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THE OUTER BOOGIEVisit our Wonderland of Topiary Trees TABLE OF MALCONTENTS:
ABOUT AMERICA'S FAVORITE PRETERNATURAL PLAYGROUND
Dear Reader:
If you are as sick as I am of waiting 15 minutes for
this page to load, you will be delighted to learn that
THE OUTER BOOGIE is moving to Yahoo 360.
All of these world famous entries will be there,
some already are, as well as a few new (short) ones,
ready to eat as we speak (These are: "Heathen Grace",
"Moon Candy" and the mysterious "Giant Green Pianos
of Forgotten Love", already nominated for the "Outer Boogie
Mysterious Title of the Year" award by the readers of "The
Pluto Bugler" )
________________________________________________
BE SURE TO VISIT
BEFORE THE GOVERNMENT CLOSES IN
SEE YOU THERE
_______......________
The Outer Dealie With Different Stuff On It Every Day
_________ Welcome Mat ___________
On behalf of the entire TOB staff,
be you old friend or accidental tourist, welcome indeed to The Outer Boogie,
America's favorite altergalactic observational contra-wing prayer recipe bulletin.
TOB is a non-prophet bastionary transmogrification of ideas and denial solely
and wholly dedicated to the furtherance of confusion and paranoia. And it's free!
________________________________________________
As most of the communications from the countless armies of TOB loyalists are in the form
of email, this space, which used to be The Outer Guestbook, will serve as an ancillary and
dedicated daily dose of non-specific something or other to ease the anticipatory anxiety so
often and widely suffered in the long weeks between the authors surgically precise entries.
Be it a quote, a daily meditation, a link, or a painfully witty observation, you will find every
day an offering that will hopefully serve you. On days it does not, consider our cover charge.
As always, your interest is truly appreciated, and your thoughts are always welcome.
You're all I've got. But I guess that's my fault.
Boogie, Chillun-
Wes
_________________________________________________________________________________
Next entry in ___ days: "Tug Of Peace"
Proof positive that a connection between war, the Discovery Channel, Jody Foster,
Al Gore and southern Baptist ministers is possible in a fevered mind.
______________________________________________________
THE OUTER DEALIE WITH DIFFERENT STUFF ON IT EVERY DAY
entry for 08/25/2007:
since it's the maiden voyage, you get two
a gift: http://www.youtube.com/v/luOBN4Xl-Rk
One of the zillions of remarkable and unexpected things revealed to me during four decades of
complete dedication to music (and in your life's passion too, I'll bet) is the commonality of pain and
shocking disaster. The list of tragedies in every personal flightpath is long; but it seems to me- unbiased
as I am, of course- that musicians can fly the flag of what-the-fuck-was-that-about with an extra measure
of senseless loss, because so often the very best this precious art has to offer is either paved over so the
league of silk suits upstairs will have a place to build the latest pop icon mini mall, or their names go up
in smoke behind the dreaded artist temperament, bad pilots or bizarre mishaps. There's an awful number
of damp and dusty tombstones in rock n roll's epic graveyards, but only a few tell a story as heartbreaking
as that of Randy California, an extraordinary guitarist and a man of peace who never received anything
approaching the recognition he deserved. After a prolific series of records that exemplified his predilections
more than his prowess, he drowned in the Pacific ocean, a place he loved, while saving his young son from
the same fate. His body has never been found.
The link above will take you to a video that beautifully demonstrates what made Randy a gift you
should open. For a list of some of his best work, simply drop me a line. In the meantime, turn it up, and
wish you were there.
..and a thought:
'Absolutely everything should be acceptable to everyone, unless it's wrong".
- Johnny Rotton
__________________________ 08 / 28 / 2007________________________
I briefly considered testing my persuasive mettle by trying to convince you your calendar is a misprint, but I didn't want
to give the impression I'm the kind of person that might typically indulge in such mischief. The fact is my calendar was
broken during a strangely unreported North Carolina seismic event near the TOB offices, and I can't get over to Wal Mart
to replace it because of the whole martial law thing. Really.
consider this during the next you tube presidential debate (now there's an idea who's time has gone):
'Politics: (Noun.) Strife of interests masquerading as a contest of principles.'
- Ambrose Bierce ..so get out those absentee ballots...
'The world is more like it is right now than it has ever been before.'
- Dwight Eisenhower
____________________________________________08 / 30 / 2007______________________________________________
Ok, ok... so I don't always know what day it is. There, it's on the table. So think of it as "The Outer Dealie With
Different Stuff On It Sometimes". Admit it, you forgot to check in yesterday anyway. Just read it and move on.
I was perusing an online dictionary and found this sentence. It didn't help, but that's not the point.
"Constructed by using an auxiliary word rather than an inflected form; for example, of father is the
periphrastic possessive case of father but father's is the inflected possessive case, and did say
is the periphrastic past tense of say but said is the inflected past tense."
Alrighty.
______________________________09/03/2007___________________________________
Everybody wants to go to heaven,
but nobody wants to die.
09/11/2007
Welcome to the Eleventh of September.
Wish you were here.
______________________09 / 13 / 07_________________________
rehab wisdom.
"I like my women like I like my coffee...
weak, and in a styrofoam cup."
- Leprechaun Ron (a friend)
___________________09 / 15 / 07___________________
OJ SIMPSON IS INNOCENT!
Sure it's crap. But I figure if I put the words
OJ SIMPSON IS INNOCENT!
here, there's a better chance TOB will turn up in more internet searches;
and if more people find it, more lives can be saved.
(It's free, people.)
___________________ 09 / 18 / 07 ___________________
My next entry has proven very difficult to edit. Worse, I've been having some weird
technical issues with Spaces, which I'm sure have more to do with my complete lack of
mechanical chops than anything else. TOB IS NOT DEAD - it just smells weird.
Please check again soon- it's coming. Thanks.
-Wes
____________________09/ 27/ 07_____________________
A word about "Tug of Peace"
Anyone that's read TOB in any kind of real way surely, I hope, knows that I am uninterested in your personal
poop. You can dance naked in the street for all I care. But if you are easily sucked into the vortex of dumb, it
is unlikely you will get invited to dinner at my place anytime soon. More importantly, if you are a murderous
psychopath, I'm telling your mom. Period.
_____________________________10 / 10 / 07__________________________
Next entry in ____ DAYS: "Season of Nether"
Outhouse of the rising sun.
______________________________
_________10 / 15 / 07_________
HAPPY OUTER BIRTHDAY EMILY BLAKE
EVERYTHING IS GONNA BE AS PERFECT AS YOU DESERVE
FOREVER
It's not what you look at that matters, it's what you see. _____________________________________________________________ 11/ 20/ 07
My apologies to the state of Virginia. I meant to say Vermont.
I'll take "States that start with a V" for 500, Alex.
____________________________________________________________
have a swell day.
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October 01 TUG OF PEACE
TUG OF PEACE
"From life alone to life as one
think not now your journey is done;
for though your ship be sturdy,
no mercy has the sea!
Will you survive on the ocean of being?"
-Peter Gabriel
-Alex Harvey
For Hunter
"We don't see things as they are.
We see things as we are."
-Anais Nin
_______________________________
For God so loved the world, that he gave his only begotten Son,
that whosoever believeth in Him shall not perish, but have eternal life.
The creator of all space and time wants to get a message across, and letting Christ be tortured and murdered
is his best idea? I'm just a shmoe halfway to my return to dust, but I think it would've occurred to me to a least
try passing out some flyers first.
Ok, obviously this kind of stuff isn't that simple. I know that, you know that, all God's chillun.......
Well, maybe not all of 'em.
The stats are staggering. This planet is crawling with theists. God, and I mean every single one of Him,
knows when you've been sleeping, and knows when you're awake.
scroll down to the photo on this page and take a look at me. I am 47 years old. I think it would take a vivid imagination to think of me as something even similar to mainstream. I once quit a job 1 hour into my first day because I realized how boring my boss actually was. When I was a little kid I fell in love with my best friends older sister- not so much because she was lovely, but because she liked Mott the Hoople. I've never owned a suit. I've owned 3 cars in my lifetime- all very used, all given to me (One of them I sold for 50 bucks to shorten the list of hassles during a hastily conceived relocation, and another one I lost the keys to- unfortunately they were in the ignition at the time. I pretty much gave up looking for it several years ago). I've consumed so much Southern Comfort in my time that major stockholders would send me christmas cards if they could find me. I've taken so many drugs that kissing me might sedate you. I buy my clothes at thrift stores. My favorite jacket is a cheap velvet blazer with a torn lining. I would rather have a great conversation than find a hundred dollar bill. I could eat plain spaghetti or McDonalds double cheeseburgers every day for the rest of my life, without complaint. I like to play guitar, watch the circus roll daily by, and ignore ringing phones and doorbells. I don't care about power, politicians make me sick, and if more people were familiar with my life story they would officially name the path of least resistance "Wesley Way". In other words, I am the Anti-Square. ________________________________________________ I tell you all of this because I want you to know who's telling you all of this. I tell you all of this because I want to tell you all of this. _________________________________________ START THE REV-ILLUSION ________________________________________________ I saw an anti-war protest yesterday on television. I like television. A lot. It's pretty much the only place most people can see stuff like anti-war protests. Unless you live in Berkeley, of course. Berkeley is my favorite place in the country. I plan to die there. In Berkeley, anti-war protests are the State Bird. Berkeley is so weird, they have their own Monopoly game. That's true. I once saw a cop there in full cop regalia leaning against a building playing an acoustic guitar, with a burning cigarette stuck behind the strings on the headstock like I often do. I told him I'd never seen a cop in full cop regalia leaning against a building playing an acoustic guitar with a burning cigarette stuck behind the strings on the headstock like I often do, and he said, "What's your point?" I thought it was a fine question, and said so. I'm pretty sure I look to you like a person who has no problem with dissent.
Trust your instinct. But protest is supposed to make sense; if it doesn't, it's not a protest at all. It's just a bunch of people spending perfectly good energy wasting perfectly good noise about something
they've apparently perceived ass backwards.
Anybody with pubic hair that's interested enough in the world to have picked up a book has probably seen the famous photograph of a hippie at a 1967 peace march putting a flower in the gun barrel of a National Guardsman.
During the anti-war protest yesterday, one of the peace loving hemp heavy heartstringed whippersnappers told a reporter, who works for a network widely considered "right wing",
that if he didn't leave he was going to get his ass kicked. Another one, considerably older, told the same reporter he might not get out of there alive. C'mon people now, smile on your brother, everybody get together, try to love one another
right now.
I think we all remember Woodstock 99, where 3 days of peace and music revisited
ended up with thousands of people in giant short pants setting fires, having fights and
generally destroying everything in sight to the contemplative musical messages of The
Offspring and Metallica.
There's no such thing as a peace riot, guys. Kicking ass for peace is like serving cupcakes at a Stop Obesity fundraiser.
It's very similar to another example of whirled peas in my home town, recently
in the news; a gay pride parade advertisement featuring a- parody, I guess,
though I always thought parody was most effective when it was parodic, of
The Last Supper, showing a bunch of muscle bound sex fans around a table of
enchanting sex devices popular with people who like plastic stuff in their butt.
Honestly, you can't imagine how little I care about your sexual antics. Fact is,
my sexual resume' would make Annie Sprinkle choke on her Cheerios.
