over the world people act like assholes whether they've got a podium in front of them and a freshly pressed suit on their backs or are just sitting in front of a keyboard encapsulating an intractable conflict in 4 paragraphs or less. But I've heard the expression "Fake it till you make it." Is paradise for all just a simple matter of each of us waking up and saying "Today I will not be an asshole toward anyone else"? Today I will not lie. I will not kill. I will not cheat. I will not harm. I'll probably covet but only if he/she is sexy. I will not fail. I have already succeeded. I'm good enough, I'm smart enough, and doggone it, people like me. (sorry, Rep. Al Franken)

Globally-thinking, if we could get Palestine and Israel to chill, the ripple would be huge. Bloods & Crips would say fuck the dumb shit and start building playgrounds together. Republicans & Democrats would tie their political careers to measurable results and would resign on their own honor if those results were not met. The word "peace" pretty much only applies to Christmas cards right now. But what if those two bloodied nations actually found peace, real peace, not brittle-marriage peace? We'd all be forced to realize that peace was possible and real. A tangible thing. Couldn't hide behind the shifting mirrors of irreconcilable differences anymore. Muslims versus Christians, you're fighting for the same damn thing, what the hell? God is good. Boom. Done.

There we go, y'all. Boom Done. Either in a good way...

Or not very good at all. Personally, I don't wanna ever have to say, "Waiter, there's a mushroom cloud in my soup."

Wednesday, September 14, 2011

The Weight Loss Blog, Part 5

Today I looked at my body quivering like a chihuahua even though I stood still and I thought to myself 'This is not Star Fleet material.' Seriously, if our dreams are our better selves then that dream I've always held of being summoned to the bridge and seeing Spock and Kirk making impossible decisions but making them like men, does not include belly rolls, moobs, or a uniform I'd need Garak to let out at the seams (yes, mixing my Trek; if you don't get it I weep at your uncoolness).

So I worked out yesterday. Yes, I had some chocolate covered almonds but let's stay focused: a full 30 minute, fully sweaty workout. Some may call the modified motions I was doing the "Old Lady Turbo Jam" but let me tell you something: an old lady's workout will kick your ass. Particularly a doughy, flabby one that hasn't broken a true exertion sweat (folding laundry doesn't count) in months. I did sweat from playing tennis but that was mainly from trying not to fall down. But I stuck with it, my friends, the whole 30 minute "Gilad: Bodies in Motion" VHS tape I taped off Fit TV before Discovery Health sucked the network up and turned it into the "What Tumor Am I?" marathon. Me, Gilad, and a bevy of background exercisers so toned I should've gotten a contact orgasm. 30 minutes in the basement, just me and the sweat blinding me to the point I looked like Laurel Hardy crying.

Felt pretty damn good. Had a few more chocolate covered almonds when I finished. Is this a breakthrough? Not yet. More a yes and no start. I'll be back down there but won't take months in between to do it. If I ever get to be beamed down I don't want the ship to have to break out the extra large transporter to do it.

Best believe that.

Live long and prosper, y'all.

Friday, September 9, 2011

What Changed?

Homophobia? Here.
Jingoism? Present and accounted for.
Xenophobia? In spades.
Greed? Yeah.
Lies? Congress.
War? Ongoing.
Death? Piling.
Suffering? Omnipresent.
Fear and paranoia? Exquisitely cultivated.
Generosity? Only if there are cameras around.

“Everything changed.” Ignore that slogan no matter how many times it’s repeated. Remembrance requires introspection beyond “where were you” and “who’d you tell you loved”—if we are to truly honor the fallen of the world we must stop being who we were that day and rise to being worthy of today. Out of all the nations on the earth America can truly rise. And shine.


Thursday, September 8, 2011

Conspiracy Theorists

According to still-prevailing internet theory this blog should have netted me an agent, a lucrative multi-media deal including book publication and major PR blitz, appearances on The View and/or Ellen, oodles of money, an opportunity to do a Tiger Woods with a book store employee or a Red Robin waitress (love me some Red Robin!), and a shot at being a half-baked pundit for the local news outlets.

Internet theory sucks.

This blog has, however, been indulged by all 3 of you reading this. Group hug all around. The Glorious Revolution has had Palins, Boners, Tea Baggers, Limp Noodlers, Bachmanns, Man’s inhumanity to damn near everything, book store inequity, acts of God that make you wanna say “Dude, fucking chill,” Abrams/Orci/Kurtzman’s Star Trek, not a single autographed love note from Rosario Dawson (or Pam Grier – what’s up with that?), and mourning the last interested damn anybody gave in making sense anymore. But guess what? Vive la Revoluccion! Until we are driven to extinction, we, this magnificent band of you and me, will blog, read and write till our last breath! We will not believe that hype elevates crap. We will not believe that vital resources like oxygen should go to any television show with the words “Housewives” in its title. We will demand intelligence, demand wit, demand a bit more in our lives than Snooki is currently able to provide. We will be stupid but be smart about it, and we will not let mouf-breathin’ sumbitches tell us the moon is made of cheese. We will disengage the Borg aspects of our lives. We will not talk more, talk anytime; we will shut up! Van Morrison will sing hymns to the silence. We will ask questions that we don’t think we already know the answers to; we’ll listen to songs in languages we don’t know to see if we’re still able to feel. For the love of God we will NOT see Transformers 4.

Simply won’t do it.

It’s my privilege to thank all 3 of you for allowing whatever service these words provide, however slight, however brief. I’ll continue being perturbed even though I don’t know that you’re there. Somebody’s got to be perturbed. Otherwise the Nightly News will look even more like TMZ.

(Future historians: TMZ was a butt-noxious televised foray into the notion of “celebrity”; it was much like being hounded by that drunk friend at a party, a party you’d wanted to leave for quite some time already.)

What if internet theory holds true though? What if fame and fortune and everything that goes with it…entraps me? Well, to paraphrase Freddie Mercury, “I’ve had my share of sand kicked in my face and I’ll never lose.” We are the champions, my friends, and I only do this because of you. If I was Christ riches wouldn’t tempt me. The flesh—well, within reason. To quote myself: “We all have people we’d like to mash our faces into till we come out the other side.” That kind of passion can’t be denied. No, if I was Christ my temptation would be to simply go away, to leave any semblance of pressure or responsibility behind. But as I’ve been known to get burned by holy water I can definitely say I ain’t Christ.

So I’ll be here awhile come agents or high obscurity.

Keep the inner revolution going, my friends.

Wednesday, August 31, 2011

The Weight Loss Blog, Part 4

My body, being less a temple and more a dilapidated storefront church with a curious presence of chicken feathers, is out to get me via criks in my neck, aches in my elbows and thickening nasal hair cutting off my airflow. Its ultimate goal can only be to keep me from engaging in regular exercise and walking around in my drawers with the body of a god. My brain, which is part of my body but likes to think it isn’t, is complicit. Rather than a vigorous workout yesterday it said, “Wash a load of clothes, that counts.”

Dumpy, lumpy betrayer that is flesh, just you wait till I evolve to the next plane of existence and be all non-corporeally and twinkly cloudish and look back on feet and tacos with quaint amusement. I did, however, get some vegetables in me yesterday for lunch and dinner, offsetting the slice of poundcake my mouth inhaled.

And I moved the laundry from the washer to the dryer. Heavy, damp towels. Feel the burn, lads!

Tuesday, August 30, 2011

2011 Fall (of Rome) Television Season

Dear Networks: No more sitcoms based off blogs, tweets or that one commercial you saw. We would rather watch old episodes of Marlon Perkins’ “Wild Kingdom” if you have to show anything at all. We would not mind if showing nothing at all is your decision.

No more sitcoms I’m supposed to watch ‘cause they’re brash, crass and irreverent as opposed to actually being funny.

No more “procedural” shows where the dead body/morgue scene budget exceeds what the key grip and sound guys make in a year.

No more variations on MacGuyver (hello “Royal Pains”) or the A-Team (hello “Leverage”) or the X-Files (hello “Fringe”) or the X-Men (good riddance “Heroes”, hello “Alphas”) or ER (hello “Hawthorne”, “Gray’s Anatomy”, etc.) or the crime procedural du jour (Hello CSI, CSI Miami, CSI New York, NCIS, NCIS LA, Law & Order Infinity, Rizzoli & Isles –threw up in my mouth a little— etc, etc, etc), or dramas featuring insanely attractive white people agonizing the horrid vagaries of suburban life.

No more talk shows where that’s just it: talk. No “The View, The Chat, The Talk, The Buzz, The Rumble, The Dish, The Deal, The Spill, The Come, The Swallow.” For the love of god, please? A bunch of women sitting around gabbing about nothing… is like a bunch of men sitting around talking about sports, and surely you wouldn’t do that to us? What? Oh.

Never mind.

I suppose another venue for David Hasselhoff is equally unavoidable.

Friday, August 26, 2011

Just So All 3 Of You Know

...there are links on this page to purchase my book. It is cheaply priced but not cheaply written and I will give you my mother's peach cobbler recipe if you are not satisfied with the time spent. I will include links from time to time on other books your brain needs (like Minister Faust's, which is below, and a new one I'm close to having ready), but wanted you, Dear Indulging Genius, to know in case you're not given to scrolling willy nilly about a web page.

I'm now off to find alternate reality Clarence 001 and punch him in the nuts on GP ("general principle" for those of you without street cred). He's either got it better than I do (punch in the nuts) or worse (punch in the nuts).

Then It Hit Me

When I was a kid (and even now, though it’s largely suppressed) I experienced déjà vu so much and so concretely I began calling the episodes “time slips”. I recall telling Ma several times during these confusing moments, “I’ve been here before.”

