My windows are wide open in winter. While it's usually shallow and uninteresting, obligatory bullshitting with someone who's the only other person in a waiting room or a bus stop or in a long line at your local glory hole, I need to talk about the weather. It's February and I'm enjoying the frightening specter of the apocalypse. Certain goddamn people have left the heat on too long, the house is on fire, "but it's warm and comfortable, can you get me another fig newton?" And then we're all ash.
But in the mean time, the windows are open wide, there isn't even the usual California rain storm around this time that causes local news media to gangbang the public with "STORMWATCH 2011!" Sounds like bad science fiction from some years back.
The sun is shining and I can't complain about it while my friends in Minnesota and New Mexico are literally frozen, barricading themselves indoors with (hopefully) some weed, Nintendo and a fire. Or else they could fucking die. So, I can't say shit about all this sunshine. Even with the lack of seasons in California, it feels strange but I'm always thrown off by something so let it be the summer invading January and February until the nuclear winter forever.
And with my windows open, people will drive by sometimes listening to tight jams, sometimes, and it makes me long for a cruise. I don't need a car and every day I'm not stalled in traffic keeps me another step away from death, but there is nothing like smoking something and driving around in the sun, wide streets, wide seats, metal, chrome, noise, music, wind blowing the brains out of all of the world's horrors. Good times were had.
Here's a jam I might cruise to. It's been out awhile but hasn't been played out. Long live shit.
Friday, February 11, 2011
Thursday, February 3, 2011
Back to the Future 4: Shit Gets Real
If more people read this shit, I'd say something about my doing time or getting my left leg amputated in Zimbabwe or my 65 day standoff with the Cochise County Sheriffs that ended it a bloodbath but I escaped to my mountainous lair where all my friends were hanging, waiting, engulfed in a fog of dopesmoke and natural jacuzzi steam...
But none of that happened just yet, I mean the weed part more or less, but nothing so sensational. There have been some life and death situations and some domestic travel that involved pool games with Navajo war veterans and I.E. pit bulls in the back of a '92 Dodge Ram van. Primetime. But for the most part it's been some slow time, some lack of productivity. I'm trying to change this.
The world keeps losing its goddamn mind, I keep climbing beanstalks trying to get a better view but end up climbing higher and higher until I forget about it all. But shit always creeps up, pursues and pulls me down. I only want to be that high on weekends, Sundays in particular, Isley Brothers, Swishers, a real special occasion. There is a kind of high where I can still see, and then get all the work done. Before it's too late.
I say all this and I'll probably go roll one up right now and listen to this Curren$y album all day. Smoke myself blind again. The sun is shining in winter time, I can't let all the negative land mines get to me today. I've been hanging out with this dog. He's so chill, he sleeps through gun shots and firecrackers. This is a good thing.
Keep it rolling. I couldn't think of anywhere else to be or any other way to feel. This is the extent of my reporting on this fine line Thursday afternoon.
Look 'ma I'm a fucking journalist!
But none of that happened just yet, I mean the weed part more or less, but nothing so sensational. There have been some life and death situations and some domestic travel that involved pool games with Navajo war veterans and I.E. pit bulls in the back of a '92 Dodge Ram van. Primetime. But for the most part it's been some slow time, some lack of productivity. I'm trying to change this.
The world keeps losing its goddamn mind, I keep climbing beanstalks trying to get a better view but end up climbing higher and higher until I forget about it all. But shit always creeps up, pursues and pulls me down. I only want to be that high on weekends, Sundays in particular, Isley Brothers, Swishers, a real special occasion. There is a kind of high where I can still see, and then get all the work done. Before it's too late.
I say all this and I'll probably go roll one up right now and listen to this Curren$y album all day. Smoke myself blind again. The sun is shining in winter time, I can't let all the negative land mines get to me today. I've been hanging out with this dog. He's so chill, he sleeps through gun shots and firecrackers. This is a good thing.
Keep it rolling. I couldn't think of anywhere else to be or any other way to feel. This is the extent of my reporting on this fine line Thursday afternoon.
Look 'ma I'm a fucking journalist!