My observation is about the effort. I'm no activist, but if "Insults for Tolerance"
is the best your spokespeople can come up with, seems to me it's time for a meeting.
But since insults and tirades are the new pink in American discourse,
let me be frank.
Leave it to the new mass of Old Navy fat-free double mocha college hotties to fuck up a peace (or a get-a-piece) movement. I know it's unromantic, kids, but the Middle East ain't Vietnam. I know it's boring, but pissing in the Holy water
ain't gonna get the Catholics on the leather chaps and butt-less blue jeans band
wagon.
All of which boils down to a single, reasonable question.
Who are you fucking people?
Changing the world doesn't happen every time there's a new societal bent, folks,
even if you try real hard. Revolution is not a fad. None of you wants the shooting
stopped more than I do, none of you. It is the most pathetic kind of earthly crap.
But a nod is as good as a wink to a blind horse. America has foreign policy that is
so incredibly ill conceived that every fingerprint on it should lead to criminal convictions.
But if you think I'm gonna support an apology over it that will result in my little neice
having to wear a hockey mask and a parka every time she needs to go get some milk for
her future children because somebody's God thinks women are trash, you're out of your
mind.
Do we belong there? Absolutely not.
Do we have to be there? I think its pretty obvious to anyone paying attention
that religion is the natural enemy of common sense. It's always been annoying, but since 9/11
it's potential for being number one with a bullet (or an airplane) on the international pain-in-the-ass
chart is -finally- fully and inarguably realized among people with a grip on mortality. Strangely, the punch line of the whole thing- peace on Earth- is never the result of it's practice. I
said never. In fact, in the most religiously effusive places on the planet, you're a hell of a lot more
likely to get shot over it than saved by it. It baffles me that this fact has no effect on the legions of
squeaky clean hat-passing Sunday morning sectators that fill the worlds churches. And let me break
the bad news if no one else will: trusting the Untied Nations to keep an eye on fanatical factions is like
asking Stevie Wonder to drive you home.
I want nothing to do with politics. Your politics mean as much to me as your
shoe size; and me, I couldn't find Iceland on a map if you threatened to beat me
to death with a brass sextant. But even though my working knowledge of whatever
it is that keeps the trains on time makes Don Ho look like Eddie Van Halen, I know
when something stinks.
And stink- the kind that is only a relative of smell- is a mighty thing. When it's bad
enough, like the smell of death and politics and greed, it's tangible. You can taste
it. It sticks to your skin, like a black and humid southern night.
THE SATAN WHEEL________________
The eleventh of September is here again. There's something to be said for anniversaries.
We've all heard it said that if one forgets the past he is doomed to repeat it, but I don't think
that's clear enough to be a curative measure. A recovering alcoholic will tell you insanity is
doing the same thing over and over again and expecting a different result, and that's a bit
closer to our collective folly; but it's rhythmic, and a rhythmic phrase is soon like an expired
drug.
We all remember the past. Our problem is that we too often add elements of our present
in a way that connects them falsely, or we embellish in a way that paints the truth, or, worst
of all, our memories become simply the words that describe them, and the power they have
to teach us is lost.
A state of vigilance is imperative to remembering the past. We must not confuse memory
with regret, or it's value is destroyed. We must avoid holding it so tightly that we reshape it,
or worse, squeeze it to death. Like everything else, it's a circle, and equilibrium is a fragile
thing. If you're constantly spinning around to look behind you, your balance goes out the
window; but if you don't do it at all, eventually you're bound to get a kick in the ass.
None of which means a goddamn thing to those who can find reason in driving a car bomb
through a McDomivahd's during the Islamist lunch hour; those who don't just spin around too
often to look at the the past, but actually still think we live there.
THE BALLAD OF WILDER STILL____________________________
Some practices and cultures are mysterious even to those who jump around
the world studying them, and that's good news if you're a National Geographic
Channel program director or a bored graveyard shift gas station guy with a
12 inch tv. But the truth is the bottom line on much of that stuff is as simple as
dirt.
Chopping permanent designs in your face and putting a bone through your
nasal septum as a passage to "manhood", or gathering around a fire beating
drums with a bone and painting your pet boar with chimp shit to wake up
the ovulation genie is a pretty good indication there's not a hell of a lot
of libraries in the immediate vicinity.
If one side of the world is riding a rocket to deep space while another side is
pulling out childrens fingernails to inspire the rain beasties because... well,
because that's how you get the rain beasties attention, I guess, then it's pretty
obvious the latter was in the bathroom when the bus left about a thousand years
ago. Beyond echoes of what great-great grandparents have said, what they know
of life on earth is prehistoric. That has nothing whatsoever to do with whether or
not these people are bad or good, because in that department, they're just like you
and me. But it's 2007 (as I'm fond of pointing out), and the lifespan of these people
has the same finishing line as a plumber in Poughkeepsie. And that means
these people are being robbed, and they don't have to be. Of course you on the phony
"right" would think we shouldn't suck up the cost, because it would be too hard to figure
out which special interest would be able to siphon kickbacks. The government doesn't
play well with the Departments Of Public Education.
Let's say Ted Nugent, on one of his hunting sprees, found a guy in the woods wearing
a loin cloth and boiling a virgin to get rid of a headache. It's not had to imagine that
people would come apart at the seams to "civilize" him; he'd be on a tour like the
monster in Young Frankenstein, listening to everyone ooh and ahh as he demonstrated
his new and hard earned prowess with a can opener, singing "You've got a friend".
And why? Because leaving him stupid and running on pure instinct would be wrong,
that's why. Of course, the tour would be sponsored by Bud Light and quickly rot like
every other instantaneous flash-in-the-pan (in a year his mug shot will be on TMZ after
his 3rd D.U.I.), but the initial motivation would be the idea that teaching him something
about what most of the world has learned is the right thing to do. And if you on the phony
"left" wanna argue about that because Jodi Foster made you cry in "Nell" or you believe
it's wrong to infect his simple nature by teaching him to be part of the greedy western war
machine, then we'll argue. Give me a call after you get the kids off to school.
MESHES FOR CELESTIA_____________
From The Outer Boogie, "Interview with a Housefire":
'As far as I'm concerned, the only only aspect of this that I can consider right now is that
thousands of people from my neck of the world who have no idea I even exist are living in Bedrock and sleeping with a rifle, just in case I do. Tom Robinson said "If left is right then right is wrong; you better decide which side you're on". I'm on their side.'
The weirdest aspect of the "war on terror" is that Americans aren't just on different pages,
we're not even reading the same book, and that doesn't make any sense at all in a situation
like this one. While there's room for debate regarding strategies and leadership, treating the
issues behind this thing as though you're talking to the mayor about potholes on Main street
is not just embarassingly stupid, it's infuriating to those of us with a fondness for the absence
of tanks in our neighborhoods. I have yet to hear one 'anti-war' democrat or Hollywood atten-
tion whore even hint that they might have some idea about who this enemy is. Tim Robbins
(and every other social injustice junkie) is worried sick that the west is infecting an ancient
culture with our greed and decadence, shouting from the moon-roof of his limo to anyone
that'll listen that the only reasons we're there are to keep a political agenda alive and to line
the pockets of right wing rich guys with oil interests. Imagine that! Politician's with a war
time agenda. I say it's shocking. It's shocking, says I.
Dear Hollywood,
Everybody knows there's nothing rational or humane about a nation like ours, or any nation
that imagines decency, selling weapons to countries that are several centuries behind the times
and at least an age behind the truth. It is the shittiest kind of earthly nonsense. If one family is
hungry in a world of prosperous nations, giving a dime to murderous, hyper-religious cave trogs
is a sin, and should carry a penalty that makes the noisy parts of the Book of Revelations look like
home room detention. Who are you fucking people?
I don't need to consider some clandestine purpose behind this chunk of history, because
whatever it may be that's leading the White House, the course of action to make it work is to shut
down people who are indefatigably focused on setting America's hair on fire. The agendas will
live long after this is in the archives. Even if the people who died in New York only had husbands
or wives, that number is roughly 6000. When you factor in the children, parents, Grandparents and
friends of those 6000, we'll probably never hear the head count of people who's lives were strip-
mined in that attack. Right now, I could care less about fat cats and basement business. Right now,
we don't have time to pretend we can stop the freight train to Weirdsville that is foreign policy. I
don't know about you, but most of us saw that day going down, and most of us get that the reason
it went down is that a small number of maniacal "leaders" have a large number of fanatical cave-
men convinced that killing people who eat pork gets them a backstage pass to Elysian Fields and
all the fermented mango juice and finger-cymballing 12 year-old belly dancing Betties they can eat.
Don't tell me it's not that simple. They prove it is every time they open their mouths.
Somebody said if you're not a democrat when you're a teenager, you have no heart; and if you're
not a republican when you're an adult, you have no brain. Lemme tell you something. If you're either
one, the only person you're kidding is yourself, and the only people you're serving are rich celebrity
history majors that not only know you're a sheep, they count on it.
Mr. Robbins has every right to be a fuck sandwich; the annoying part is that he and others
like him not only seem to believe they're teaching people something, they are also vigorously
participating in a defective uprising by a bunch of pan fried zealots that is solely based on the
ignorance and prejudice of an ancient and irrational religious practice that has a very real shot
at making the world my little neice will grow up in a pretty shitty place to have dinner. Not only
are the similarites to the age of gladiators and crucifictions being ignored by petition waving
party zombies like Sean Penn and the state of Vermont, suddenly- after four-plus decades on the
planet- they've decided it's a shameful crime that we haven't been providing our long suffering
Islamic neighbors the trinkets and toe-rings they need to effectively catch God's ear at the airport.
The radical left, whoever they might be, go out of their way to ignore the televised beheadings,
the kidnapping and/or murder of missionaries and journalists, the recruiting of children through
cartoons designed to brainwash and prejudice, the idea that women are property, the use of child-
ren as explosive devices, even the promise of perpetual attack unless we wise up and get on board.
And they don't seem to know that the people they think they're protecting wouldn't think twice about
using Nancy Pelosi's eyeballs for ice cubes. And why? The pulse of the nation, of course. And a lot of
the nation is so busy avoiding identity theft and programming their blue-ray music mind chip that the
brief glimpses they get of the war on tv leads them to believe some party spin about the state of the
conflict.
The cold truth is that if 99% of Americans were totally behind stopping the insanity of the extreme
muslim faction even if it means cleaning their clock, Hillary Clinton would be waving the war flag as
high as everyone else, because that would be where the votes are. Do people really not get this?
It's astonishing.
I don't believe for a second that Bush does anything agenda free. For the super-rich, that stuff
is in the handbook. People at the top of the political food chain prop up dangerous governments
and cash in on chaos; it's part of the game. Both parties make my skin crawl, but the right wing
seem to be the ones that understand that this monkey see, monkey do enemy is too prehistorically
motivated, and too mindlessly determined, to ever quit. They see this as the final showdown, and
they are not going anywhere. Right now, people- at this moment- there's a room full of these mud
hut maniacs composing a plan to kill a batch of filthy Americans. It doesn't matter who. And if they
wont stay in their own yard, as profoundly tragic as it is, our only hope of avoiding having to deal
with this shit for the rest of our lives is paving their playground. They've seen what most of the rest
of the world has learned, and it's unlikely that the far middle wing teaching them to use a can opener
is gonna soothe the savage breast. Unlike Ted Nugent's virgin boiling rain doctor, they know there
is a more civilized world. They're just not interested.