As I got older the slips never seemed to broadcast pleasure, no winning lotteries, brilliant decisions, just lingering dread and unease, so like intelligence, curiousity and joi de vivre I’ve trained myself to “peg it down a notch” in order to prevent every waking morning finding me screaming into the wind. If “Gilligan’s Island” were an accurate fable the Professor would have killed those other idiots and used their hides for sails, which wouldn’t have been cool, you see? So it’s been “down periscope” for a while, which might make me sound like an insufferable pig but keep in mind that I'm not that smart to begin with.

Till a science program on the brain woke me up.

Time’s a funny thing. If you’re physically here right now, how do you get to 10 minutes from now? Is there an unseen animator sketching out moment to moment? Continuity in that time/space continuum thing. And if you’re there 10 minutes from now then you’re already here and there simultaneously, which means there’s likely a way to communicate with yourself. Time slips. Which means future selves are pricks for not sharing vital information. The universal consciousness might reach a state of Nirvana if minds all over the globe communicated best options. If time, space and thought are not the separated things we think them to be then isn’t it time for some fundamental shifts in daily realities? Prayer is all about one reality shooting its crap into another. Alternate universes are definitely real, just ask Jesus, Allah, Buddha or Vishnu. Countless alternate Clarences don’t have the same hang ups as this one has. (Granted that there are also countless alternate Clarences dating Courtney Love, being chased by dragons – by the by, the premise for my upcoming niece-inspired young adult novel titled “RealitY”—so I hereby acknowledge balance.) But are the ones that are waking up next to Rosario Dawson, who’s learned to cook marvelous French toast by the way, simply that much better at dumping their toxic waste into other realities' back yards, and hence are waking up next to Rosario Dawson? If we got the entire world to pray a single thought, could we flush our ills to Earth 7742?

Bloody hell, are we Earth 7742? Damn.

Tuesday, August 23, 2011

The Weight Loss Blog, Part the Third

A couple weeks back me, the Wife and the sis-in-law walked about 4 miles. Not a lot of attractive ladies out so no need to pull the gut in too often. On the way back stopped in a diner and accidentally had chicken strips and fries.

The journey continues. I will, however, point out that I am wearing clothing that last month sat on my pile of "Clothes I Used to Wear But Stopped Because Nobody Wants to See That". Muffin tops, my friends, are for chai tea or hot chocolate, not public viewing.

So for all 3 people reading this, Keep The Dream Alive! You got into those jeans once or else you wouldn't have bought them. You'll be in them again.

Thursday, August 18, 2011

Waiting For A God Who Cares

Rage: what type of hatred and mental defect does it take for a person to kill a 3 year old by suffocating her with a trash bag? Speak of God and mercy all you want but today that's not something I want to hear. I need to picture that child's struggling and die my own death. Otherwise I am not human.

Rage: who lets a 3 year old roam unsupervised? Three year olds have the discretion of a moth and the decision-making abilities of a parent who would allow a 3 year old outdoors unattended.

Rage: a beautiful white woman is again missing on vacation and the nation holds its collective breath waiting for the next juicy tidbit to roll across television screens as if this is the midseason finale of CSI. Because she is a beautiful white woman she drives ratings up and assures ad revenue. Because she is a beautiful white woman we prey upon her bones.

The man who killed the 3 year old is in police custody, has confessed, and I hope ceases to exist in all ways, shapes and forms. Very few tangible clues have turned up about the missing woman but I hope she's not suffering wherever she is.

"I'm looking out over rooftops and I'm hoping it ain't true that the same God watched out for them watches out for me and you. The angels laid them away..." -- lyrics by Josh Ritter, "Folk Bloodbath"

Waiting for a god who cares. Not anymore.

Wednesday, July 27, 2011

Re: U.S. Having To Return Its Stuff To Rent A Center

President Obama, much respect as I tell you please grow a pair. You say "Call your Congressman." Dude, that's what you do when you're trying to get weed legalized purely for "medicinal" reasons. Boehner and his ilk are whack job dillweeds; they're the kids who got pranked all the time 'cause it was so easy to do. You should be able to run mental circles around them... Wedgie the mofos before the American consciousness is convinced you're the cause of national destruction! Granted our nation's probably never been more gooberish than we are right now (somebody please tell me why the fuck my doctor went to medical school but I've gotta be the one first to tell him about Copafiel and then ask him if it's right for my sexual harassment issues!) and the goobers are so sensitive and defensive now about their goober proclivities that they’d even justify championing a crazy cat lady for important public office, or even Michele Bachman. Granted your scrotum’s choked by the Kobayashi Maru – no matter which way you go, prepare to be fucked. And I’m sure your advisors are advising you on this that and the other in matters of presentation, but search your feelings, dude, you know this to be true: you are being set up as the biggest scapegoat in the history of the United States. Either that or all that “change we could believe in” amounts to about the 85 cents we’re scrabbling to collect under the cushions. I voted for you, I reached out and figuratively touched Oprah’s hand as the nation cried for you (Don’t cry for me, Argentina?) and, barring a sex tape of you dressed as Tigger humping the effigy of Bea Arthur, I will vote for you again. You have done a great deal of good and my brain tells me you’re game for more. Screw the heart, which most people declare holiest of holies. The heart told me to date a crazy chick back in the day. My brain says to you, President Obama, be the Decider. Sweet Greasy Damn, I can’t believe I’m there, but it’s out now. The only earth the meek will inherit will be a toxic, billboard strewn eruption of a boil about to explode, while sex dreams are pumped into the cryo-sleeping bodies of rich folks on their way to Beta Antares. Yay for being meek. I’m not saying pull a Bush/Cheney ramrod (speaking of 2-to-the-head Cheney, I hope he’s pleased at the choice of actor playing him in the Smurf biopic) but definitely stop “leaving” things up to the American public! The American public is easily influenced by Cheetos! Why the hell do you think Boehner always stays orange??? Don’t tell me to call my Congressman. My Congressman’s a dumbass whose only job is figuring out how to keep doing the nothing that comes with the job and making sure his hair says precisely what it should about him on camera. The American public is stockpiling weapons and cheese preparing for another civil war – yes, folks, it’sa coming. Why else do you think (and I’ll be broad here) the rich have spent the last 20 or so years convincing you they have nothing to do with the sad state of your pathetic life, that it’s all those “others” out there, the gays and blacks and hot lesbians and Mexicans and Muslims (which come to think of it, also sounds like some kind of healthy, fibrous cereal hemp-wearing, braless women foist on home schooled children, freaking Commies!) and a liberal media that thinks your stupid, ADD-filled children aren’t God’s way of punishing us for not making sure the Fifties didn’t last? Why else do you think people without a pot to piss in are adamant about the gubmint not providing health care for them, no way sir! Big Gubmint, gays and Tom Cruise are keeping the average Joe down, and Pfizer knows this. Talk to your doctor if you’re experiencing emotional ennui, wrenching anxiety or the onset of righteous illogical tendencies as these may be symptoms of knowing you’re buttfucked. The tipping point’s on its way, President Obama. The thing about tipping points, though, is that things can go either way. The nation either falls and the South rises again (so to speak), or it falls on the soft bosomy-ness of “About damn time; we've grown up.” It’s your call, sir. Daunting as fuck, I know, but that’s why you’re the Decider. Or, as I’m sure some old guy has said at least once, “Don’t play into the hands of folks who keep their hands down their pants.” Wedgie up, sir, wedgie up.

Oh, and say hello to the wife for me!


Friday, July 15, 2011

The Weight Loss Blog, Part 2

So I played tennis again yesterday. Took the niece with me. A half hour at the wall, a half hour on the court. Nice day, quality uncle/niece time.

I kicked her ass.

She's only 13 so I can't puff up too much, but when all is said and done this old gray mare totally owned. Totally. Paying for it today though; arms, legs and feet hurt like mofos. Old gray mofos.

But I swear I felt a pound drop off.

Venus & Serena, I'm comin' for ya!

Friday, July 8, 2011

The Weight Loss Blog

What I weigh is not important except that I could crush a 6th grader if I wasn't careful. What's important is my man boobs are sufficiently alluring to where checking them out with glimpses in the mirror thinking 'Hey, who's the hot chick?' is both shameful and mildly disturbing. Add to that the badunkadunk in the trunk and I'm not sure whether to do the Beyonce booty dance or go fix-slash-break stuff. Therefore: The Weight Loss Blog.

Yesterday I spent some time at the Belle Isle Park tennis practice wall (till I lost both balls, and no). Then I Zumba'd. Yes, dammit. Wasn't intentional, long story, and you would definitely have paid to see it. I'm 45 and tired of my belly having more of a social life than me.

So every time I do something weight loss-y you'll know about it. Yeah, I know, big whoop, but Oprah's retired, so you need someone to inspire you now.

I'm not going to track weight, I'm going to track feelings. Yesterday I felt powerful for having chosen to get off my ass, and fun for being the only dude besides the instructor shaking what his mama gave him in a small room of sweaty ladies. Please know that I dance like the character Elaine did on that one 'Seinfeld' episode(youtube 'Elaine Seinfeld Dance')so getting up and Zumba-ing is, like, worthy of the Congressional Medal of Honor.

Today I will do one-armed push ups in my dreams, but will more likely do a couple crunches, maybe some free weights, and y'know, finish off the Wife's blueberry pie (for the sake of morality, not a sexual euphemism).

Weight loss ain't for everybody, just the sexy people!

Wednesday, July 6, 2011

Things You'd Rather Hear From A Different Source

An ex girlfriend telling you she thought you were gay.