Tuesday, October 19, 2010
A Marxist Coup (Not the good kind)
On the fringes of downtown Oakland, close enough to the freeway, my window when its open in the afternoon, more often weekdays, provides a steady soundtrack of traffic, the sounds of people moving along, usually one constant, dissonant noise like a gravelly river flowing outward, right on by. Most times, there isn't one noise separated from another. Unless there's a big block engine there somewhere, or a Harley rustles by or maybe a big rig, a tow truck, but more than likely I don't notice a thing unless I'm looking outside.
What I notice more than anything, is when someone is blaring tunes with their windows down, bumping bass vibrating the walls sometimes, a guitar solo now and then, or Top 40 whathaveyou, they pass and then they're gone. Most of the time, they are faceless and only leave a trace of exhaust. But once in awhile, there is a distinction. A Peach colored Buick Regal on 20s blasting "Cutie Pie" by One Way or maybe a rusted Dodge Colt taking it to the limit with Van Halen's "Right Now" through stock speakers from 1991, proudly and sadly on a horribly consistent classic rock station. So the songs move by fast, sometimes stopping at a red light on the corner, allowing me to jam out or laugh my face off, as in the latter example, for an elongated moment or two.
Yesterday, late afternoon rush, lots of cars and trucks going home, after some Mac Dre caused me to pause and momentarily tolerate life, something else came along to assault rather than caress my brain. It was louder than anything else on the street. It was stopped at the light before I could configure who it was or why.
Richard Marx, not Groucho or Karl, the one I don't like so much, with his sappy shitsong from decades back, still staining the airwaves, probably on an easy listening station, "For a smooth ride home, here is a classic..."
I felt like it went on longer than necessary, a lingering red light or maybe they were trying to fucking park, while blasting, "Wherever you go, whatever you do, I will be right here waiting for you..." You may remember this song from a recent dentist visit or perhaps some memory of being in a car with a lame, white relative in 1989. It was so loud and so goddamn strange, completely overpowering the music I had on at a low volume, I had to take a look out the window and see who this motherfucker was. For a slight moment I hesitated my generalization, my blind hatred at a stranger, after all bad music is funny sometimes, right?
Fucking wrong. Not only is that rotting cheese unacceptable in any capacity but sure as shit, the culprit was right there waiting for me, a Prius and a ponytail were involved and I just had to shake my head and throw up a middle finger, trying to laugh, trying not to puke, I think I won the battle because it ended up being kind of funny. The light changed finally and the dickhead moved along, as did Richard Marx.
And I didn't feel bad at all about blind hatred or anything else. I went back to listening to Sabbath, turning it up now as loud as it could go. No more invasions today, I thought. I listened to "Snowblind" and lit up a blunt. And kept that window open for the rest of the day.
What I notice more than anything, is when someone is blaring tunes with their windows down, bumping bass vibrating the walls sometimes, a guitar solo now and then, or Top 40 whathaveyou, they pass and then they're gone. Most of the time, they are faceless and only leave a trace of exhaust. But once in awhile, there is a distinction. A Peach colored Buick Regal on 20s blasting "Cutie Pie" by One Way or maybe a rusted Dodge Colt taking it to the limit with Van Halen's "Right Now" through stock speakers from 1991, proudly and sadly on a horribly consistent classic rock station. So the songs move by fast, sometimes stopping at a red light on the corner, allowing me to jam out or laugh my face off, as in the latter example, for an elongated moment or two.
Yesterday, late afternoon rush, lots of cars and trucks going home, after some Mac Dre caused me to pause and momentarily tolerate life, something else came along to assault rather than caress my brain. It was louder than anything else on the street. It was stopped at the light before I could configure who it was or why.
Richard Marx, not Groucho or Karl, the one I don't like so much, with his sappy shitsong from decades back, still staining the airwaves, probably on an easy listening station, "For a smooth ride home, here is a classic..."
I felt like it went on longer than necessary, a lingering red light or maybe they were trying to fucking park, while blasting, "Wherever you go, whatever you do, I will be right here waiting for you..." You may remember this song from a recent dentist visit or perhaps some memory of being in a car with a lame, white relative in 1989. It was so loud and so goddamn strange, completely overpowering the music I had on at a low volume, I had to take a look out the window and see who this motherfucker was. For a slight moment I hesitated my generalization, my blind hatred at a stranger, after all bad music is funny sometimes, right?