Nobody could quote John Lennon- or Alex Harvey- as much as I do and still sleep at night after even
considering war as an answer. It's not. I don't believe for one second a political victory behind war has
ever been a human one. But I'm not an idiot, and it would be a lie to suggest war has never resulted in
a residual human victory. That doesn't mean war works; it means that sometimes, in spite of mankinds
best efforts to make the life experience as impossibly shitty as we can imagine, the right thing seems to
rise from the ashes. Often this right thing is simply keen hindsight, which is certainly potentially curative
but never, obviously, the initial objective. But sometimes the right thing is liberty itself, and let's let reason
ring; nobody even bordering sanity can submit a rational treatise on the evils of human freedom.
I don't know a goddamn thing about the Jewish religion, the Muslim religion, or even the Catholic
religion, and don't want to; as I've said, it's pretty hard to take this stuff seriously when it's most respected
minds think dumb hats and gruesome trinkets are important realities in the Divine Plan. It means less
than nothing to me what you pray for or how you pray for it, in part because it seems unlikely to me that
the Higher Power needs your insight on how next week oughta turn out; but more tangibly because it's a
hell of a lot more convenient for me to stay out of your spiritual jumping jacks than it is to worry about it.
I do think prayer for others is an example of peoples finer tilt; in the Big Book of Alcoholics Anonymous
(a great read even if you haven't tasted wine since religious people sliced off your foreskin so the guy in the
bad hat can give you the passcode to the Pearly Gates parking garage), it's suggested the purpose of prayer
is only to ask for knowledge of God's will for us and the power to carry it out, which so far is the best argument
for practicing prayer that I've come across.
Simply, the spiritual quest of the aborigine next door means nothing to me. I'm just not interested in a take
on time and space from people who are apparently easy with swallowing the silliest kind of caveman bongo
banging whiplashery. My neighbor can burn all the incense, ting all the triangles and boil all the tree bark his
hunger for salvation commands if it doesn't use up all the hot water in the building and delay my shower.
Because that's how freedom works, and because that just makes sense.
John Lennon said "God is a concept by which we measure our pain". I would argue, if he wanted to
debate it (which I doubt), that God is also an excuse. Not in the scheme of things past or to come, but in the
human mind. There is one reason and one reason only that those indulging the weirdest religious practices
on the planet cannot exist in harmony with those who do not practice religion at all: because one of these two
groups are indulging the weirdest religious practices on the planet. The place you are most likely to find "God"
alive, well and on the clock is in the dark and horrible cavern of human stupidity and fear. It isn't the pro-choice
crowd that's bombing anti-abortionists, and it ain't agnostics that are strapping bombs to their children and treating
women like diseased chickens. These are the mindsets of fanatics and lunatics, and there ain't a psychiatrist on the
the planet with a big enough couch to work through the problem. It's these maniacs for whom God is an excuse, or
worse, a weapon. They are the predictable result of living by ancient religious ritual in a modern age; in terms of
snake handlers like the taliban- one example- these practices promote stupidity and psychopathy. Because these
extremists are exclusively male dominated, violence and megalomania are textbook reactions to any theoretical
challenge. Because these extremists are hyper-religious male dominants, their version of taking their ball and
going home by statute has to feature some hats, some swords, and of course, some exposed and bleeding gizzards.
There are few things more dangerous than a megalomaniac under the impression somebody has figured out he's
completely full of shit.
I once said if the world in which we live is comfortable with the fact that revolutionaries can own birdcages
without losing an hour of sleep, someone isn't telling the truth. What I meant was simpler...
who are you fucking people?
_____________________________________________________________________________________________
A MOSTLY COLDER SUN_________________________________________________________________
"Its a tug of war. Though I know I mustn't grumble."
-Paul McCartney
__________________________________________________________________________________
Leave it to the new strain of coffee torn shoppe sweater liberals to fuck up an ecology movement.
Choppy chin hair and a "Go Green" t-shirt may pass for new ways of thinking to people who own Oasis
records, but you should know that smart freaks laughed when Johnny Rotten snarled "Never trust a
hippie" because we knew what he meant. Look, if you wanna let Al and Tipper Gore lead you to a
cooler future, lace up those earth boots. Me, I'm not getting in line behind anybody who took Judas
Priest seriously.
It will be a wonderful thing if your great great grandchildren inherit a planet that still has polar ice
caps, even if the experts determine their biggest advantage is that they make pretty screensavers
and bears like 'em.
But if you're losing sleep because Al Gore says San Franciscans should stockpile aqualungs, you're
confusing politics with postulating. Lemme tell you something. If Mr. Gore had wound up in the oval
office, the number of white house backstage passes would be the same. Only the recipients would
change. America is the hippest game in town, and that's just a fact. But no one that might read this
has ever voted for a politician that has anything to do with that.
It's never a bad thing when people with influence bring attention to something advantageous to the
masses. Just don't imagine Mr. Gore's concerns are wingless. The fucker would torch every tree in
Tacoma if he knew it would put a democrat in the drivers seat. There are plenty of reasons global
warming oughta be in the paper. Selling Al Gore DVD's ain't one of them.
If every young 'un in the nation bought a Pearl Jam record and marched for wiser light bulbs, and we had
time for it, no one would like it more than I would. But America has a weird problem with "movements".
The participants become an island. It's us against them before the paint on your protest sign is dry. And
if in time your cause- assuming it's a good one- makes it all the way to a segment on the Oprah Winfrey
show, you've just graduated to pushing tampons and toilet wands like every other lip gloss lemmings
in a limousine. Normally, that would just be blog fodder. But until we figure out how to get the God
people to stop cutting off heads between prayer meetin's, it's attention we can't spare. And as long
as we can power a Who concert with Al Gore's back-up generator, you're never gonna convince me
he's anything more than another expensive blue suit.
THE AGORACHRISTIAN PANTY CIRCUS HALF-MOON PARACHUTE COWBOYS OF DESTINY
_____________________________________________________________
Leave it to the new strain of airbrushed conservatives to fuck up a military action. Still, unless Mr. Gore
accidentally proves the answer to Middle Eastern bloodlust is a colder sun, smacking those people around
makes a hell of a lot more sense than drawing up new contracts, because they wont take them seriously
even if we bend and let them be signed in chicken blood during the Holy Half Moon. Paint me a river of
tears about liberty; as long as these savage psychopaths are gonna argue that cutting off American heads
is God's idea of taking care of business, reasonable human beings are gonna make the ugly call. This crap
sucks, in every imaginable way, and in even in ways that have managed to shock us. But the fact is, we're
debating foot baths in our airports as a show of religious tolerance, and they're stoning women to death
that are sick of wearing face masks. My God can beat up your God is stupidity that stretches the imagination
in ways unseen since dinosaurs ruled the earth.
Both of our countries are full of children, of course. Tell me, what are the chances yours are gonna grow
up thinking another modern way of life on the other side of of the world is so wacky that they deserve
to have their heads removed? Are you really gentle and peaceful enough to empathize with the ritualistic
zealots that perpetrated the most shocking and costly act of war ever seen on American soil? Are
partisan politics really important enough at 3 oclock in the morning to gamble with your children's lives?
It's not a revelation that Bush is as full of shit as anybody else you've never voted for, guys. But the left
wing is gonna get you killed.
Hey, I was 20 once too. I'm just as surprised as you are.
As I've said, other than a bit of wide-eyed wonder, I never had the spare interest to concern myself
with my neighbors grab at the Holy parachute, and I still don't. The good Lord knows if you wanna dig
for sarcastic gold in the field of religion, the Vatican alone provides enough ammo for a thousand sets
at the Improv without ever telling the same joke twice; as a writer I don't need to concern myself with
the religious underground. Have a glass of pidgeon blood, on me. They can pray and flail away as long
as their hearts desire. Until, of course, they wanna shoot me because they think I'm doing it wrong.
In my experience, religious people are decent and sincere, pretty much the only two requirements
for getting on the societal guest list. In my experience, extremely religious people are contemplative
and comforting. In 2007, the nuclear mutant baby of religious and extremely religious doctrine does
not get to wage a "Holy War" on nations with a different spiritual bent. And if they do it anyway, we
need to eat their lunch. A bulletin for the psuedo hippie protest crowd: the middle east ain't Vietnam.
Do we belong there? Absolutely not.
Do we have to be there?
For God so loved the world, that he gave his only begotten Son,
that whosoever believeth in Him shall not perish, but have eternal life. As long as this kind of stuff is that simple to people, you bet your ass.
Amen.
June 19 In The Time Of Job When Mammon Was A Yippie.....and other tales from the cryptic.
________________________________________________________________
"Tell me, What'd I Say?"
-Ray Charles
________________________________________________________________
I HAVEN'T DONE THIS up until now, but
after a flood of letters, telegrams, smoke signals and a guy in a democratic campaign
bus with a megaphone (or four emails and a comment left on TOB, depending on who you talk to), I began to
get the impression I need to explain myself. I don't do that often, and never well (I'm told), and frankly the
thought of it gives me diarrhea. But I owe you.
I wont bother with the anti-hip hop silliness, as it's clear (or should be) that thinking people
already know "hip hop" is the creative equivalent of the Pet Rock. But the Rap thing is inarguable: it's
humorless and monotonous, the only talent in the studio, typically, is behind the board, and the only
things it seems to inspire are violence, illiteracy, misogyny, cookie cutter performances and ludicrous
clothing. The most plastic and empty participants in this farce, Vanilla Ice and Kris Kross (who?) for
example, don't even show up on the radar of my point, anymore than a record by The Brady Kids would
belong in an argument that "pop" music (the genre, not the demographic) isn't vacuous. Mr. Ice's hook
was handed him by nature (melanin), and Kris Kross took the bold fashion signature of wearing their pants
19 sizes too large and ran with it, donning them backwards, and commanding the attention of absolutely
no one with an intact brain stem.
While there is no debate that records by The DeFranco Family or The Banana Splits were purely
marketing ideas to sell breakfast cereal and Teen Beat magazines (I remember fondly cutting cardboard
45's out of my empty boxes of Quisp, an idea that surely sold many thousands of tonearm needles as well
to replace the ones that were destroyed by the plastic coating)- which can reasonably be considered man-
ipulative or even despicable, depending on your personal spin regarding the level at which capitalism meets
criminality- it is arguable that a peek under the hood of rap "music" reveals an engine that drives the same
kind of limitless greed, but astonishingly is even more execrable.
Record labels like Buddha, Bell and ABC (among others) in the late 60's and very early 70's enjoyed
many hit singles by a bevy of non-act "stars" including the 1910 Fruitgum Company, The Ohio Express, The
Partridge Family, and The Archies, to name a few. These records were conceived in an office, written in the
studio or tin pan alley, performed by musician's union member stand-by's and marketed as bona fide acts
(remember the Brady Bunch episode where two A & R types groom Greg to become pop star Johnny Bravo?
It wasn't as much of a reach as you might imagine). In fact, sometimes there were "tours", which basically
were live action commercials parents paid for their kids to see; my parents took me to see the Banana Splits
at a fair of some sort, a show consisting of guys in giant fur suits and rubber masks dancing around a stage
while the records blasted through a P.A. system. I loved those records as a kid (and love them now for other
reasons), but the show made me an ex-fan for the rest of my childhood (I saw Glen Campbell the same summer,
who replaced The Splits for me in the musician of all time dept.).