Your husband pointing out that your sister never wears a bra.

Your boss encouraging a wider consideration of career options.

Your kid making you realize that it's so easy having online aliases these days, Stackedforthat21.

A priest visiting your sickbed whispering to the family that he really wouldn't feel comfortable doing the eulogy.

"Do you know how fast you were going?" from a traffic cop whose wife left him that morning, her tail lights speeding away the last image of her he'll ever have.

"I read your book but I thought you were that funnier guy," from someone exiting your book signing line.

"I remember you now!" in church from some guy as you bend over to pick up your hymnal.

...and the band plays on...

Tuesday, July 5, 2011

Life Lessons From Star Wars #2

"These aren't the droids you're looking for."
"These aren't the droids we're looking for." Except they were.

Sometimes old people lie.

Friday, July 1, 2011

Life Lessons From Star Wars

What R2 wanted to say: "F**k you, Wookie motherf***er!"

What R2 did: let the Wookie win. There's a lesson in there somewhere.

The lesson: talk s**t privately but know when to shut the hell up.

Wednesday, June 15, 2011

Spiritual Alchemy

The author is Minister Faust. The title is "The Alchemists of Kush". There's just a handful of artists in any medium whose work I'll buy sight-unseen based on name alone. This guy is one of them. #1 -- even if you're scratching your head wondering what a "Kush" is, buy it, it's $2.99. #2 -- even if you've never read anything that asked you to pay more attention than you would a TV guide, read it, it will likely alter a few of your thought patterns. #3 -- scratch yourself and reveal the gold underneath. Spiritual Alchemy is real.

Monday, June 13, 2011

Existential Weekends Suck

I think I missed last Wednesday's scheduled story day, so here's a quickie for Monday after a very existential weekend.


Prehistoric Jesus didn’t work out. Premature transfiguration. Inquisition Jesus kept slipping on the blood. No traction, no peace. Sitcom Jesus had all the right ingredients but wasn’t funny enough to want to buy the entire first season on DVD. And why they thought to put an annoying kid in the cast no one knows. Tomorrow we’ll have Techno Jesus.

And tomorrow is another day.

Friday, June 3, 2011

Bubba Was My Best Good Friend

After hearing that the sole black character in the new X-Men movie gets bumped off (no, that is by no means a spoiler), I decided to post this old story I wrote:


Dying had become pretty old for Len Turman by the time he turned forty-six. He’d played the voice of a robot, and the robot had died. He’d been the young black dude in a platoon of brave men, and he’d died. He’d played a sword-wielding immortal and felt good that in the film he was supposed to have lived over four thousand years…until an older and evil immortal deceived and decapitated him. He’d had things rammed into him, poured over him, sliced diagonally across him, shot through him, horribly-gone-wrong spliced into him, lemming-ed off a cliff, absorbed, bitten in half, exploded, knifed, poisoned, burned, and even—as the only black man in a film about the French revolution—guillotined. He’d performed every stunt imaginable and acted against a rainbow assortment of special effects screens. He had yet to have onscreen sex, which is why he got into acting in the first damn place, and today was his birthday. Birthdays were tailor-made for deciding when certain shit was about to stop.

Len Turman made calls. He wasn’t a bad actor, so he made convincing calls. By the time he was done there were twelve black men of varying ages, incomes and acting abilities parked outside his home. Of the twelve, two were famous enough for paparazzi, and before you knew it Len Turman was in front of the TV cameras looking the world dead in the eye and telling Hollywood:

“We quit.

“No more will we die while lesser actors go on to numerous sequels. No more will we turn our backs on wounded villains or provide chewable ethnic flavor.”

“Well,” somebody said.

“We are not your surprise twist endings, your tragi-comic sidekicks, or your security officers. We are actors, dammit—”

“Well, well.”

“We are men!”

“Full grown.”

“We are not going to be the characters everybody knows not to invest too much attention in!”

“Bubba was my best good friend!”

“Oh, no! To quote our great acting brother, we are huge, we are monumental… King Kong ain’t got shit on me!”

“Jungle boogie!”

“Effective immediately, if the subplot calls for somebody to die, it’s gonna be from somebody a whole lot shades lighter than me.”

So a bunch of light-skinned brothers got work. But it wasn’t the same, everybody knew it. Movie-goers knew it. The right expectation just wasn’t there. The ‘Why A Brother Gotta Die?’ movement kept growing and growing, until eight months later Len was found buck naked and OD’d, between two silicon mounds whose dark carpet most certainly did not match the highlights on her planted blonde head.

Word quickly filtered on the street that Len Turman was a known titty man. Jessica Kitaen’s titties were fake, but they were the best fake money could buy. Fox News aired snotty hourly segments on the so-called ‘Man with a Mission’, and it didn’t take long before light-skinned brothers returned to working as lawyers or shifty boyfriends. Darker brothers returned to work too: Hollywood memorialized Len Turman the only way it knew how. Made a bunch of movies about him.

Wednesday, June 1, 2011

Wednesday Story Day

The Aliens Cloned Trent Darcell by Zig Zag Claybourne, copyright, pat pending and not available over the counter; ask your doctor if this is right for you

Here’s the thing: don’t jump out an airplane without first making sure there’s no UFO under you, ‘cause those suckers will swoop on you in a heartbeat, and then there’s the butt probes, the nut ‘trodes, the nasal lubes, the ear drum licklers, the blind taste tests and the nipple surprise.

I know this because I’m watching one insert things into me right now. Actually, not so much me. I’m the clone.

Here’s what I see: in a bar fight, aliens would get their asses handed to them. Poor little gray Poindexters couldn’t beat a girl off a boy band, and I know boy bands ‘cause I used to be in one.

I’m Trent Darcell.

Any psychics picking this up will need to call the Enquirer on my behalf. Trent Darcell is not at an undisclosed location in Australia, no matter how they like to make jokes about ‘Outback Mountain.’ Stupid gay cowboy movie. Right now just about every orifice I have has something blinking sticking out of it, and I do not enjoy it in the least, so, no, Trent Darcell is not gay.

Not that there’s anything wrong with that.

Ok, so Seinfeld did that, but I make it fresh again.

They look exactly like what everybody thinks, because that’s who’s been coming here the past umpteen years. They’ve got pictures lining the walls: Telly Savalas, ’78; Hugh Hefner, ’94; both Bushes George, ’98 and 2008 respectively; David Bowie, ’71, ’77, ’80, ’84; Monroe, ’58.

Of course, a group photo with the King, ’92.

Deal with it.

They got people in pictures in French costumes, but those are probably people from the Revolution. Trent Darcell failed history. Marie Antoinette, Marie Osmond, what’s the difference? There’s some black dudes, there’s some Jap dudes, this scientist I swear I’ve seen before ‘cause he’s got this cool wheelchair and robot voice, like ‘I am Locutus of Borg,’ but more mechanical, and some old-school politicians. Like Nixon. I recognize him. These little gray fucks’ve been zipping earth forever, man, like they ain’t got shit else to do. Trent Darcell is supposed to be skydiving! Not watching Trent Darcell get anal probed ten times better than that faggot Diamond Lane. Little London prick says boy bands are dead; says Lip Patrol is a bunch of 40-somethings trying to project teenage anguish. Teenage anguish drives, man. Drives everything. Even little gray alien fucks have teenage anguish. Trent Darcell has a private air fleet. Little West End twit can’t say the same.

I’m supposed to learn from watching Trent Darcell. From what I understand, clones are given this genetic blip so they can broadcast to each other sometimes, which is cool ‘cause I get to have sex with starlets and back-up dancers. Back-up dancers put out poon for the ages. There’s this one named Kimmie gave me head while I was burying the bone—tell me how that’s possible!

He’s a lucky bastard.

When they get tired probing for the day we’re popped in the same cell but separated by a clear half-wall it’d be too much trouble climbing over. Trent usually doesn’t feel like climbing anyway.

“Rougher than usual today, man?”

“Shut the fuck up.”

Dumb ass called me Thing One when they dropped me out the vat and introduced me to him, so I call him Thing Two. How I came from somebody so stupid I’ll never know.

“You cried today, man. You do everyday but today was epic.” I waited. He didn’t respond. “You cried like a leedle—”

“Shut up!” he spat. Literally. Our chronic shame was Trent Darcell was a wet mouth. Couldn’t give an interview without sharing saliva, so he licked his lips all the time because some of the black dudes did it and looked cool.

“Listen, man, Spock (is that cool or what?) told me I’d be out of here soon, so maybe you wanna act like we’re fam and I pass along any messages, y’know?”

“You’re a copy.”

“You ain’t?”

“Trent Darcell—”

“Has never composed a melody, has never written, never read, can’t truly sing and certainly never thought in ways that are unique and amazing. Dude, my new brain is the shit. Check this out—” And I hit him with my latest song. I’ve got three albums ready to drop, in my mind. To do justice to them, though, I’ll have to go solo.

So his mouth is hanging when I finish the a capella and do a sweet beat box fadeout on my chest.

“Came up with that last night when you wouldn’t talk to me. Hey, didn’t mean to make you cry. That’s a beautiful song, ain’t it? You would never have done that.” Spock just happened to be walking by. He gave me the thumbs up. My head bobbed with the appreciative nod. “All right. Look, man, it’s cool. I’m you, right, so it ain’t like you’ll be missing out. It’s a two point-oh world, man. I pod, I phone, I am. Hell, they might have some three-tittied Kirk chick out in space for you. I’m probably the one getting the short end. Earth, man.” I shrugged. “That’s like going down on somebody when their hotter sister coulda gone down on you.”