Fucking wrong. Not only is that rotting cheese unacceptable in any capacity but sure as shit, the culprit was right there waiting for me, a Prius and a ponytail were involved and I just had to shake my head and throw up a middle finger, trying to laugh, trying not to puke, I think I won the battle because it ended up being kind of funny. The light changed finally and the dickhead moved along, as did Richard Marx.
And I didn't feel bad at all about blind hatred or anything else. I went back to listening to Sabbath, turning it up now as loud as it could go. No more invasions today, I thought. I listened to "Snowblind" and lit up a blunt. And kept that window open for the rest of the day.
Monday, October 4, 2010
ghettoblasters
Migration is a funny thing, it’s the story of the world and we’re no different. For reasons known and unknown, and always sung about, some people had to walk a long way or else hitch a ride, Durango, Guerrero, Michoacan, Colorado, Poland, Colombia, Indiana, Riverside, most were forced in one way or another or else trampled, shackled, fucked and deep fried for an obese god. They keep telling me what's up, getting their stories wrong, fucking up the corroboration. Mix your blood in the sand and the train’s waiting the very next day, a new slab of something to defend to the death. Factory job or whatever the fuck. A big score up in Richmond then another exile east because west you'd drown in that cold Pacific. And then if the concrete dries it loses its urgency, it’s off to the store and she never came back, or hitchhiking, hand baskets, greyhound never wins the race, bright lights, dim bulbs, big city of abandonment and death, it’s all about migration and will always be from here on out.
A seasonal shift now, end of time again, big deals coming down to strangle and scram. I'm not talking about baseball, no not at all. I'm not thinking of pretending to be lost in a park, in the neighborhood, where the fuck did Desiree go? I remember 2 houses from the corner, where the cops beat Johnny Morales half to death. I have to move along, momentarily, where she took an ice pick to the sky and let it all come down.
I'm running scared, as the song goes, but not from anyone I know. I have to go out to the desert and knee cap my cousin because he's letting a bad element eat away my grandmother's house, food, beer, cleaning supplies, these cocksuckers are worse than the roaches. You know, sometimes it's decent to have a snake in the grass or tarantulas in the garden because they eat the rats and roaches, and if your predators get outta hand, there are always more. Owls and bobcats and sawed off shot guns, no serial, bury it out by where grandma used to take you on walks, explaining what shit was and why.
So a mission is set, a loose plan to fuck people up. If it's reckless or good, I won't know for awhile. But it won't be the same without strong drink. Goddamn this ordinary ride. I think if the truth is what they say then I'll have to tell the same tale. Whispers or screams, someone's gonna have to hear it. Even if the window opens for a clean, guttural shut the fuck up over there. Then, my work will be done for a little while.
A seasonal shift now, end of time again, big deals coming down to strangle and scram. I'm not talking about baseball, no not at all. I'm not thinking of pretending to be lost in a park, in the neighborhood, where the fuck did Desiree go? I remember 2 houses from the corner, where the cops beat Johnny Morales half to death. I have to move along, momentarily, where she took an ice pick to the sky and let it all come down.
I'm running scared, as the song goes, but not from anyone I know. I have to go out to the desert and knee cap my cousin because he's letting a bad element eat away my grandmother's house, food, beer, cleaning supplies, these cocksuckers are worse than the roaches. You know, sometimes it's decent to have a snake in the grass or tarantulas in the garden because they eat the rats and roaches, and if your predators get outta hand, there are always more. Owls and bobcats and sawed off shot guns, no serial, bury it out by where grandma used to take you on walks, explaining what shit was and why.
So a mission is set, a loose plan to fuck people up. If it's reckless or good, I won't know for awhile. But it won't be the same without strong drink. Goddamn this ordinary ride. I think if the truth is what they say then I'll have to tell the same tale. Whispers or screams, someone's gonna have to hear it. Even if the window opens for a clean, guttural shut the fuck up over there. Then, my work will be done for a little while.