It's obviously a fact that David Cassidy performed on The Partridge Family records, and in fact more
than one of the musicians who played anonymously on some of the other silly records I mentioned went on to
careers as first rate session guys, and even stardom (pop buffs may recall a '70's hit called "Rock Me Gently"
by Andy Kim; Andy was lead vocalist on several of The Archies hits). But the truth is these releases were a
very clever and very effective way to reach into the pockets of parents and smash the piggy banks of kids in
a way that killed many birds with one stone. Not just through records, posters and fan club dollars, but also
tv shows, cereal, lunchboxes, magazines and any number of other shiny beads. Of course all recording artists
participate in promotional concepts that sell records and tours, but only in extreme examples (KISS leaps to
mind) do artists even approach the level of "gimme more" that is reached by the strange wing of rock music
known as "teenybop". Serious enthusiasts and musicians can smell a rhinestone rat from 200 yards, but we
also know when the bullet hits the bone that the big difference between an empty musical trash can and a
full one is the songs.
It's easy to say "pop trash" from any era is like the punch line of "The Wizard of Oz"; it sure feels
behemoth, but it's really just a little bald guy with a big P.A. system and an ocean of reverb. Pilot, Bo Donald-
son and the Heywoods, Paper Lace and any other one-hit wonder you can think of made some pretty light-
weight music, as did many multi-hit acts like The Monkees and The Turtles. But in fact this music was written,
and written by musicians (many Monkees hits were written by songsmiths like Tommy Boyce and Bobby Hart,
among others- you might be surprised to learn that "I'm a Believer" is one of several tunes that kept Neil
Diamond in mac-and-cheese while he penned the earliest of his multitude of brilliant songs in his tin pan alley
days). Through the eyes of a grown up (even one as obviously disturbed as I am), even the dumbest of these
songs ("Don't Touch My Guitar" by The Archies, for instance) are little gems- funnier than I realized as a child,
kind of like animators hiding images in Disney cartoons- and even delightful ("Jingle Jangle", another Archies
masterpiece of fluff, is not to be missed). The Turtles, of course, are really Flo and Eddie, who in fact are truly
funny people and great musicians, adding vocals and immeasurable silliness to some of Frank Zappas most
memorable music. Their records are absolutely great, far more than meets the casual ear (find "nikki hoi",
a hilarious and perfectly goofy number). At the least, the Greatest Hits album is a necessity, but I recom-
mend all of 'em, if you can find them.
Disco, for obvious reasons, is a whole 'nuther blog.
If you think I'm saying that if you dive into the right dumpster you might find a gold watch, I'm not. Or
more accurately, not yet.
I give you rap. Or "gangsta rap", which is the proudest flag this half gallon of acid tap water seems
to fly, a fact that speaks for itself. In 2007, with the psuedo-influx of "boy-bands" NSYNCerated, the small
Hollywood twat-pack (who are "singers" one week and handbag brand names the next) either going insane,
to jail, or having personal wings added to million dollar rehab clinics, and the dreaded "female vocalists" (who
add 25 syllables in the form of notes to every word they bleat) now obviously a parody of their own useless-
ness, the (alleged) juggernaut of gangsta rap is now the best living example of modern pop trash. But it's
missing, and contains, a few elements that make it quite different than the pop trash of auld lang syne. If
you were born yesterday, take my word for it: there's a big difference in your kid getting a Beatle haircut
and having him think handguns and whores are just the way it is.
The guys behind The Monkees couldn't have cared less that the music was crafted and clever, and
would have taken the same pains to sell you recordings of farting prairie dogs if there was evidence farting
prairie dogs made kids want to eat Frankenberry. The rap industry has the same army of greedy silk suits
that want your money. Like the music biz realities in the first half of this, it's completely understandable that
reasonable people might find these manipulations nafarious. Hey, see ya in church. It's an argument with
weight. I can dig it. But the fact is you'll find an identical round table at Disney. It ain't my complaint.
The problem for me is gangsta rap itself. And of course, it is my problem; these "artists" certainly
have the right to make it, and you certainly have the right to buy it, annoy everybody at the same red light
with it, even give it (gulp) to your kids. Chances are, you've done all three. That doesn't mean your kids are
more of a puppet for big business than I was at 10 years old, but if you have done all three, it means you are.
I'm certain that I've never seen a 45 year old riding down the street blasting "Sugar Sugar" on his Blaupunkt.
There are few people that have listened to less of this stuff than I have, but I'm not driving blind. It
was my job for a very long time to buy this stuff from dozens of distributors and sell it to you. You can believe
it or not, but the lie of gangsta rap makes the lie of The Banana Splits look like the the Book of Job.
It has been explained to me by a few followers that it's something like "Rock Theatre", which of course
is nothing new- during the long ride to full puberty I was completely fascinated by Alice Cooper. But it is bullshit;
captivated though I was by the band's coolest records (the first 5 Warner Brothers titles), it never occured to
me to consider necrophilia or beheadings as a lifestyle.
The fact raps nastiest side effect is that it furthers the cause of stupidity, illiteracy and hopelessness
in urban America (a cause that is already pretty beefy without gangsta rap thanks to a host of others with the
the same agenda) is made even more iniquitous when you learn that the vast majority of people who buy it are
fairly to very successful black adults that stop into Borders or Tower Records on their lunch hour, in a suit and
tie, and drive off in their very clean SUV with "50 cent" blasting on an expensive stereo; or middle/upper middle
class white teens who never missed a meal in their life. It's their connection to "cool". The inane lyrics, cloned
performances and pre-recorded back-up are the new version of "it has a good beat and you can dance to it".
This group of consumers, in my significant experience, out-buy black and hispanic teens 3 to 1, conservatively.
This in no way means these kids don't eat it up; just that they get it another way. The big dollars that keep it
alive come from adults that don't believe a word of it. These kids believe it completely. The stunningly mind-
numbing part is that "Baby I love you" is now "Bitch betta have my money", and the credit card waving hipsters
that fund it don't seem to give a flying fuck.
Think that's no big deal? Well, this is America. Think away, dixieland. The Outer Boogie isn't about what
should've confounded you by now, but what has confounded me.
Another part of this lie, a really hairy one, is that this crap is the voice of "Black America". That's just stupid,
and if you don't know it, shame on you. It might serve us all to remember the power music has for most of us,
especially the young. While the message 40 years ago of "tuning in, turning on and dropping out" was, inarguably,
ultimately full of some pretty deep potholes, you would have to be, oh, Charlie Manson or George Wallace to
misunderstand it's goal. John Lennon said "Have you heard? The word is love". If you think that's oversimplified
pie-in-the-sky, don't cry to me. Write your Messiah. I think that was His position, too.
So to get to the part of my answer that a few fellow American's have asked for, no, I don't think
'gangsta rap' got people shot at Virginia Tech. I do think an unmissable message in gangsta rap and even 'pop'
music in general (the demographic, not the genre), among other gilded splinters of stupid for the last 20 years
or so, helps people like the idiot who did it believe that such an action is just telling it like it is. Yo.
And If you still don't buy the point about new levels of dumb, I recommend 15 minutes in a teen chat room.
What's your kids favorite poem? Ask him. But don't be surprised if it ain't "Ulalume".
I know there's a large number of young people out there who don't fit this bill. I know there's a large
number of young people out there a thousand times smarter then I'll ever be. I hope yours is one of them. But
I also know the people lost at VT were lost not just because nobody got around to cleaning the filter in the killers
gene pool, but also because far too many people seem to believe they just don't have the time to care about that
( if they think about it at all ).
From my seat, if you have provided the world with somebody's future neighbor, I'm not sure there's time
for anything else.
Finally, the question about racism, which is quickly becoming political Ipecac for thinking people black,
white or somewhere else. I'm certain militant race-baiters can hit the side of a barn, but this time...
I am about music. It is what I am, it is who I am. And I mean, that's all. I am worth nothing else.
I would have given up decades before now if it weren't for a hell of a lot of people that gave me my reason
for getting up in the afternoon. The only unmolested certainty of my entire experience. They no less than
showed me there was something about the whole "planet earth" thing that I could understand, and even love.
Musicians. Like The Beatles.
And Ray Charles, Buddy Guy, Lightning Hopkins, BB king, Sly Stone, Robert Cray, Jimi Hendrix, James
Brown, Jimmy Witherspoon, The Chambers Brothers, Muddy Waters, Hound Dog Taylor, Luther Allison, Freddie
King, Willie Dixon, R.L. Burnside, Earl Hooker, Jimmy Reed, Carlos Santana, Albert King, John Lee Hooker, Big Joe
Turner, Charles Brown, Robert Johnson... and that's off the top of my head. If you had a point, I'd get specific.
I do not think in any way that I am ignoring the things that "cause" something like the VT massacre.
Actually, I'm sick of everybody dancing around them. Stupid is as stupid does. And some folks is even whiter than
me.
I didn't like "Planet of the Moops" either. But I'm sure glad you read it. You have a real nice day.
____________________________________________________________June 16, 2007________________
June 11 The Found How Roundabout The Found How Roundabout
_____________________
THE PAST 12 MONTHS OF OUTER BOOGIENESS IS DEDICATED TO
anyone who ever had to pick me up off the floor,
or that listened to me play, except elizabeth;
guitarist extraordinaire steve hunter, for wishing me well (and didn't have to);
lynyrd skynyrd, for helping me get arrested in hollywood (but didn't mean to);
holly reallylonggreektypenameolopolous, who believes I matter,
and steve hotopp, a gentleman and an artist.
_________________________________________________________________________________
"When you're caught in pain
And you feel the rain come down It's all right. When you find your way Then you see it disappear It's all right. Though your garden's grey, I know all your graces
someday
will flower"
-Chris Cornell
"The past sure is tense."
-Captain Beefheart
___________________________________________________________________________
This is a list.
It's not a useful list, for you anyway. It's kind of a "credits" page, but dont cringe in fear; I ain't a
Dixie Chick, so it wont be one of those endless "First, I want to thank God" lists of names you forget
the second you read them ( maybe records -sorry, cd's - wouldn't be quite as expensive if Sony or War-
ner Brothers didn't have to pay for endless liner notes every time MC HoFucka wants to acknowledge
every moron that ever ran from a cop in his neighborhood. Nah. ).
Very soon you will be wondering whyI even call it a list. But take my word for it. This is a list.
First, I want to thank God. (Sucker.)
I called this The Found How Roundabout. In english, it probably means nothing to anyone but me
(in Chinese, I think it translates "we love you Beatles", but I'm willing to be wrong), and that's unfortu-
nate if you actually care about the things I sometimes have to say. It's not a crisis, because the number
of people who actually do is very, very small. Not even sure I'm on that list. But I must be.
( And yes, I know I've said all that before. The rest of it, too. )
Kevin, a friend of mine who looks like another friend of mine though they've never met, will recognize
it ( if in fact he reads this of course), as the title of a short "story"(it's a story in the same way this is a list)
I wrote for my neice, but that's certainly no help. I'll try to explain it. Later. If I need to.
If you haven't read "THE NOTHING DOOR" (an attempted prologue/explanation thing ), you should ,
if you hope to make any sense of this (and hey, good luck with that).