He grabbed hold of a knob grafted to his chest. I saw the look in his eye.

“Aw, man, don’t try that again. Spock!? Spock!”

He came padding back in that soft sissy-run aliens have. Spoke perfect English.

“What?” he said.

Like they’re not supposed to know English? Even Trent Darcell knows enough Spanish to order beer and get laid.

I pointed.

“Dammit, Trent, leave that alone!” Spock said. Spock looked at me. “He knows all that does is hurt him, right? You know all that does is hurt you, right? It’s not like that’s a mind control thing. It’s a shunt. Ok? Leave it alone. We’ll need that tomorrow.”

“Three-tittied women, Trent.”

“Where?” said Spock, the little gill flaps under his chin puffing with excitement. Universal love, man. Little dude thought I might have found something in the library he hadn’t looked up yet. We were cool and all but I didn’t have time to humor him. Trent was about to do it. He yanked that port, screamed, feinted, sprayed blood on the way down, and didn’t wake up in time to see me off.

First place I hit was Sydney ‘cause, hell, they were going to print it anyway. Appeared in a club at the downcrest of pumping and didn’t get recognized till I told these two ladies to get on stage with me and try to keep up. We did a half hour set straight out of Lip Patrol’s videos and the ladies stayed so synched with me people swore later the whole thing’d been choreographed. Trent Darcell doesn’t play instruments but I told somebody I needed a guitar, and wherever they found one at three in the morning I don’t know, but it was red, slick, and came with a fast-moving roadie who hooked me up and leveled me out so tight I hired him on the spot.

I played clunky at first and hammed it up till I learned the sounds, then I played till 4 a.m., giving these lucky bastards half the glorious album I planned to drop next week. My dancers just stared slack-jawed at me. I think I had my picture taken more that night than my entire career. Camera phones stuck out like lighters to capture the ephemeral essential, which on the spot became the title of the album.

The morning news said it all: Who IS Trent Darcell? When I left that club I got on a plane, got home to L.A., phoned my sky diving pilot who hadn’t wanted to be implicated in Trent Darcell’s likely death to let him know everything was cool. He was unemployed but everything was cool. I didn’t give a single interview, which drove them crazy. I pushed porn off the internet for almost an hour. Blogs, news, posts, searches. Who the hell was Trent Darcell, ‘cause no way was he the man from Lip Patrol.

“Trent, you wanna take this call?” My roadie-manager-main man kept my guitar clean and my calls blocked. This one was on the private band line. Rang with our breakout song’s ringtone. “Girrrlllll,” boom boom boom boom, “slap my beats—”

“With yo teats,” I adlibbed. “Put it through.”

“Trent, what the fuck, man?” said Taylor. “Hell’s all this?”


“Talent, motherfucker! What the fuck, you tryin’ to leave the band? Make us look bad?” He sounded like he was in tears. “We coulda made that album, man! I can’t even get on Leno now, man. I fucked Hilton last night and I can’t even get on Leno! Leno, you pasty bastard! Everybody wants to know how the hell Trent is suddenly popping off like a rabbit on Vialis! You’re the number three man, man, you’re the safe one! I’m the brooder, Tawan’s the black dude, Tommie’s the bad boy, you’re Trent: you know the steps and get the milfs. You’re the milf-man!”

“Step into the light, brother,” is all there is to say. Band’s over. Mothers I’d like to fuck, huh? As of now, mothers and daughters better work tandem.

“You can’t break up the band! Three’s don’t break up the band!”

Ain’t nothing worse than a whining lead singer.

“Taylor—” Wait. I’m picking up images, my hand gropes the air for comprehension, I’m frowning—“Gotta let you go,” and when I disconnect I drop the phone in the koi pond and sit to collect myself a minute. Canoli the Roadie of Doom waits ready to fiddle and adjust me as necessary. I nod him off. “I’m good, man. It’s a sunny day. Ogle groupies.” Canoli’s handsome enough to get laid on his own, but fly fishing within my sphere, hey, teach a man to fish and he’ll eat for life. The two ladies lounging around my reflecting pool were pure Marlin, man. Too beautiful for relations without sprinklings of Darcell’s pixie dust. Tranced so deep now everyday was Never Never Land and Sydney, Australia was just a dream.

I’m not sure what I saw but it felt like a man asking another man for sex with the kind of anticipation a kid saves for the end of a rainy day, then it was gone. It was weird. It made me sit in the sun for the rest of the day waiting for that sensation to come back. When it did, it was more like, like the electricity you get when you know somebody is secretly attracted to you and they ain’t half bad themselves. Got a hard on lasted three days. Fortunately my new groupies were in and of themselves medicinal arts.

The new album had four songs that four different politicians picked up to prove they were hip and conscious. The Religious Right picked Onion Up Yours, can you believe it? But the bass line drove you down a gnomic path and the lyrics wouldn’t let you swing them one way to another. Lyrics were bad ass mofos that did your wife and looked you in the eye and said I’ma do you too. Right had been achin’ for some muscle for years.

Canoli had a fit but I told him be cool. I didn’t own the music. Nobody owned the music. It was a dove.

“Yeah, man, but this is what it sounds like when doves cry. Stupid politicians.”

“Brother, they’ll lodge onion so far up that ass they won’t help but be exposed.”

We studied with yogis. Secretly funded coups to get rid of piss-ant despots and get food to their people because, y’know, damn. Got to sit in on high-level policy talks about national healthcare and, let me tell you, that’s some sticky air. Humid as a bastard with too much money and not enough hair.

I released the next album two months later. Called it The Reinvention. Thirty-six damn songs and not a single throwaway. Hailed by critics worldwide as the first ever Great American Novel set to music. I became so huge I became small. I could walk into restaurants without getting mobbed because anybody who truly listened to The Reinvention knew that fawning shit wasn’t cool. Canoli even got to riff on that one, a few acoustic interludes tied in timbre to the theme. Again, teach a man to fish. He’d wanted to riff his whole life. I told him to go electric but he said no, he wanted to slow it down a little.

After he released his album, Roadie of Doom, we celebrated like crazy. Bono had done the rooftops; The Beatles had done the rooftops; even Lip Patrol had done the rooftops. But when me and Canoli did it we took it to the stars. To the stars. My red guitar and his tan acoustic on top of a squat parking garage, downtown Detroit. Why Detroit? Because something the little alien dudes put in the water there makes Detroit rock! Windsor across the water was pissing themselves because they couldn’t see. Through the whole concert I picked up imagery from at least a hundred clones on the four-sided clog below, black dudes, business dudes, yuppie dudes, dick dudes, pussy girls and trampoline artistes, every one of them humping up on whosoever was in front of their pants because you don’t get to watch your host being probed without developing a healthy taste for it yourself; and because everybody was groovin’ anyway and I’d learned to play my jams as if I was fingering labial lips.

Trent Darcell brought the freaking sixties back.

I swear to God somebody got penetrated when I kicked in the slow jams. Hell, if I closed my eyes I wasn’t sure if I was playing the guitar or my boner. All I knew was Detroit was about to experience the greatest orgasm it’d ever had two hours after this crowd dispersed.


Detroit rock city.

Me and Canoli hung around the Westin Hotel lobby after that in these glass towers the people still call the Renaissance Center but the suits call the General Motors Headquarters. The car gods bought it, the car gods name it. Renaissance Center. I like it. Gleaming glass towers that look like glass spiders should live there, and at night, at night it’s like being in space. A billion lights travel across it. A billion lights sit fixed. A billion lights wink off. If you’re lucky you’ll catch a woman undressing after partying the night. There’s another high-rise hotel directly across the street. God bless fake invisibility.

So we got bored, went to my room, left the lights out and perused one such angel in bra and jeans brush her hair, search her suitcases, and finally, finally, pop that clasp after fifteen minutes.

Breasts as supple as fresh doughnuts.

Wrote a song about her.

Then I threw it away.

It took six months for me to look my first clone right in the face.

He said he’d been wanting to reach me for some time but, y’know, wife, children, responsibilities.

It was David fucking Bowie. The Thin White Duke himself.

The coolest person on the planet.

Ziggy Jehovah Stardust.

We met at Pink’s, signed enough autographs to buy a few minutes quiet time, and ate two of the most unhealthy, ambrosiatic hot dogs ever will be. By then the sun was setting. Smog refraction makes California sunsets kick the ass off anywhere.

“D’you know why they haven’t mastered faster than light travel yet?” Bowie asked in that cool, clipped accent of his.

“Not a clue.”

“Because it can’t. Been proven how many times? I mean, it’s why Einstein did all that bother with his relatives. Their ships don’t travel faster than light. Too much distance. No distance in time though.”

“Why’d they come here?”

Bowie smiled at me. “They never left.” That one blue eye of his and that one dilated eye of his hid all kinds of secrets of the ages. This man hadn’t written Rock and Roll Suicide for no reason.

I kinda hoped for some serious exposition but he just shook my hand and said, “Helluva album. Keep considering time, luv.”

Keep considering time.

I told Canoli I was a clone that very night. He’d just finished restringing my guitar and had plunked himself in the studio to tune it. Canoli could’ve been a Pope in another life. He had that kind of gravity. Told him the whole story, how I was really just a copy of a silly, trendy man.

Canoli scratched at that little piece of goatee directly under his lip, letting the universe swirl around his head before he flushed it all in with the black hole of thought.

“So we become these little gray fucks, huh?” He put his medicinal weed down. Wasn’t sick but why wait to fight the odds? “You guys here to save the world?”