Monday, September 13, 2010
The News
There has been a lack of content on here for plenty of reasons, some inexcusable and some just because I had other shit to do. I've been writing, working on another zine, drinking beer in North Carolina and Montreal, dealt with bouts of indecision concerning what I wanted to put on a blog because I'd never written a blog and wanted to only have completed short stories, etc.
But now I realize, more often than completing or perfecting some ideal work of art, I rant on about some bullshit I did the other day or ten years ago or yell quietly about some story that has nothing to do with me. Or I just watch some 70s crime drama and shut the fuck up completely. So let this blog now be a reflection of that. Let it be a crowded backyard party in Riverside. Barbecues and blunts, flames upon each, good people and cold beer and plenty of jams. Now maybe I can't salvage the art out of it or articulate what it all means to me, not all the time anyway. But in all the perfect dissonance, maybe something will slip by. Maybe out of the chaos, a voice will be louder than the others.
Maybe some homie in the backyard pulls out a gun and fires it in the air, just to fuck with everyone. Some people turn into statues, some scatter, some disappear in a flash faster than the gunfire.
Then all you're left with is the sound of his laughter ringing in the silence. All before the music comes back, louder now as he puts the gat away and goes back to his beer.
But now I realize, more often than completing or perfecting some ideal work of art, I rant on about some bullshit I did the other day or ten years ago or yell quietly about some story that has nothing to do with me. Or I just watch some 70s crime drama and shut the fuck up completely. So let this blog now be a reflection of that. Let it be a crowded backyard party in Riverside. Barbecues and blunts, flames upon each, good people and cold beer and plenty of jams. Now maybe I can't salvage the art out of it or articulate what it all means to me, not all the time anyway. But in all the perfect dissonance, maybe something will slip by. Maybe out of the chaos, a voice will be louder than the others.
Maybe some homie in the backyard pulls out a gun and fires it in the air, just to fuck with everyone. Some people turn into statues, some scatter, some disappear in a flash faster than the gunfire.
Then all you're left with is the sound of his laughter ringing in the silence. All before the music comes back, louder now as he puts the gat away and goes back to his beer.
Saturday, May 1, 2010
Arpaio's Head on a Pike! Ahorita!
Take it to the streets. It's time to eradicate these culprits. We know where they are and how they feel. This isn't isolated inside the confines of that police state. Racism in general and this neo-fascist ignorance in particular thrives on the division and perpetual conquest of the working class. The truth is always deliberately suffocated. Money and might, courtesy of the U.S., are used to displace people in other countries in the name of capitalism, (rural conquest, drug war, maquilas) and the people who flee out of desperation and necessity are blamed and fucked even further. And now, it's open season for an unprecedented assault.
Since racists don't know how to think(their brains are full of naziworms and diarrhea,)I want to run a few scenarios by them...
One. A crew-cutted pig pulls somebody over for driving under the influence of brown skin, which they've always done but now can do legally,and the driver who has lived in Arizona his entire life, longer than the pig who transferred from Iowa, but is told to show paper work and then "What's that smell? Cigarettes my ass, wetback, I'm searching the car." Any reason to incarcerate and destroy.
Two. What about immigrants from Europe? Does that mean that some backwards cap, Ed Hardy motherfucker drinking Coors Light and dateraping co-eds at A.S.U. might just look like a German or an Irishman? I mean, the light complexion, the blue eyes, freckles... "We better check his paperwork, Skip."
Three. The first time a Maricopa County SS soldier pulls over an Pima or a Navajo or an Apache and accuses them of being an immigrant. Ignorant fucking scum.
It's a call to genocide for all undocumented people in this country and a blow to any American citizen who is now doomed with the connotation with this behavior until we work to together to fuck their plans up good.
Since racists don't know how to think(their brains are full of naziworms and diarrhea,)I want to run a few scenarios by them...
One. A crew-cutted pig pulls somebody over for driving under the influence of brown skin, which they've always done but now can do legally,and the driver who has lived in Arizona his entire life, longer than the pig who transferred from Iowa, but is told to show paper work and then "What's that smell? Cigarettes my ass, wetback, I'm searching the car." Any reason to incarcerate and destroy.