The following entries are explained as they go along.
__________________________________________________________________________________
Somebody said they heard somebody say there's a rumour that everything dies
April, 2007
The next bit is an answer I've avoided giving to some people who asked for one. Bear with me a second.
Yes. Thought I already told you that.
__________________________________________________________________________________
A VIPE OF NESTERS (excerpt)
Not sure. A few months ago.
I read again, with interest, some letters I've received since leaving California, and as
usual the one thing they all have in common is that they probably don't say what I think
they do. I know this because I write stuff a few people read, and some of the letters I've
received are a pretty good sign it works both ways.
I always made friends easily, but it was a real wake up call when I learned that my
idea of the way things were had little in common with the truth. People I thought I knew
as well as I know myself (that's a telling sentence in this context, isn't it?) changed right
before my eyes into total strangers, and people I thought would never leave my side have
said and done things to me worse than anyone else I've ever encountered.
It's amazing that people you don't know are capable of kindness that people you love
can't maintain as years go by. One of the biggest casualties in life is the benefit of the
doubt among friends, that the good stuff fades as the bad stuff grows, that ultimately
people are more likely to say "No problem" to a stranger than they are a friend.
"Betrayal" is a pretty easy concept to take liberties with, but I guess that makes sense.
Disappointment adds a serious dimension to conflict between loved ones, and sometimes
it's just too late. And while that hurts like nothing else, I'm just not sure there will ever be
a remedy.
_______________________________________________________________ June 10, 2007 I didn't publish the following hissy fit when it was still bleeding for several reasons. I didn't like
it much, and still don't; but not because it went against the grain of everything I'm trying to believe
can be changed about me (like anything tough, it takes practice to practice what you preach, and
like everyone else, I drop that ball from time to time), and not because it's an over-reaction (if I
didn't mean it, you wouldn't see it. I don't have time for that anymore). I was angry, and I guess
I didn't think it mattered. And it wasn't funny, which is an element I trust.
Most significantly, I didn't like it much. Still don't. So I don't mind if you don't either. I just wanted
it to go away, and somebody reading it besides me is the best way bury it. I recently advised someone
I love to "write the storm out". Somebody else I love once said that "writer's write". That means
the result is irrelevant. If you decide to read it, maybe you'll keep that in mind. And if this sounds
like an apology, I guess I did it wrong. I'm just trying to practice what I preach.
Planet of the Moops (excerpt)
April 18, 2007
_______________________________________________________________________
"Stupidity is the Devil. Look into the eyes of a chicken.
It's the most terrifying, nightmarish creature on earth."
Joni Mitchell
Yesterday a South Korean national shot, depending on which report you decide to quote at this point, somewhere in the neighborhood of 50 folks, killing over 30 of them.
It has yet to be determined what effect this will have on American Idol, the Geico cave-
man or Madonna's refugee collection, but test patterns indicate Geraldo Rivera is crying
again.
Like the vast majority, I have no idea who this motherfucker was or why he didn't un- plug his own Glade Light Show to begin with instead of taking a bunch of people who very
likely would never have done something like this, ever, with him. But I can guess, which is
really all that anybody- even season ticket holders like Nancy Grace- can ever do.
The Brobdingnagian chasm (how do you like them apples?) between fear and indiffer- ence makes Cumberland Falls look like a runny nose, and yet we continue to confuse them.
Both are pretty easy to reach for when ugly hails your cab, which is why they are so often
called upon to explain away the haze. Somebody pretty smart once opined fear might explain
the deaths of Hunter S. Thompson and Kurt Cobain, among others; the fear of not being
truly heard has to be a hell of a lot more powerful to those who own it when there's a zillion
people telling you every day that they're listening. Yeah.
Indifference comes in pretty fucking handy when we're scratching our heads over the shit-
storm of rap records or crack addicts who are mothers of seven. It fits like a glove when a drunk
driver mangles your babysitter or another clown with his waistband around his knees sticks his
handgun (sideways for extra cool) in the face of a 21 year old 7-11 clerk for a hundred and nine dollars, killing her anyway after he gets it. Inoperable indifference is sometimes the only reason-
able explanation for the completely unreasonable. Such massive damage is a bit easier to sleep
with if we can use as a conclusion the fact that the bad guy behind the madness simply doesn't
or, more acceptably among those with oversized diplomas and the people who trust them, isn't
capable of giving a damn. Indifference and fear, fear and indifference.
These elucidations may be the American Psychiatric Associations favorite illustrative sand- wich cookie, but they ain't the deal here, and that's the putrid truth. I'm something like an expert
on fears (I collect 'em), and I'm afraid indifference doesn't leave much room for elements like
premeditation, desire or paranoia; even if the first and last of these factors, which are common
in crimes like this, are not in the recipe, desire can make up for both of them with room to spare.
And few things are less indifferent than desire. I buy that people can be troubled; hell, I'm troubled.
Keith Ablow can live with it if he wants to, but all of my logic tells me that troubled ain't good enough.
In this case, and far too many others to count, there was a motivation- and if you wanna call
it my "opinion", please do, if it takes you off the hook- more bizarre than psychopathy, more confus-
ing than the fact that we know who Nicole Richie is, and as Godless as a hungry child.
Every day, all over the world, the most basic hierarchy is the reality. Nowhere is it modified,
improvised, or even slightly tweaked. Adults call the shots. Big people speak, little people listen. In
the Home of the Brave, American Dreamers typically work their asses off to embed this fact in the
little skulls of the underlings- we provide, so we decide. "Underage" isn't just a line in the sand, it's
a legality. WE ALL GET IT. The experience of children is to be (or should be) meticulously measured.
And if your paying attention, it should be clear that nobody blows that horn louder or more frequently
than the fine folks right here in the land of spacious skies and amber waves of grain.
Enter the mystery. The same fine folks appalled by the images of 12 year old soldiers in parts of
the world where murder and reason commonly split a pizza dont even put their cell phone down long
enough to consider the wisdom of giving a door key to the most agressive contagion in the modern
world. Stupidity. You probably bought 'em some for Christmas. And there's fallout. There just is.
So am I gonna tell you cop-killer video games and posters of pop stars with muscles of steel, pris-
on tattoos and a handgun are worse than greasers joy-riding in a stolen car, "Rebel Without a Cause",
Elvis the Pelvis or The Clash? You bet your ass I am. Am I gonna say that "On The Road", "Go Ask
Alice" or "The Electric Kool-Aid Acid Test" are less dangerous than....oh yeah. Books don't apply
anymore.
I call stupidity a contagion for a reason. It is. And, like all contagions, some people are exposed to
the carriers and walk away clean. The people who get it sometimes react differently, some of them
foaming at the mouth and others responding to treatment. In tragic cases, the treatment looks like
it's working; an experimental antibiotic, say.
Or going to college.
But they're rotting from the inside out. Enter Seung Cho.
This ignorant, pimply piece of dogshit took a chunk out of the ever decreasing barrier against
the rapid and nearly complete decomposition of the present generation- a too small number of
people who are trying to get smarter because they know it's valuable- for a couple of reasons.
Number One is right in our faces: he was an ignorant, pimply piece of dogshit. I've heard him called "troubled" and "unpredictable", a "loner". But no one is saying the clearest bit of truth that's
hanging like a Berkeley fog over all this, and that is that he was an ignorant, pimply piece of dogshit.
In case you haven't been around long enough to know, let me spell out a life lesson that IS on your horizon. It is completely possible to be a troubled loner and still be an ignorant, pimply piece of
dogshit. I didn't know that for a long time, either. But I found out.
Number Two is even worse. He WANTED that chunk. The fine young people and staff members that this gruesome little prick murdered were committing an "offense" he couldn't overlook:
they were better than him. There's more than enough information and history around to make it
crystal clear, folks: there ain't a doctor in the universe that can freshen rotten natures.
They could've put Zoloft sprinkles on his banana split and he still would've been an ignorant, pimply piece of dogshit. And the dead would still be dead.
I spent a hell of a lot of years anesthetizing my fears and failures; I was bullied terribly in high school by a group of celebrated idiots who could play football but couldn't spell it ("required" C+ report
cards notwithstanding), and nobody understood the gravity of this day-and-nightmare but me. I didn't
finish high school because of my bizarre notion that getting high, listening to and playing music put a
much more agreeable spin on my waking hours than did reading chapter 3 of "Land Of Liberty" with Mr.
Crabtree in Amurkan Hiztry and wondering if my next trip to the little boys room would be the one that
left me with a broken arm and a dent in my face the exact size and shape of a football helmet.
And why? Because I was "different". I didn't "fit in". I was "weird", and goddammit, weird just
will not be tolerated in a state known for blue grass and snake handling ministers.
Make no mistake, there is a level of bullying that is no less than terrorism. That was my exper-
ience. I was beaten up. My stuff was stolen or destroyed, my name was a joke. The football team were
let out of class to attend the funeral of my best friend, at which they issued (when there were no adults
around) vile insults about him, dead and decapitated in a car accident at 15, and promising they would
vandalize and defile his grave regularly. The local newspaper spoke of pride in the fine young men on
the football team that missed classes to attend the funeral and pay respects to a fallen schoolmate.
What in the hell does all this have to do with someone who is an outsider that got so sick of
being thought of as invisble and weird that he finally decided to kill everyone he possibly could?
Can't imagine. I do know there's never been any suggestion that anyone at Virginia Tech
ever beat this killer up, tore up his property or demolished the flowers on a loved ones grave. I know
that in school the closest I could ever get to cheerleaders and "popularity" was having my picture in
the yearbook. I know that if every guy who didn't get invited to the Peach Pit for a chocolate shake
with the pep committee or a date with a majorette decided to kill people, education would be a
surgically implanted microchip by now, because the school system would long be a memory.
I know that when it comes to fight or flight, I'm hoping I get a window seat, every time.
And I know I'm free, and I know he's dead.
There is plenty of room for compassion in my spiritual footlocker, maybe more than is
good for me. But when you get to the point where there's a hell of a lot more years behind you than
ahead, the body count- if you stop to look around- is staggering. In the societal climate of 2007, a
time when kids think blow jobs aren't sex, guns are cooler than guitars, Britney Spears is an artist,
and really giant pants look good (if you don't know what I'm talking about, spend five minutes with
MTV,or better, take a contemplative look at your kid or his friends {for a change}; their back pock-
ets are so close to their feet they have to do the limbo to reach their wallet), ignoring stupidity
in your living room is something like a crime. If you are not completely alarmed and astounded
by the philosophical root rot a stunning number of young people consider "kewl", you're doing it
wrong. It's not generational anymore; the concept of rebellious youth is quite dead. These assholes
kill people. With guns, and with influence. They're in your kids math class, they're behind you
at the snack bar. Your children don't have to sign up to be the aftermath; all they have to do is
show up. Virginia Tech is living, and dead, proof. Parents better care about that, because when
Junior pops out of the happy canal, mom and dad are automatically signed up to be the aftermath,
like it or not.
In 2007, there are few things as dangerous, or as plentiful, as ignorant, pimply pieces of
dogshit. I promise, your kid knows one. Or two.
_______________________________________________________________________________ _
June 2006-June 2007
these are a few lines from some of the mail i've received since TOB's grand opening.
unlike "tag line of fire" from "THE NOTHING DOOR", all of these are real. yikes.