Don’t be stupid. Of course he didn’t believe me. Not like people believe in Krishna or Jesus. He was just smart enough to take a good look at the other side.

“Not all clones are stars, man,” I told him.

He twanged the first of four chord progressions. I picked up his guitar, closed my eyes. I followed his jazz. Took a single hit off his weed. In a flash I’d analyzed it down to its chemical composition and realized why most people will never make the Dream Time: they’re too afraid to go to sleep. Weed, Xoloft, Xanax—it won’t take you there. Can’t. What was it Bowie sang?

Time takes a cigarette, puts it in your mouth. You pull on a finger, then another finger, then cigarette. The wall to wall is calling but you don’t linger ‘cause you forget: oh no no no, you’re a rock and roll suicide.

Next time I see Spock I’ve got some questions for his anthropology-major ass. Canoli wanted to know how we became gray shriveled fucks.

“You wanna call your next album The Clone Wars?” he said.

“Nah, been done.”

Canoli did a change up I didn’t see coming. I coughed a little bit. He stubbed out his weed. I smiled.

I strummed chaotic like a butterfly for a few, but I caught up.

“You be ready next time?” he asked me. So we both took it for granted that they were coming back for me at some point.

“Hell yeah.”

I was armed with the wisdom of the ages.

How cool is that?

Bowie’s song played on. Fame was all about being alone.

“…just turn on with me ‘cause you’re wonderful. Oh, give me your hands. Wonderful…”

Tuesday, May 31, 2011

In Case Your Faith Is Waning...

"...have you ever seen a picture of Jesus laughing? Do you think he had a beautiful smile?" -- Kate Bush, 'Why Should I Love You?'

Saturday, May 21, 2011

What If They're Right? (after reading the blog click this title for a treat)

According to nutballs today, Saturday, May 21, 2011 is Rapture Day. Seriously, would Jesus even pick a Saturday to come back? Who’d have time to pay attention between errands? Y’know, to me the worst thing about the Rapture would be being left behind with a bunch of a-holes, kind of like life now.

Dammit, it's already happened.

Since I'm a bit of a heathen there's no reason I shouldn't drop a couple quick Top Ten lists before I go out to pursue all the loose women suddenly without Republican backing.

TOP TEN THINGS I WISH ALL PEOPLE WOULD DO, but especially those black folks to whom this applies because, yes, you do make us look bad:

1) Stop letting your loud kids stay out till 1 in the morning.
2) Wear your clothing as though you're more mature than the average 3 year old.
3) If you're not at the beach, wear a freaking shirt.
4) There is a vast range of cute, adorable pets to choose from. A pit bull isn't one of them.
5) Read. It's not the white man's tonic. 'Sexy Ho 7' will never count.
6) If you're going to keep it real, be real. There's a boy I know who loves playing piano but all he shows off is his hood grimace.
7) While you're keeping your loud kids inside when evening falls, how about keeping yourself in too? Nobody really wants to hear all that when they're trying to relax.
8) Stop walking in packs all the time. Hell, you damn well scare me.
9) Stop holding Jennifer Hudson out as some new Aretha. (White folks, I'll get with you in a minute about Jennifer Aniston.)
10) Stop putting less thought and planning into having children than you did trying to get laid in the first place.

TOP TEN THINGS WHITE FOLKS HAD BETTER LOOK INTO before it's too late and Jennifer Aniston winds up with an Oscar nomination:
1) Flirt with a rainbow of fruit flavors. Automatic stress reliever.
2) Leave Jennifer Aniston alone. She'll start thinking there's truth to her--for some vague reason--being some kind of celebrity.
3) The "Master of the Universe" mentality went out with Dolph Lundgren's career. In other words, nobody's impressed and nor do they give a fuck that you have executive hair.
4) Realize that when you roll up banging rap you're getting laughed at for a good quarter mile.
5) If you're gonna fly the Confederate flag at least read up on the Civil War and not rely on a vague memory of an episode of the 'Dukes of Hazzard'.
6) The words "conservative” and “Christian” aren’t imminent domain.
7) Drunken white girls aren’t a benefit to anybody.
8) In 100% of cases lip injections make you look flat out stupid.
9) Leave the pick up trucks alone. You’re not hauling anything and the closest you’ll get to a mountain stream is that one pothole that always fills up when it rains.
10) Reading a book by a black author won’t mark you in any way (even Tyler Perry movies are federally approved).

Thanks for your indulgence, and on June 15th siphon gas from an abandoned vehicle while your grimy mate keeps marauders at bay with a shotgun and head to a flaming internet cafe near you to purchase Minister Faust's 'The Alchemists of Kush' eBook at If he reaches the Kindle top 100 that day he's putting up $500 of his own moolah toward books for South Sudan. Literacy, power--is there a difference?

Tuesday, May 17, 2011

Minister Faust, Straight Outta Edmonton

As promised, I'm just gonna sit back, shut up, and let the trailer speak for itself. 18 levels of cool for your mind.

This genius writing under the name Minister Faust is a hell of a writer. 'Nuff said.

Sunday, May 15, 2011

The Reasons

To the writers of the world: faced with a choice would you rather be an author, meaning someone who's published at whatever degree of success, or a writer, meaning someone whose words are respected no matter where they take you? No mixing or muddling allowed, you have to pick one or the other. Age-old conundrum that leads us to the question of why we write. As there are a million intertwined reasons that would compel a person to pick up a pen and make thoughts real, I've prepared the Cliffs Notes version below. Feel free to add on.

Why We Write:
To show what we can do.
Seething outrage.
Sublimated seething.
Thought sensitivity would get us laid by a kinder class of people.
Job sucks.
Girlfriend won't suck. Here's a poem for you, Rachel!
Precious moments without husband and kids.
How hard can it be?
Might get optioned as a film.
The inner light.
Voices in head demand satisfaction.
Already too many lawyers in the world, if you ask our opinion.
Encouraged by mom.
Ignored by dad.
Direct communication with God.
After imagining groupies, fun to imagine sex with groupies.
The magnificence of truth.
Secret telepaths.
Confused by the world and dazed that everyone else isn't.
Money. Buckets of it.
Hope to communicate with the ephemeral essential.
Power of Christ compels us.
Commendable naivety.
Mental work out.
Profound confusion.
It's so much freaking fun.
Voices carry.

Saturday, May 14, 2011

The Joys of Freedom

Friday was a little rough. Here's a Happy Saturday post:

Two words for y’all and I’m not going to whisper so you’d better not stand too close.


You may say you sexist, juvenile, horny man and I say I don’t care. Dudes, it’s the weekend. In that finest tradition set by the Haves to the Have Nots we get to get a little buck-wild. And to me nothing says buck-wild quite like unrepentant monkey sex.

Today is the day your lust has made.

This ain’t spiritual like my jones for Pam Grier (always and forever) or Rosario Dawson (each moment with you) or the Wife (yes, the spider is dead). Matter of fact, let me do this:

Da Boom Da Bam The Everlasting Pow

We all have somebody we just want to mash our faces into till we come out the other side. No shame at all. Simply means we’re alive and well. Yes we’re supposed to pretend that sex outside marriage is sinful, that every sperm is sacred (to all my self-gratifying brothers out there shouting “Lo, I am the Destroyer of Worlds!”—chill), and that seeing a smart, bright, successful human being as a sex object brings the kind of shame that can only be imparted by an old lady, but let’s be real. Ladies, look here:

Don’t tell me you didn’t just now open that man’s shirt. Normally we’re supposed to act like we don’t get turned on, not in everyday life. But stars, that’s fair lust since we’ll never attain them. Let me tell you something. I picture more women naked in the course of a day, even women I’ve never seen, than is probably fair or prudent. Sometimes not even entirely naked (takes too much work). I also wonder how cars work, what it looks like in the sewer, and whether God is aware of me. It’s called curiosity, people! Hell, if Sofia or Rosario ever wrote about how my ass cheeks make them think of chocolate mousse, I’d be a changed man. Might start exercising and eating right.

Granted this presupposes that in the mind you can be as sexually adept as you wanna be. In real life your butt cheeks lock up, exertion sweat immediately blinds you in one eye and the longer you try to hold out you come to realize just why Kegel exercises are so important.

But look up there at Sofia and Taye again. This ain't about real life. This is where you exercise the most fantastic muscle you've got, the brain. So fantasize your drawers off. See your neighbor in a whole new way. Regard your boss with what on Monday will appear to be respect and admiration. Let that rampant, hairy sexuality lock you in a room and smile at you with that one tooth showing and the Deliverance banjo playing in the background…then surprise rush it and make it shiver for comfort later. It’s the weekend, dammit, and if we can’t lust after Sofia Vergara or Taye Diggs or our kid's kindergarten teacher we are seriously buggered. Mondays come around really quickly.

Yo! I am the destroyer of worlds.

Friday, May 13, 2011

Crazy 8's

I was in a waiting room this morning watching a woman being interviewed regarding the Botox injections she administers to her 8 year old daughter to keep the child competitive in kiddy pageants. She’s a “medical professional” and gives the shots herself. When compelled under the reflective quad of an interviewer, a camera crew, having her beautiful daughter sitting beside her, and the certain knowledge that damning idiocy on this level would be seen by millions, this mom didn’t drop to her knees clutching her head under the crushing weight of realization. She didn’t beg any gods for forgiveness. Didn’t immediately bundle her child up and rush her to someone sane. Her entire justification: It’s tough in the pageant world. My boss has an expression: “The gene pool could use a little chlorine.”