Two. What about immigrants from Europe? Does that mean that some backwards cap, Ed Hardy motherfucker drinking Coors Light and dateraping co-eds at A.S.U. might just look like a German or an Irishman? I mean, the light complexion, the blue eyes, freckles... "We better check his paperwork, Skip."
Three. The first time a Maricopa County SS soldier pulls over an Pima or a Navajo or an Apache and accuses them of being an immigrant. Ignorant fucking scum.
It's a call to genocide for all undocumented people in this country and a blow to any American citizen who is now doomed with the connotation with this behavior until we work to together to fuck their plans up good.
Tuesday, April 27, 2010
NIGHT TERROR 2 (VHS and Laserdisc)
I start talking shit and then I trail off. It doesn't matter if nobody's listening because I know what I said. You can bottle up something permanent and stronger than brick and hock it like an old tyme con artist or you can leave it at the fucking bus station. It doesn't mean it's going to blow anybody's mind. But I'll keep trying like the song says a hundred times. The Impressions on the turntable. Forty fives and a forty five. A wave crashes and washes some shit away. It corrodes my mind and leaves with a mighty trace.
Figured on having this just be some stories but I get caught up in the after work, the burying of the body and now they're all piled up. Impulsive rants and bullshitting with some fools on a porch and/or a scheme of paint splattered and I'm trying to make sense of all this.
What's with the delay? I ask myself. And that's it. Too many things at once so I might as well say something about it. I tried to reserve this space in the infinite erasable canvas of bullshit that is the internet, solely for completed work. But I failed this time and I'll fail again and as soon as I'm all right with it, the sooner I'll feel better about everything.
I went to New Orleans and I saw hundreds of snakes, three alligators and a million people across that southern stretch just getting by. I drank three hundred beers, got high as shit, invasive are the good times that caress your soul before they go away for good. Now I'm back in town. Oakland, California. Twothousandten.
Now I have to call the union and hear the same asshole tell me the same asshole things. He gets paid to do so. Maybe I'll take some classes at a community college. Today I'll make chorizo and green chile, some tortillas, I'll blast Anthrax once this record ends. Among the Living. I'll be forced to be all right.
Maybe someone, just someone, will come home smiling, bloody from having taken a knife to all them ruthless fuckers out there. Maybe she'll need to change her clothes. Maybe she'll stay awhile. Maybe she also likes Anthrax and Mexican food. Maybe she likes me. I don't know but I'm down to play it cool until tomorrow shows up banging the door down at dawn, DEA/LAPD style, fifty of those assholes after a week of threatening phone calls. I have to be cool and make the silence last until they show up in the early morning, saying, "Wake up Motherfucker."
Figured on having this just be some stories but I get caught up in the after work, the burying of the body and now they're all piled up. Impulsive rants and bullshitting with some fools on a porch and/or a scheme of paint splattered and I'm trying to make sense of all this.
What's with the delay? I ask myself. And that's it. Too many things at once so I might as well say something about it. I tried to reserve this space in the infinite erasable canvas of bullshit that is the internet, solely for completed work. But I failed this time and I'll fail again and as soon as I'm all right with it, the sooner I'll feel better about everything.
I went to New Orleans and I saw hundreds of snakes, three alligators and a million people across that southern stretch just getting by. I drank three hundred beers, got high as shit, invasive are the good times that caress your soul before they go away for good. Now I'm back in town. Oakland, California. Twothousandten.
Now I have to call the union and hear the same asshole tell me the same asshole things. He gets paid to do so. Maybe I'll take some classes at a community college. Today I'll make chorizo and green chile, some tortillas, I'll blast Anthrax once this record ends. Among the Living. I'll be forced to be all right.
Maybe someone, just someone, will come home smiling, bloody from having taken a knife to all them ruthless fuckers out there. Maybe she'll need to change her clothes. Maybe she'll stay awhile. Maybe she also likes Anthrax and Mexican food. Maybe she likes me. I don't know but I'm down to play it cool until tomorrow shows up banging the door down at dawn, DEA/LAPD style, fifty of those assholes after a week of threatening phone calls. I have to be cool and make the silence last until they show up in the early morning, saying, "Wake up Motherfucker."
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