_______________________________________________________________
Cumulus Meringue: Quotes lifted from friends and others are not credited with names or initials. I wanted to, and may in the future if I receive permission. I did not want to take the liberty of using names, due to possible delays in addressing complaints. If you wanna complain anyway, use the guest book.
I see it several times a week.
I'll, uh... get right back to you, or something. _______________________________________________________________
RE: RE: re; Sorry: RE: about 'Follow that car' RE: Wes, no offense RE: RE follow car re re: RE FIRST ONE Re-the Outer Boogie FUNNY re; hi whats outer boogie Re:chef r u christian WHERE'S MY CATHARSIS? reTOB
------------------------------------------------------------------------------------- "First off, your writing is absolutely perfect - you remind me of David Foster Wallace" <And to think I was shooting for Abigail Van Buren> _________________________ "I like what it was that you wrote there. What does it mean? " <The following will clear it up for you> <The following will no longer clear it up for you. The author of the comment complained
about it's inclusion, and it was removed. Proof positive if you close your eyes, things do
go away.>
__________________________ __________________________ "well i guess we are going thru the same thing so i am glad that you understand"
<OOH, sorry, the answer is "B". But we have some lovely parting gifts for you.. Johnny?> _________________________ "My friend Wesley , please forgive me." <BING! Done. I guess. (?)> _________________________ "If you don’t mind me speculating, it seems you are a true artist – one who even kinda digs the march to a different drum. I used to read Tom Robbins with the same frame of mind. I could never twist my brain like that, but it’s sure entertaining to read someone else who can." <I just hope he didn't mean TIM Robbins> __________________________ "hey? did you get my letter? hah? eh?" <Nope> __________________________ "i left you a crazy lsd induced mail last night. got no response." <here ya go: lookforthegullwiththesuninhereyesandshe'sgone> __________________________ 'You've received a YouTube Video!" <I still get choked up when i read this. You said so much in this subject line. I woulda looked at the video, too, but unfortunately I cannot take care of the smallest detail of life> __________________________ "I hope I'm not missing something here... I think I'm Blind Willie Mctell." <You're gonna be fine. Drink more alcohol, and stop putting the word "blues" at the end of every song title you write. It'll clear up in a few days.> __________________________ "From what I can tell, you’ve got plenty to say and an entertaining, thought-provoking way of presenting it. Expressing, and sensing an audience that’s listening, is a pretty cool raison d’etre if you ask me. There’s meaning in a universe that holds such connections, don’t you think? And to do it with a sense of humor is even better than icing... I’m happy to be part of your audience any time you’ve got more to share, Wes." <You've got a hell of a nerve young man.. oh wait, that's good!> ___________________________ "Love you lots and pray for you every night." <Thank you. Now show me your tits> ___________________________ "Man, that humbles me right out." < ... > ___________________________ "Your image has been blocked by our content filter." <More freedom of suppress. A little bottomless fencing and the prudes come out of the woodwork> ___________________________ "Your bolg (sic) doesnt make any sense it's stupid." <Duh, yah, hello, we're all aware of that. Now finish your Yoo-Hoo and go to bed.>
___________________________ "I'll be getting in touch with you again soon." <Lemme tell you something. You didn't get in touch the FIRST time> ___________________________
<Again, the comment that used to be here has been removed following a
complaint. I don't know how I'm supposed to carry out my evil plan of worldwide hate
and pain if you people will not play ball. Hello, can't do this alone people...>
___________________________
___________________________ A:" It’s clear that you have a very distinctive voice – poetic and offbeat. I like it". B: "...you may be disappointed at how pedestrian it is compared to the artistry of your own expression."
<I'm not picking on you by using more than one quote from you- it's just that you're obviously generous, lovely, and quite insane. And since I've abused everything else
the world has to offer,why draw a line now? (just joshin'. your checks in
the mail)>
__________________________
"Your life sounds exciting."
<!!!>
__________________________
And finally, from your lips to God's ears...
_________________________
"..your writing is brilliant! I almost can’t stand it – it is hilarious and tragic and really the stuff that good novels are made of. I'm serious."
<Yeah, I thought she had a wrong number too, but she was talking about me. Honest. I can prove it.> _____________________________________________________________________________ ________________________________________________________________________ Postamble
If you've read this and THE NOTHING DOOR, you're patience is admirable.
I hope this little exorcism wont prevent your stopping by again.
Unforunately for everyone, to use everything I wanted to include, there will have to be
another entry. The edits are laborious (and obviously the payoff is weak), so I dont know
when it'll be. This week, I hope.
After that entry, I will write again a new beginning, a hole in the road, or a farewell
if appropriate, when I reach my next destination.
Until then, keep The Outer Boogie on speed dial and check in every couple of moons
for laffs and failures galore. At the very least, it can be your tri-weekly reminder that
even though things are shitty, at least you're not that poor fucker at TOB who gets his
ass kicked every day's dawning by a word as simple, and worthless,
as "why". See you on the other side.
___________________________________TOB_______________
June 02 THE NOTHING DOOR _______________________________________
THE NOTHING DOOR
Near the end of may, 2007.
I plan to close the presses temporarily (I say "plan to" because it's possible- not
likely- that I might have an unexpected burst of inspiration at any given time) to kill the
cockroaches in my bloody suitcase and head left. This portion of the east coast, though
picturesque, makes a John McCain press conference look like a rave. A mile away in any
direction from Duke University ( in North Carolina, hospitals are the State Bird ), Durham
is as empty as a book store in Arkansas.
My celebrated credo of "Never put off 'til tomorrow what you can put off 'til the
day after tomorrow" guarantees inaccuracies in any timeline I might imagine, but a couple
of the most important arrangements are solid, so "very soon" is my hope.
The following entries are explained as they go along. As always, you have my
unconditional guarantee that they are a waste of time. Thanks for showing up.
_________________________________________________________________________
June 01, 2007.
From The Outer Boogie: " ...it's easy to mistake observation for instruction,
but I promise you TOB doesn't want your brain, or even your vote. It doesn't suggest you have missed the
bus, and it certainly doesn't tell you when the next one leaves. It's not about what should've confounded you
by now, but what has confounded me."
________________________________________________________________________________________
THE GRAND (TEMPORARY) CLOSING OF THE OUTER BOOGIE isn't a rant, or whatever
else you may call it's typical content.
And it is not a list. It's something like... Refrag.
I'm using it to post some floaties.
Bits I left out, on purpose or accidentally, snippets of outrage, liar paradox, insults, praise, remnants, abandoned boogies, capsulized cornpone, the odd odd idea, and some of the things
you have generously taken the time to say to me...in other words, nothing you can use.
As for your contributions, I am incapable of making clear how grateful I am. It kept me going for
one year. Truly. I cannot express what your communications have meant to me. There weren't
that many, really, so every one of them held a power you certainly didn't intend. I read them all,
many times over- still do- and consider each one a generous gift I do not deserve. Thank you. It's
probably hard to believe, but you have been my ONLY contact (with the exception of a few grocery
clerks, a cat at Arby's drive-thru, and a handfull of brief telephone calls) with the world outside my
current place of residence for almost 12 months (at least one of you thinks that makes me a cower-
ing and powerless sycophant. Which means at least one of you actually reads my stuff).
It matters, and I have pointed this out to the Head Chef in many prayers (if there IS a day of reckoning, and your personal appointment in the Judgement Dept. isn't going that well, be sure to
tell Him to check his voice mail before His final decision. Maybe it'll help.)
You're gonna find it fractured, because it's mostly cut-and-paste out of hovering text documents. You may find it unreadable. That's fine. But I hope you do come back in a while and
look for my next official entry, fresh from the land of fallout and dehydrated thunderstorms, to catch
up with my inimitable stupefaction on the long and winding (dirt) road. After some final surgery, I will
publish this stuff tomorrow or in the wee hours of Sunday (the third of June, I think).
Or a week from Wednesday.
Because the common theme of misunderstanding found in my silly "blog" is so thoroughly correct, I
will point out (though I wish I didn't have to- kinda waters down my punch lines) that my brief answers
to the quotes are good natured jabs, for the most part. I know several of you do not need such a remin-
der. I'm afraid some of you may, so I will err on the side of caution. Not my style, typically, but I want
there to be no ambiguity, for the reasons stated above. You've helped me. Know that. You don't have
to care about it, but I want you to know it.
I also want you to know, since it seems to have been missed by one reader I know of, I am not
confused about the fact that TOB is the door to nothing. It's about me. I don't think I have exactly
ignored the many levels on which I have failed; as a writer, as a musician and as a person. Well, ok,
I'm a pretty good musician. To imagine I'm leading anyone astray about my shortcomings is laughable.
But laughter is part of the idea here, so whatever it takes is ok with me. I'll take some empathy,
but a "that's pretty clever" is good too. Even a "that sucks" is ok- as long as you're listening.
Like TOB, this preamble is also the nothing door. The semi-final entry may be in one or two parts,
depending on how much I decide to include (once MSN told me I needed to make a new entry because
the one I was writing was too long. Am I the only one who finds that logic twisted?). I'm scoping it out
tonight. I know it will contain your bits,a bird's nest, Perfect Water, Patti Smith, a story I heard, why it's
hard to find internet porn at church, maybe a letter, deadly shootings and a visit to the Planet of the
Moops.
See you soon.
_____________________________________________________________________________ April's end-ish.
perfect water
Of interest to absolutely no one (that I know of- if any occasional passers-by do not belong in
this common faction, write and identify yourself) is my three-decade obsessional attachment to the
Blue Oyster Cult, a rock n roll band from NYC who have released some 300+ songs and yet are most
recognized for only one (search YouTube for proof of this theory. Or ask your big brother). You don't
know it, but they are commonly referenced on The Outer Boogie (must be the shit you thought was me
quoting some snooty writer). I've always been aware of the enormous impact the records most import-
ant to me had on my...development (gee thanks guys), and there are some that so captured my imagin-
ation- or even just my boogie bone (you 80's people dont really believe you invented the air guitar, do
ya?)- that I remember discovering them as though they were the wheel. One such record is BOC's first.
I was in that bizarre place we all know well, when "TEEN-AGE" is finally a reality or just around
the bend, and you are still certain the magic powers that come with it are or will be, finally, your flag to
fly. Of course, it really means you're still an idiot, but more people are gonna call you on it.
One of my neighbors, who was probably about 20 though I saw him as a full blown grown up,
was a long-hair who wore army jackets and sold pot; he lived in what was once his mom's garage, which
was decorated with paisley tapestries and usually had a muffled bass line around the structure like an
audible force field. Like my brothers, he had speakers that were housed in wood (mine were plastic), the
mark of a real rocker, and I was truly impressed. A friend of his named Robbie (man, is he another story)
had a little brother that heard I too was some kind of rock n roll nut, and we became friends, even though
he had a common Kentucky crew-cut and I was busy fine-tuning my personal habits and appearance in the
image of my hippie neighbor and another local bum my friends and I called "Elton" John Helton.