Could this woman be an excellent parent otherwise? No. The child seemed happy and engaging, but that’s more an indicator of life in the pageant world where not being happy and engaging is not an option. Women who never got over playing with baby dolls should not be allowed to have children. The mom said lots of kiddy porn pageant parents Botox their kids. I added the kiddy porn part because it was necessary. Lots of kids are happy and engaging despite idiot parents. That doesn’t mean those parents get the medal “Good Parent” by default. What makes a good parent? Not giving your kid Botox is likely high on the list.

Of course the entire interview was engineered to responsibly outrage us. The interviewer asked the pat questions and adopted the proper expressions to guide viewers. At no point did the interviewer—a mother herself, she informed postscript—frown deeply into the mom’s face and say “Are you fucking crazy?” She did not cut the interview short to prevent this bovine-minded woman from receiving a crazy person’s inevitable 15 minutes of fame (there’s always the possibility for mom to be picked up by a reality show). So I’m outraged twofold. Whenever there’s a geek show you have to be mad at the barker. Somebody sought this woman out.

Maybe rehumanizing is the wrong word. Help me here, what do we call it? Where do we go to become better than ourselves?

Oh, and the little girl also had the hot wax on the “bikini” area. I didn’t know little girls even had bikini areas. Somebody’s out there looking, though.

Kiddy porn.

Keeping It Real

Keeping It Real

By the Lord’s salty balls, here’s what’s bugging me, and I swear if anybody gets indignant I will dick slap them in front of their children. It’s that serious. I walked to the bookstore yesterday filled with hope and love and charity, armed with a list of authors I was ready to be intrigued by. Some established, some up and coming. They all happened to be “folks of color.”

What I found, however—and this is what makes it sometimes the most depressing thing in the United States of America to find out is you’re black—was ‘Justify My Thug’, ‘Thug In Me’, ‘Street Chic’, ‘Hood Rats’, and ‘Girls From Da Hood: 6’. Six. I have not made any of these titles up. There was a table full of even more. Multiple copies of everything. I’m not even gonna bother with authors’ names. Let’s say Boo Boo Dee Fool and Bugs Bunny.

I was looking for Tananarive Due
Nnedi Okorafor
Carleen Brice
Minister Faust
Bernice McFadden
Percy Everett
Tayari Jones
and Ru Freeman

I’ve got Ru’s book; just wanted to see if they had any more in stock. Got works by Minister Faust too; he’s got a new book coming out in June (more on that later). Percy Everett is so good he should get to sleep with supermodels and not have to worry about the ‘Tiger Woods’ imperative. Ms. Due, Okorafor, Brice, Jones and McFadden have piqued the beejeezus out of my curiosity. A nice representation gender and genre-wise. Speculative fiction, literary, international, highbrow and comedic mashed in the mix.

Not one of these authors’ works was in that entire book store. I know all about supply and demand and I know all about giving the people what they want and I know humanity is generally about as stupid as cheese—but, dammit, come on! Yes, I know that Barnes & Noble is full of chick lit and chick lit sucks the balls of an angry Christ; I know there are a million absolutely terrible sci-fi/fantasy series written by folks completely damning the cause of geekdom; I know that crap is king all the way around for folks of all colors. But, dammit, come on! Not one book.

Not a single, flippin’, wrinkled, pissed on, neglected copy. Nowhere. Nada.

Girls From Da Hood: 6.

If all things were equal I wouldn’t have a problem, but we’re not going to insult ourselves with that pretense. Black folks can’t afford that. Period, end of discussion. We’re just going to calmly and rationally wonder why it’s disgustingly easy to walk into a major bookseller and find ‘Justify My Thug’ front and center, but books that might actually stay with you longer than a fart? No fucking way.

I’m putting this on Barnes & Noble’s head, and I’m putting this on book publishers’ heads, and I’m putting this on sheisty writers everywhere: Why?

And don’t anybody dare say nobody would buy a worthwhile author of color’s book. I’m in bookstores all the time as a writer and a reader. When I heard Carlos Ruiz Zafon had a follow up to ‘The Shadow of the Wind’ I nearly peed myself. I see black folks in book stores all the time. The young stupid girls? Yeah, they’re walking out with ‘Hood Rats’ and ‘Hood Rats’ alone. That’s what makes them stupid, that single minded pursuit of rancid cheese. But folks with a sense of adventure? They’re walking out with a lot more. Not Due, Brice, McFadden, Okorafor, Faust, Jones, Everett or Freeman. No, that will happen, as a poet might say, when a witch’s teat warms up. Maybe Christopher Moore
, Stephen King
, James Morrow
, Terry Pratchett
, Margaret Atwood
or Anais Nin
, the freaky bastards, but not one of those others.

I see Mexicans, Koreans, Muslims, Gays, geeks, Republicans, Democrats, hell, even Progressives in bookstores. I see blacks, whites, lesbians, psychotics, and those creepy dudes who stand in the history section and mutter prophecies at book spines. I see women, men, children and whatever the hell teenagers are. None of these people can purchase a book that is not there. None of these people will order a book they don’t know exists. Hold the pickles, hold the lettuce, special orders do upset us.

Click any link in this blog, even ‘Hood Rat’
. Buy at least one, doesn’t matter by whom. Even fucking ‘Hood Rat’. Hell, click ‘Neon Lights’
if you want. But know this: if your diet’s nothing but Burger King you will get slovenly, you will get greasy, you will die.


Site Glitches

Looks like Blogspot had a few gremlins last night. 2 posts plus comments got deleted ("Keeping It Real" and "Crazy 8's"). I'll repost and copy the comments.

--a thousand apologies to all 3 people reading this.

Thursday, April 28, 2011

Did I Miss The Memo?

I wasn’t sure at first so I waited a bit, then turned around and he was still there. If someone has a moment, I have a genteel question: When did Donald Trump become a serious political contender?

Presidency of the United States, right? Donald Trump? The rich joke with all the issues? I’ll keep this brief: If a dude approached you with hair like that trying to sell you lemonade on a hot day you’d call the police.

The McCain/Palin wounds haven’t even healed, dammit!

Granted, the purpose of leaving political office open to chance individuals is to weed out the fools among us, but there’s fools and then there’s carnival freaks children shouldn’t even want to come around.

Maybe I misunderstood. Donald Trump??

Come on, America, stop fooling with me! Yeah, you got me, very funny, but, Dude, seriously, stop. You're really being a tampon in the swizzle stick of Life.

Tuesday, April 19, 2011

Maya Rudolph…or Totally Foreseen Annihilation?!

At the end of the song ‘Loving You’ by Minnie Riperton, Minnie seemingly innocuously ad libs her daughter’s name into the melody, crooning sweetly “Maya, Maya, Maya Maya” and so on. But in a serious newscaster’s voice we have to ask: Was that an homage to her lovely daughter. . . or was it a complete and total nod to total freaking destruction?

I think we all know the answer to that. There are billboards up and everything. There are 2 camps of doom to contend with though. Freaking Mayans with their skull rugby and forecasts of total freaking doom next year on the one hand; and garden variety religious nutballs with their billboards advertising doomsday as May 21, 2011 (yes, soon we will be able to cue the David Bowie song ‘Five Years’ regardless of incorrect timing). Unless they’re the same thing, but how a dead society can afford billboards, I don’t know, but with so little time left to sit around and watch TV a man pauses to reflect and reevaluate: Rosario, meet me for smoothies and graphic monkey sex. Or send an autographed picture. Whatever works for an active Hollywood schedule.

My inner mind just clued me in that the word “sex” up there might be crass; the world’s ending does not excuse crassness. And your idiot writer by no means intends to convey an overwhelming sense of carnality toward Ms. Dawson. Plus I’m sure she’s in a lovely relationship with a guy who likely has pecs and not moobs (man boobs)—or with a gal for that matter (I’m not up on my TMZ so I don’t know)—so to Ms. Dawson’s dear loved one, no disrespect. I’ll readily swap the Wife with you for the time it takes Rosario and me to study the Bible.

Know what? Can we slow things down and bring up the lights a bit? Can we feel real for a minute?

Know what attracted me to Rosario in the first place? Her smile. That incredible “God Created Woman” smile. Call me romantic but when I saw that smile I wanted to slap a child. Like blood to a vampire, like chicken to grease, like an order taken correctly at a Taco Bell drive-thru, it was glorious. Her smile was irrefutable proof that God exists and digs beautiful women. Does everybody feel the spirit in this room tonight?

So it’s not just sex. I would also accept an autographed 8x10 glossy (life-sized cutout?), but see, the thing is. . . neither will happen. For one thing, I’m married. Yeah, I know, why are all the good brothers taken? For another thing she’s in a line of work that would require me to bitch slap most of her co-workers on sight. Consider this: Will Smith has gotten to kiss her; I think Denzel hugged up on her; Colin Farrell has seen her butt nekkid (and I know that the camera crew has families but, dammit, collateral damage is a bitch; I’ll come for y’all in the night); a bunch of tools in that “Rent” movie got to sing with her—can you appreciate the Incredible Hulk-sized beatdown the acting community has coming? Would have, I should say, if she and I were to fulfill our destinies in a consummation of passion that would make angels horny. Plus there’s that end of the world thing.

Yeah, I know. Complete and total bummer. And there’s a chance it might actually happen this time. The signs are undeniable. Michele Bachman and Sarah Palin will merge, and not in any properly lubricated way. Planetary disasters are happening faster than insurance companies can get their compassionate commercials out to us. Something named “Snooki” has written a book. Think of all the things you should have done that you never did. It’s almost as if it mattered one whit whether you did them or not. World’s still ending, right, Nobel Prize or “Undercover Boss”. Greatness comes, greatness goes, with dumbasses in between. But if it ends this year I’ll be this dude stuck in Detroit, no chance watching Rosario stir, stretch and yawn under a beautiful morning’s light, just a dude with a wife and a mortgage and a bunch of nieces and nephews. I’ll have read some damn good books, saw Josh Ritter and Prince in concert (not on the same stage, mind you; that’s an orgasm more intense than mankind is meant to know), still be married to a woman who is either insane from going through “the change” or going through “the change” while insane (like she’s ever going to read this, and if she does it’s just a matter of me saying, “Well obviously I meant for you to read it seeing as it’s on the entire world wide web. Duh! Not like it’s a secret, is it? Let’s join hands now and share our feelings”).

Am I saying that what truly matters is family and the small connections and that I wouldn’t trade them for anything in the face of whatever? Don’t be stupid. If Ms. Dawson ever called me I’d be outta here so fast it’d create a time warp. What I’m saying is that—and this isn’t even maybe, this is definitely—with the world ending you need to at least be square with yourself.

You see, I’ve gotten to a position where I don’t particularly fret over the world ending anymore. Before I was all, “But what about humanity? What about warp drives and seeking out and art?” Years of enduring the abject stupidity inherent in thinking that if one makes the rich richer, those less fortunate will be better off too (which would be fine if greed and wealth weren’t pretty much Siamese twins); that if we simply relax or eliminate environmental restrictions on companies they won’t turn around and package mercury as “Mr. Zippy” in Happy Meal toys (as opposed to dumping wonderful waste in landfills conveniently located for your carcinogenic pleasure); that pretending to educate the poor is noble in and of itself; that left to their own devices people are basically good, when (left to their own devices) people come up with devices designed to get rid of other people; that CATS is a theatrical experience to anyone over 5 years old, and that, Good & Sweet Baby Jeebus (sidenote: read anything by Chris Moore and you’ll feel the Jeebus love), an ad by J Crew featuring a lady laughing at her son’s playfully pink-polished toes is just one more indication that they’ll be teaching kids how to buttfuck on Sesame Street by 2012—all this just means that there is a certain distasteful truth to all the inane “reality” crap being mightily shoveled at us: LIFE… is inane. Think about it. Shakespeare’s dead. Gandhi’s dead. Cornell West is aging. Prince receives mailings from the AARP. The greatest poet of our time probably lives in utter obscurity 2 doors down from you. And Pam Grier, God Bless Her, will one day wear false teeth. The world has been, and always will be, running down. People, can we let Sisyphus and Atlas chill for a minute? ‘Cause the thing is, we don’t even make the best of what’s still around. Why fret against entropy or Armageddon when much ado is made about Jennifer Hudson, Charlie Sheen, Rihanna, Britney, Will Smith’s kids, crazy people running for and subsequently winning political office, and whether fading, marginal celebrities are able to learn dance moves from professional choreographers.

Gaze and be something biblical, ye poor unworthy bastards. That which survives is beauty, that which is beautiful is meaningful, and that which is meaningful...

Well, that which is meaningful does not get covered on the Evening News. When’s the last time the News told you that a smile was worth changing the world for? Never. Those monkey bastards only care about smiles if the smile is coming off some dictator who just squashed a civil uprising via the military brothers and sisters of the dead. They’ll love the smile then. Fox, CNN, CNBC, ABC, CBS, NBC (but not PBS, ‘cause PBS is the shit-—liberal media, bitchazzz!), when they cover the end of the world it will be with computer graphics, Armageddon displays, and the music-bed version of James Earl Jones’ voice. They won’t have a single picture of Rosario Dawson’s smile...

…or audio of my 3 year old nephew’s laugh…

…or an essay from novelist Ru Freeman…

…or a man in the street interview with me, with the reporter asking how I felt the first time I saw my wife…

…or footage of the crashing realization on the faces of zealots realizing how much time they’d wasted…

…or the first and only earnest review of my novel NEON LIGHTS (available for $2.99 at and, the world’s not over yet) as being entirely derivative and not worthy of a slap across the face with Percy Everett’s cum rag…

…or even the night sky. Look outside. The sky is there for reasons we still don’t understand.

Alas, alack and damn.

Minnie, go ahead and sing us out, then go back to resting your soul. We’ve either got a few weeks or about a year.

By which time I should have an answer to the question should I really care who judges American Idol or not?

Alas, alack and damn.

Tuesday, April 5, 2011

Requiem for Satan

Time to reorganize, ladies and gentlemen. The new theme is “rehumanize yourself”. The Police (for the young folks, this is the group Sting had before he was the old dude your mother likes) sang it right, which is where I get the name from. Rehumanize Yourself. As in, stop being so freaking stupid and greedy and myopic and turn the wealth of Life toward keeping life livable for every-freaking-body. War, famine, pestilence and avarice—be gone!

See, here’s what I’ve found out. Why we’re unhappy? It’s not the Devil. Everything bad in the entire world is because people don’t like their lives. Period. Humans are the most unhappy twits in the world. The asshole texting who caused a three car pileup killing everybody but himself because he needs a certain image to feel worth the air he breathes can’t stand himself. The asshole executive in a useless industry whose arrogance is the complete set including midlife crisis and trophy skank, the one who has to berate wait staff with the six saddest, most stupid words ever strung together: “Do you know who I am?” That guy shouldn’t have opened his eyes in the morning. Death isn’t always a tragedy. That guy can’t stand himself. He doesn’t even know who he is. (For the record, anybody having to voice the words ‘Do you know who I am?’—the answer, no matter which way it goes, will not please you.)

We’re unhappy because we’re dishonest with ourselves, with our wives, with our husbands, particularly with our kids, with jobs we can’t stand, with neighbors we don’t want to see, and especially with our lord god savior Jesus Buddha Christ. Hell, how many folks is this true of: we wake up in the morning wishing for death’s sweet embrace but at the first human face what do we say? “Good morning.” Talk about keeping hope alive.

So in order to rehumanize myself, I have put away a few fears. Fear of success—and that’s a real fear, because a lot of people become successful and become utter assholes; granted there were kernels of ass in them already but success tends to exacerbate things—fear of loss, fear of failure even. Strange dichotomies abound. Anybody who’s read more than 2 of these blogs knows I love music. Here are some words from the U2 song ‘Stuck in a Moment That You Can’t Get Out Of’: “I am not afraid of anything in this world. There’s nothing you can throw at me that I haven’t already heard. I’m just trying to find a decent melody, a song that I can sing in my own company.” Or thereabouts. Sometimes I might get a few words wrong in a lyric here and there. For years I’ve thought Michael Jackson was belting out “Strong is hot funky” in ‘Beat It’. Point is, fear creates aggression, which creates tension, which creates assholes. Military assholes, political assholes, pop cultural assholes, job market assholes. Fear creates huge, honking pointless wastes of time.

Honestly? I’m sick of it. If I was Jesus I would bitch slap so many of y’all into eternity it ain’t funny. Do the Bernie Mac ‘Head of State’ reach-down-to-the-ground smack. And just keep walking. So I’m looking at life that way, smacking the hell out of fears, anxieties and irrationalities.

Which means I finally got off my ass and published a book. Marketing 101 says I should have mentioned that from the get go, but I’m not here for that. It’s an ebook only. If you buy the book, fine. I’d love to sell a million copies, put some serious money in my niece’s college fund, and wake up naturally every day. Title is NEON LIGHTS, it’s a satire on publishing in general and black publishing in particular, it’s cheap, and links are here and here Barnes & Noble. Free apps on both sites for reading on PC, laptop or whatever device. The book itself is not as important as me actually getting off my ass and publishing it my damn self. It’s made the short rounds of potential traditional publishers and agents. Got nibbled on, got passed up. No hard feelings anywhere. But a friend said “Jed, take that book and move away from there.” Said “Pubit and Kindle are the places you wanna be,” so I uploaded my goofy book and I published it for free (almost, that is; $2.99, less than Starbucks coffee or tea).

It’ll be bought by 7 people. But on a grand scheme I’m looking at life differently. That pervasive, silent scream shrouding the earth is audible as ever…but it’s nothing I haven’t already heard. It won’t keep me from doing what I need to do. I was born human and by damn I’ll die human. And I might be full of too many sins but if I’m going to hell for Original sin I’ll keep some other beautiful sinner good company. Some simple human soul whose ego is under control. Somebody human. Somebody who can stop being who they are…in order to be who they are.

So no more labeling these as the days of the Lord. Here’s to the human in me. May he reign over the earth forever.

I have always wanted to be a published writer. I just never factored myself into the equation as the one doing the publishing. Honest.

Monday, March 28, 2011

Those Darn Kids, Nudge Nudge, Wink Wink

Don’t you love how Disney had a cow those few short years ago about Ellen DeGeneres being gay to now being so “up” with modern times that incest is simply loaded with hilarious humor for kids of all ages? “The New American Family” I think they brand this enlightenment. Two geeky white kids with the overdone quasi-Hungarian accents to let us know how quirkily lovable those wacky foreigners are, are brother and sister. Sister’s talking about dating and how she longs for a future husband. Brother’s right along with it, goofy and wistful. Then the needle scratches the record: “You do know we’re not getting married, right?” she says to him, clearly meaning they won’t be marrying one another despite how much he clearly wants it.


Obviously I’m distraught and not hearing properly, as the only reason I’m subjected to a tween Disney sitcom called 'Shake It Up' about two teen dancers and their wacky friends is that I’m in a hospital waiting room with no means of changing the channel or turning the TV off.