The crew-cut kid, who's name escapes me, loaned me a home-made 8-track with two records on
it: Judas Priest's "Sad Wings of Destiny" and "The Blue Oyster Cult". It was the hardest and most creative
rock and roll I had ever heard, filled with imagery; both records made me think of the Hammer horror films
and black & white horror comics I'd loved so much "back when I was a kid", but the BOC had something "Sad
Wings" did not, and it was so unusual I thought it was a defect in the 8-track itself that actually made the
record better. The sound was like nothing I'd ever heard, and I remember thinking, the day I was holding the
LP in the local shop (the first time I had actually even seen the cover) getting ready to buy it (my dad gave
me cash for a one-album-every-two-weeks allowance; my other lp's came from lawn mowing and selling nickles
of weed- usually from the nickles of weed, as mowing lawns really sucked), that I was afraid hearing it without
the effect of the damaged recording on the 8 track might ruin it for me. I wanted that record to be what I had
deemed it to be: scary and alive. That sound/mood was as important to me as the songs, which I loved.
If you've heard the record, you can imagine my surprise when I found out "Cities on Flame" sounded
nothing like 'Smoke on the Water", as I had assumed it would, and the sound that bent my mind was actually
part of the record's crafted perfection. I was thrilled, and when I read a critique of the album in Circus Maga-
zine soon after that described the sound as "piped in from outer space", I felt like an idiot, and was very glad
I hadn't shared my little drama with my my friends (the only reason being I knew they weren't interested in
such things enough to give a proper fuck).
After so many years, it's good to know BOC are considered legend, and good to know their mystery
is still part of that legend, even if it's usually behind their one international "hit". Happily, that hit is rich in the
imagery and mystery found in their greatest music; not so happily, a gigantic number of the people who still
think of "The Reaper" as one of the most affecting songs of their youth stopped there, or after the next "hit",
"Godzilla"; a far less memorable tune -but a good one- loved more for it's behemoth riff than it's comedic turns
("oh, no-there goes Tokyo!"). But that's ok. I always run into real O'Cultist's at the shows, and they're not un-
like "Deadheads" in the family aspect of that phenomenon. Except they're funnier, and have better taste in rock.
One of the most interesting mysteries through the years are the bands lyrics, which 9 times out of 10
are misquoted, misinterpreted, or disagreed upon. Even band members have said they disagree on what lyric one
song or another actually made it to vinyl with. A google search will always bring a batch of interesting conflicts,
so much so that it becomes impossible to be sure of some of it. In the old days, 50 cents and a SASE would bring
you copies of the lyrics on an old fashioned computer print-out, and these I've found through many years of
dedicated listening are the closest to the truth, but there were a few possible errors (Robert Chritgau once said
"BOC's lyrics aren't unintelligible, just unbelievable").
A favorite example, penned by Buck Dharma and Jim Carrol, is "Perfect Water", a brilliant and practically
unknown thing of beauty from a very under-mentioned lp called "Club Ninja" (which features, unfortunately, one of
their worst album covers and, happily, at least 2 of their very best songs). I've found several variations on the
lyrics to "Perfect Water", more than most, and for that probably non-existent passer-by (or anyone with time on
their hands), I am submitting what I am sure are the correct ones, which I have not encountered a precise agree-
ment on yet. If that passer-by does, let me know, I'd be grateful. And as always, it's my suggestion "Reaper" fans
everywhere take some time to find out who these cats are; a splendid time is guaranteed. Most band bio's you
find on the net call them "the thinking man's heavy metal". Maybe that's true- but they also probably wouldn't
think twice about putting whoopie cushions on every seat in the arena. That is the Blue Oyster Cult. Kind of like
Roman Polanski's "Fearless Vampire Killers" with mirrored shades and stack of Marshall's.
Yeah. Like that. Sort of.
______________________________________________________________________
ADDEN-DUMB
For the piece, "Perfect Water", I had saved several interpretations of the following lyric
that I had found online, for obvious purposes, in several separate documents. In my version
of "haste" to get THE NOTHING DOOR published, I copied and pasted the wrong document. If
anything I say in this blog actually mattered to anyone, I would find this harrowing, indeed.
Happily, the people I don't know who read my stuff probably fell asleep halfway through it,
and the people who do know me, after all these years, have an instant and involuntary men-
tal shut down anytime I say the words "Blue Oyster Cult" (I know this because their eyes
glaze over and their heads start nodding an acknowledgement like a baseball bobble-head
dealie). It is now corrected. To all the little BOC gnomes around the globe planning my death,
sit down and finish your cereal.
And to "V.", who said I was right before I discovered I was wrong...um, ouch.
Thanks for the vid, though. You made my month! -wes
________________________________________________________________________
Perfect Water
perfect water - the dark wind braids the waves,
the crazed birds raid the trees... is this our destiny? to join our hands at sea - and slowly sink, and slowly think: this is perfect water, passing over me. do you know jacques cousteau, well they said on the radio that he hears bells in random order, deep beneath the perfect water Lord, that is frightening! but still so inviting...
to drown inside a sound that lay so far underground,
and to think "This is perfect water, passing over me." to flow inside the spiral tide; to drown my eyes like a blinding ride and cross the peril of black water -
it waits for me like an orphaned daughter, a life of perfect order, a strange and perfect water. perfect water,
i dream this dream within the deep and warm gulf stream, where two blocks of ice melt into my hands like dice,
and i roll seven on the floor of the sea! and i feel the perfect water, washing over me.
to flow inside the spiral tide; to drop my eyes like a bride and ride across the perilous black water -
it waits for me like an orphaned daughter. a life of perfect order, the strange and perfect water.. a life of perfect order, a strange and perfect water.
________________________________________________________________ Somewhere Mid-May, I'll bet.
Tag-line of Fire:
While I've enjoyed the many inquiries about the "Wonderland of Topiary Trees" (actually one
guy said something about it that I don't remember) and been moved many times by the warm smiles
of the children who play there when you bring your families to visit TOB (actually, the best thing about
babies is that they don't know what sleeping pills taste like), it's been suggested (he wasn't from
California I'll bet, fuckin' heathen) I change our planet-famous welcome.
Some possibilities:
The Outer Boogie: Because there's nothing else.
_________________________________________________________
The Outer Boogie: Mitt Romney wants to be president? Who is this asshole?
Why don't we just vote for Rodney Allen Rippy, for Christs
sake? Fuck Mitt Romney. He's a moron.
_________________________________________________________
The Outer Boogie: Ted Nugent doesn't read it very often.
_________________________________________________________
The Outer Boogie: like a newspaper, except it's funny and doesn't
really have any news. And it's a computer thing.
So really it's not like a newspaper at all.
_________________________________________________________
The Outer Boogie: Who gives a rats ass.
__________________________________________________________
The Outer Boogie: a year and the guy still hasn't said a fuckin' thing.
_________________________________________________________
For your consideration. Suggestions will be ignored in the
order they are received.
_______________________________________________________________________
A few weeks ago.
{ From the esoterica desk: }
Finally, and completely unrelated to anything at all, if you are interested in quirky pop songs
( and I know at least three people who seem to be regular O'Boogiers are) you might consider invest-
igating an act called "Camera Obscura" that I heard today while channel surfing. Since my records
and instruments were stolen, I tend to avoid things musical outside of my lone Fender ( which means
I may be telling you something everybody but me already knows), but an image in their video caught
my eye so I stopped for a second to look. Immediately the sound captured me, and without meaning
(or wanting) to, I discovered a real gem. The title may be "If looks could kill", but I'm not certain.
Kinda like The Carpenters on magic mushrooms. Great horn, too. __________________________________________________________________________________
___________________________________________________________________________________
June 02, 2007.
You have now entered the Nothing Door. It's ok, you can get out.
Tonight I will dust off the final entries ('til the grand rebirth). The above examples
should indicate why the accidental tourist may want to reconsider checking in for the
rest, as it's a bit more personal on top of useless.
Everyone else, look for it in the next couple of days, if you are so inclined.
Yee-Haw. March 17 Interview with a House Fire pt.2
more apologies/jailtime:
I came into these smokey halls several days ago and wrote the final paragraphs
of this nonsense, and the above notice. I returned a few days later to proof the
punctuation and tell it goodbye, but on the way I saw the days headlines.
This piece has been slightly laborious, but not punishingly so. If it seems like a
broken freeway, I would remind you this space is actually a cul-de-sac. I've
only said one thing in these pages, and it has been good for me and hopefully,
at least funny for you (hint: read it again). The final portion of this page should
somewhat clear the waters, if you care enough to wonder. Thank you so much
for any time you've spent tolerating me in the last several months. Be good.
___________________________________________________________________________
One thrill and mundane here at last
expect the cross once more lecherous, invisible beware the limping cat whose black teeth grip, between loose jaws, still ripe and fully bloomed, a rose that's not from anywhere
that you would know or I would care.
Awful things are happening,
we've let this drama fold. And now the time has come at last to crush the motif of the rose
************************************************* PART TWO: THE BLACK
THE INTRODUCTION TO THE FIRST PART OF
this nonsense was supposed to be annoying and cheap enough to make even the one
person who refuses to criticize me decide to drown herself. It didn't work with her, but
I'm considering a bath this very moment. It was really seven ways to say "I'm alone",
but she won't cop to that either. It was the red for Rastus Bear; but also to water tort-
ure any nearby bulls. And this is the black, again for Rastus Bear; but also because it's
the closest you will ever get to having a root canal at your workstation. Anyone that
made it through part one can validate that warning if it doesn't scare you. My advice,
as always, is run now, and don't look back. Seven lashes, and seven ways to say "I'm
alone".
You're alone too, but there's probably someone in your hope chest as well
that won't let you buy that; and most people (I'm guessing) would call that your very
good fortune.
Five. Six.
Seven.
******************************************************
December/January/February 2006/07. At night. Usually.
Q:
TOB: NO CANCER WOULD BE (IS) COMPLETE
without a multitude of annoying and mind numbing mysteries attached, apparently created by
the force of life itself to ensure the victim will have confusion and anger to keep his physical de-
terioration from being alone in the lunch line. It would seem the best idea that our grumpy old
Mother Night could come up with when deciding how to build the thickest wall possible between
questions and answers was to keep us focused on work, school and this week's Jessica Spears
until it is too late to consider theories. It's rather like surfing the less acknowledged freeways
of the internet: you get to the mouth of a particularly scary or seedy alleyway; you just want to
walk down it a bit and see who might be in those shadows, who it is that populates those dark
spaces with names like "Raped Grandmas.com" or "White Power Warriors.net" (or one of my
personal faves that shows up in AOL chat from time to time, "Ear Or Nose Love", which, so far,
has been empty when I visit). You see the thumbnail that seems to most exemplify the site's
title and click it-
and suddenly you are whisked (or, less dramatically, "redirected") to a different
place, a less dangerous one full of similar ideas but no actual blood spatter or manure bomb
worksheets.
The disease bed is like that blackened alley, menacing with threatening suggest-
ions and beckoning your morbid curiosity. During many sleepless hours in that bed you've been
unable to shake that curiosity, wanting to enter that dead end tunnel and click on that cosmic
thumbnail despite your apprehension, secretly desperate for answers to questions you thought
you'd made peace with years ago. But you also know, ultimately, that those answers are the
bane of human understanding; that the best case scenario would be finding the one secretive
alley dweller with the best second guess. Because everyone-everyone- from Pope to pornogr-
apher, from Muslim to mudwrestler is, at the end of the day, guessing (and if you think I'm dead
in the water wrong about that, I'd like to borrow your dictionary to look up "faith". I know what
mine says). But, with time of the essence, people abandon the idea of searching for that alley
dweller and grab one of the commonly accepted theories or concepts regarding the mystery of
life and death. Like the web surfer, they approach that shadowy entrance and click that cosmic
thumbnail, but fear of the unknown quickly redirects their quest to a less lonely place; one with
similar ideas but less danger of choking on the much less attractive and freezing cold possibil-
ity that the end is, well... the end. Enter the lizard of desert Borealis. Enter the Path of Hat and
Snake.