I’m no prude here…and granted there’s an actual TV show called ‘Sister Wives’ on another cable channel for the Cletus grown folks among us…but…dude? Disney trying for yucks out of a guy desperately wanting to do his sister? Eww.

And not to pine for the days of glory holes and conservatives, but is bestiality up next? Disney has a lot of animal characters, real and cartoon, so I'm just wondering. Will 'Lilo & Stitch' be reimagined as 'Stitch in Lilo'? Just sitting here in a hospital full of the sick and dying. You know, that whole microcosm thing. With a TV show getting jokes off that 13 year old incest buzz. Ha ha, right? Please take any future jokes about Corbin Bleu’s name in stride. Cool. As long as we understand each other.

Bright, colorful kiddie porn is the new lesbianism. Get up with the times, people. (Oh, there's already a show called 'Toddlers & Tiaras'? Surely it's never watched--Oh, renewed for a 3rd season? Oh. Ok.)


Friday, January 21, 2011

Botox The Gonads And Let's Call It Done

Craig Ferguson. You may not know him but he’s about to tell you something that’s been staring you straight in the face. I'm not sure when this aired on his show 'Late Late Show with Craig Ferguson' (I'm slow to get this stuff) but listen. Listen:

Understand this apology: I never thought when I started this blog I’d get into politics or social analysis or be trying to shed light on untold problems. A lark with one wing flapping, I am. A fop to urge on the realization that the world is a beautifully ridiculous place when it’s not scary as all fuck. I think my name, "Clarence", means light bringer. Don’t send me virgins yet. I look into my own head and it’s plenty dark in there. I don’t mean to be mean. I don’t mean to be disrespectful. I will never fan flames to make someone take up either arms, hysterics or boiling umbrage. I just want an end to negligence. I don’t want us to be stupid. We’re better than stupid.

Except a lot of times we’re not. We let the minor annoyances of our lives and the bumbling inadequacies our parents paraded for us determine way too much without ever having to actually put thought into it. The quiet desperation we all live under has become a pervading white noise driving huge contingents reasonably insane. There is a pandemic gripping this entire planet combining youth, greed, insensitivity, and the schemes of the few at the expense of the many.

This is a blog. And I’ve said before, the very word is an idiotic thing. ‘Twas a blog that caught the roving dead eye of John McCain’s presidentially-motivated political machine, a blog from a boy who has not yet lived and I can practically guarantee not loved—and this isn’t a mean thing to say; if anything, I’m compassionate toward him, but compassion seems to hurt these days—a Conservative blog about how right Sarah Palin is for the conservative world. Conservative. Preserve for the good of all. Communist. The irony. Ms. Palin would be as obscure to 99 percent of the life in this universe as before she ever stepped foot on the American Idol political stage if not for the rhetoric of, of all things, a blog. Maintained by a college kid in his mom’s basement. A blog is not something to invest a lot of thought in. If my facts here aren’t correct, please accord me the same you do your most favored Eddie Haskell-ish politican, Eddie Haskell being the model of weasely, disingenuous behavior on the old 50’s sitcom ‘Leave It To Beaver’, and accept without strain.

A Presidential campaign launched and America under the clutches of yet another annoying terrorist, all for the love of a blog (being attractive compared to Barbara Bush plus Alaskan white doesn’t strip Madam Palin of a fear-pandering agenda). So we can’t pretend stupid things don’t have power. Of course she’s not alone or even at the top of what she thinks is her own machine. Ambition is like crack and you’ll dance your dance for anybody for it. But people say President Obama is the anti-Christ. Hello, the devil wears Prada? This woman is dangerous because she represents the meteoric rise (meteor’s don’t rise; that’s a stupid expression) of stupidity. She is the deep seated dream of lowered expectations. For God’s sake, she’s a failed beauty queen—is there anything more dangerous than that?

America is great because it’s not homogeneous. Japan, China, Russia—they’re missing out on something wonderful. They’ve got a national deficiency of vitamin D: diversity. Here, though, we can gorge on it and become superhuman if we stopped being fearful long enough to truly avail. I don’t give a gnat’s ass about politics. You can call yourself a Liberal, a Republican, a Conservative, a Democrat, a Tea-bagger, a Progressive, a Pro-lifer or any number of goofy avoidances to having a true identity. I don’t give a gnat’s ass. My neighbor is an older white guy, as conservative, pro-lifey and Republican as they come. (Why has “Republican” come to mean “I’m white and I don’t like you”?) Right-to-Life bumper stickers and everything on his van. Not too politically astute. He’s one of the few white folks that live in my immediate neighborhood; a few blocks off is Porch Negro/Cletus-ville, but that’s a whole different blend of racial accord. My neighborhood’s not that bad. I can show you bad neighborhoods. He and I speak, he drags my garbage can in, I drag his, whenever I shovel snow I go along his walk too. I watch out for him because he’s getting up there in age and lives alone. Détente means I don’t talk about him behind his back, I don’t secretly want him gone, and his bumper sticker about “Choose Life” doesn’t throw me into conniption fits. Sometimes politics will creep into a casual conversation and I break things down with logic. The people who think life is precious and protest outside abortion clinics never hand out condoms or vouchers for free doctor’s visits. Life is precious, but don’t tell me that sex doesn’t scare the hell out of a lot of people. There’s jealousy on those abortion lines. But I digress.

No I don’t. Here’s the thing: I don’t like abortion. Nobody likes abortion; it would have been another viable life on this planet, but let’s not pretend we love life. Let’s not pretend that our consciences guide us. Let’s not even go down that road. We’re primitive. What do primitives like? Food, sex, gratification, power. Did you know that mores are constructs and not handed down by God as universal law? Taken to extremes, we can say anything goes. Extremity is a fool’s route. Sex is here and will always be here and people will always be stupid about it. This leads to unplanned and unwanted pregnancies. There’s a 13 year old girl who brings her little baby to my wife’s Catholic church every Sunday. Back in high school I came up with this little saying: I have released many wrong things into this universe; I, myself, may be a wrong thing released by someone else. I was more of a twat then than I am now. Those words have stayed with me, though, because there’s truth in them. Am I telling 13 year olds to go ahead and have willy-nilly sex if we take away the spectre of pregnancy? My niece will be 13 soon. Let her have sex. Then read her obituary.

In this day and age there is absolutely zero justification for consenting adults to face unwanted pregnancy. In this day and age there is no justification for adults to think teens and other dummies are not, will not, and won’t continue to have dummy sex. Hell, let’s make birth control pills taste like Skittles and make spermicide an ingredient in Mountain Dew. The shame behind actively wanting to thwart procreation is silly. Condom commercials fight the stigma by trying too hard to be cool, which just reinforces the institutional stigma. Birth control pills are still for women who sit around drinking lattes. In this day and age there is no reason to protest abortion and every reason to make sure boys and girls, men and women, know that birth control is a necessity, not a shame. Be real, I say to my neighbor and he nods and we leave it at that. People are going to have sex. That doesn’t mean they need to get pregnant. Every sperm is not sacred.

So abortion protestors are missing golden opportunities to truly make a difference. They’re ignoring truth in favor of airy dogma. Airy because it doesn’t hold weight. Posters of aborted fetuses and the potential of damaging your soul only work if being preached to the choir. Outside the choir, you need to hit folks with truth. Not spin, not flim flam, not double handed self serving masturbation. Not saying a lot of these protestors aren’t sincere. I’m saying question your methods, question your goals. I’m saying don’t willfully blind yourselves to reality.

Don’t be taken advantage of by people whose only use for you is to use you. The Pope is not inherently holy. Most politicians you wouldn’t trust to sell you a used car. Most, not all.

What could all these words possibly have to do with Craig Ferguson?


No matter how old we are, we’re all pretending we’re youths. Cosmetic companies make up new scientific-sounding words to make vain, wrinkly women think they need to compete with hot babes. Beer commercials still want men to think there’s an inherent connection between their fermented piss and sex (outside of the get-you-drunk-and-take-advantage-of-you factor). Diet commercials engage the willing suspension of disbelief that they’ll work over the simple truth of eating less and exercising. No matter what, we want to be young. We want to consume what we want and pretend that the magic of youthful metabolism will make everything bad go away. And if it needs help going away, well, that’s what TV is for. TV is our best good friend. It is cool. It lets us sit at its table, and in sitting we know deep down that we are not geeks.

Except we are geeks. What’s more geeky than a kid? Even the ones that (we) think are cool are awkward and doofy. They’re supposed to be awkward and doofy. Compared to what? To grown ups! I say ad nauseam to family and friends that the problem with kids today is that they don’t know they’re kids. They don’t see any difference between them and us outside of size and the ability to drive, which are temporary inequities. They have the same stuff as us. They watch the same shows. Same movies. Music. My nephew has a better cellphone, TV, laptop (it’s mom’s but let’s be real) and wardrobe than me. He probably has more money in his savings account too. So why should he respect what comes out of uncle’s mouth? Granted I could punch a hole through his chest if he made me mad enough, but then there’d be tiresome legalities, and I think our kids know very well to use that fact to their advantage. And all the adults out there still clinging to the glory days of their high school cafeteria are not helping the causes of Rational Separation and Respect at all. Can we be blunt here? Kids are stupid. They’re supposed to be stupid. They’re supposed to be unformed, misshapen, smelly and somewhat soggy to the touch. When we deify youth we make the world unformed, misshapen, smelly and somewhat soggy to the touch.

You wonder why things are goofy and stupid and why pretty much everything (I’m looking at you, anything-Ashton-Kutcher-is-in) is crap?

Because advertisers are bastards. Kids are stupid. And we adults think we’re kids.

We’re so gullible.