Q:
TOB: You mean does TOB really believe this is true? I don't know.
Do you?
*******************************************************************
One can wear his/herself like a Starsky and Hutch t-shirt if they don't mind the bloody
historical fallout. Just know those 20 years your junior do not have a clue what kind of vertigo
nostalgia can bring. If they could understand how much they will one day long to reexperience
yesterday's nightmares (not to mention it's wet dreams), they would buy medicines that cause
pimples. And there's no way out, kids: this will happen to you.
Somebody dumb once told me I reminded them of David Cassidy. Of course, David
Crosby is more accurate, and not just because he used to sing the high notes. I flirted with
death so often I'm amazed it hasn't sued me for child support, but I didn't do it in search of real
country dark (ok, I'll stop with the Burgess, but only because you're whining); I was just too in-
tellectually lazy to be scared. As Springsteen wrote so perfectly: "Mama always told me not to
look into the eyes of the sun. But Mama, that's where the fun is." (There actually was a reason
they called him "The Boss", ya know.)
There are things I'm sorry about. But being handed a reality 10 seconds out of the womb
with an expectation I would get it right was somebody else's idea. And I got it wrong. A lot. And
there are those who think people of my ilk should be sorry about that. There's an old saying you
might find appropriate to that revelation should it be visited upon you (should you be of my ilk),
that might properly clear the air:
"Fuck You".
**************************************************************************
Q:
TOB: Rock and Roll is food for people like me. Yes, there are people like me, and I could
prove it if I wanted to.
Music in general seems to be the only backdraft I've no defense to. The right melo-
dy inspires tears or raging flames, every time. In definitively rare cases, a deodorant commerc-
ial might have me reaching for a snot rag if the jingle has enough B minors. I don't know why,
and I'm not sure it's a gift. Because anything one is forced by love to wear on their sleeve is a
very visible hole in their emotional armor, and even people you think would never do it take note
of that kind of vulnerability and use it as a bull's-eye as soon as the shit gets thick. And I assure
you, there is someone like that in your rolodex. Maybe even in your bed.
Music just happens to be my wet paper bag. Yours is just as penetrable. What was
the question?
Q:
TOB: I believe in love. But that's all.
Q:
TOB: Because I've seen it. Because I've been there.
Q:
TOB: I believe in love. But that's all.
Q:
TOB: Dark is the night, but there is a green tuxedo left-flanking your railroad (if you want
to know why there's no silver food, ask George Carlin). I don't think anyone should be shooting any-
one, but it's pretty fucking clear discussing international relations with the middle east is like bring-
ing up "Black Spring" at a Beverly Hillbillies dinner party. I don't even like talking about it, because
I just cant get my mind around the "controversy". As I'm fond of pointing out, the bad guys over
there are the Flintstones in a Jetsons world. You're gonna have to come up with someone a hell of
a lot more provocative than George Clooney if you wanna convince me there's anything close to
rational about murdering 3000 civilians with hijacked airplanes in the name of religion. And yes I've
heard all the "but's" about the fact that the "enemy" in this case are not the ones who did that, but
if you think they are simply next door neighbors you might wanna windex your periscope. The folks
making all the noise over there apparently went to the snack bar about a thousand years ago and
never came back, 'cause there's no way they could've seen the 2nd half of that millenium go down
like everyone else did. These are people who throw rocks at armed Hummers and think that cotton
makes a decent helmet. Wingers from either direction that think they have an opinion about who
oughta be shot over all this are missing the point at unprecendented levels. And if you are motivated
in any measurable way by what Barbra Streisand or Sean Hannity have to say about the way life
works, you ain't paying attention. There is only one place to find those answers: your favorite mirror.
As far as I'm concerned, the only only aspect of this that I can consider right now is that
thousands of people from my neck of the world who have no idea I even exist are living in Bedrock
and sleeping with a rifle, just in case I do. Tom Robinson said "If left is right then right is wrong; you
better decide which side you're on". I'm on their side.
Q:
TOB: If you want or need to talk about something, people are pretty much it in the opt-
ions department. But it's amazing to me how completely we can know each other. Finish each others
sentences. Someone very close to me often tells me about what music she is currently slave to;
it's a reasonable estimate to say 8 times out of 10 the very same music has also been
on my mind. Just one of a thousand examples you & I could probably pull out of a hat fairly easily.
Fact is, that's stupid. And anyone that has closed a chapter of their adult life that began in their
adult life should know it. The bit about never going to the movies again was intended to be ominous.
Unconditional love sounds great on Oprah, but it's as rare as an innocent prisoner.
The only way to sum it up is very personal, but I owe you: my last relationship
lasted 10 years or so. I loved her. Still do. And though I understand the lion's share of the problems
that put it to an end were mine, the offense she committed against me (apparently in "retaliation"
for my inabilty to think as she did) was so brutish and over-the-top that it can fairly be called
hateful. When I think of the first time we really spoke, and I recall looking in her eyes and knowing I
was instantly hooked... I see that moment now and know that I was looking at the person who would
one day try to actually destroy me, and it sends a chill down my spine. Every day. There's someone
living rent free in your skull right now too... what do you see? What did you see?
The reason I say it's stupid (which sounds harsher than the intention) is that we
seem to acquaint ritual and routine with "soul bonding". Really, it's just ritual and routine. Nothing is
more predictable than that, but it's far more quixotic to think of it as fate or a deeper kind of compat-
ibilty. Look, it's a good thing to know someone intimately, particularly in the sense of better-or-worse.
It makes us better equipped to help each other. It makes the hard stuff easier to bear. In fact, that
may be the most effective barometer for measuring the quality of love in your life. Are the people you
love truly supportive, or encouraging? Does your partner lighten your load? Hard questions with dang-
erous answers, but important ones in terms of the passing time. We get one trip through this world.
But that's what those years should add up to. That your loved one is not like you, even on one of his/her deepest levels, doesn't make what's right with the relationship less significant. If you care.
But people can only get that close if they are willing to consider the real problem.
And I said if they're willing. Not capable.
I'm saying you never know who you're talking to. And you never know who you are loving. They say
familiarity breeds contempt. They say absence makes the heart grow fonder. I say it's rats in the cell-
ar. The phrase "One of these day's I'm gonna" is cancer of the Intention. And like most cancer,
it's operable and/or treatable. And one of these days, you'll take care of it, I'm sure. I'm gonna.
Q:
TOB: I don't give advice, as a rule. If you pushed, the best I've got would be look for
peace, anywhere you can find it. Remember all things must pass. Give who you love all the room
they need. And wear your love like heaven.
******************************************************************************
...Bury me there behind the rose
so they'll not rile my grave.
************************************************************************
Dr. Phil likes to credit his father with this one (I guess the people who need his signature
on their paycheck don't wanna tell him it's borrowed): "You wouldn't care so much about what other
people think of you if you knew how little they did". Sounds like southern wisdom to me, but frequen-
cy notwithstanding I always felt like everyone thought I was nuts, even as a kid. I've since decided
it's because I was. I had a defective sense of wonder, immeasurable, and I was certain everyone in
my path should be made aware of it. I was equally convinced that they wanted to know it, because,
let's face it, we are talking about me, master of all space and time. Try as I might, I have never det-
ermined where I got the idea that every move I made was legend, nor where that idea disappeared
to when I entered my teens. That is, I knew my "insight" was golden, but I had a couple of revelat-
ions that convinced me to choose who should know it with a bit more discretion. Those revelations,
I think, were "Plastic Ono Band" and acid. Teach your children well.
A few years before Plastic Ono Band, I found a plastic toy camera by a railroad track on my
way to school. It was filthy and cracked, but when I looked through the viewfinder, which was a very
scratched up piece of filmy, yellow plastic, and saw the tressel was now highlighted in a foggy shade
of lemon, the idea that I was now a tv show called "Eye of the Camera" attacked and murdered any
notion I'd had of making an appearance at school, and I spent the day making up stories, aloud, as I
walked around framing subjects for my "audience" in this new and revolutionary yellow vision that
helped them understand why every frog and stone around us is a universe unto itself. And of course,
I was once again in the process of changing the world, forever. You're welcome.
This silly tale is only to illustrate the sheer velocity of the winds of change. I've tried, and
failed, to remember when unchained imagination became paranoia, and I look for signs of these things
in young people, hoping to get a glimpse. Maybe I'm not supposed to know. But that doesn't make it
less fucked up.
*********************************************************************
Q:
TOB: In a rare bit of conversational abandon, I recently said to my family that music is all
that I am. I am worth nothing else. Similar declarations to friends brought the same response my
family handed me: "That's crap". Well, it isn't. It's not something I feel bad about, so why the answer
to that statement is always a disputatious blast of advocacy is a mystery to me. Unless of course they
know it's not crap at all, a notion the law of likelihood favors.
At the end of the day, I am alone. There are some people that love me, and even some
that kind of like me. But at the end of the day, I am alone. And so are you.
Maybe that shakes my foundation more than it should. Or maybe it shakes everyone and
I just don't know it; might be a decent door of perception regarding the list of Popular Pathways. All I
know about it is that there are few statements as common, or as inaccurate, as " I understand". Not a
happy fact. But apparently not a fatal one either; one of the people I love has been married a couple of
decades now, and it seems to be about as significant as an apple worm. That things could be worse is
typically less than inspirational. But that's just me.
Q:
TOB: That I am about music is appropriate in the extreme. Particularly "pop" music,
as opposed, that is, to "classical" (if not for A Clockwork Orange I may have made it to the
grave thinking Beethoven was a guy that wrote tampon jingles. Ok, in truth I wasn't that bad, but
even today- except for Lakme, half of the Ninth Symphony and a third of the Fifth- Jethro Tull and
"Selling England by the Pound" are as close as I ever get to bombast. Though I listened to Kiss a lot
as a kid).
As a buyer for Tower Records for a number of years, I found my way backstage often and rubbed drinks
with a lot of heroes, the source of many of my favorite personal stories. But the one thing I think I
learned from it all is that cool comes with hierarchy, just like everything else; I left the Universal
Amphitheatre certain I could hold my whiskey better than Van Morrison, and when Stan Lynch was
bordering on a temper tantrum when he watched me collect my backstage pass at will-call for an
after-show Neil Young party after being denied because he "wasn't on the list", I was pretty sure I
was cooler than him too. Fact is, watching a heavy-metal "star" puke is pretty much like watching
anyone puke. There's usually just a lot more people around.
When you get that nylon pass and slap it on your leg, it feels like a pretty good place
to be, and a few times, for a fan(atic) like me, it felt something like an honor. But the fact is backst-
age is just like anywhere else when it comes to class-consciousness; the only thing less cool than
getting booted from the buffet at a Pink Floyd set is getting that boot because the pass on your leg
is color-coded to say "I'm nobody, really". I have a point, hang on a second.
One night, backstage at Irvine Meadows Amphitheatre (freezing my tits off), I was
told my pass lacked the proper insignia needed to allow me into the "trailer" for the after-show meet
-and-greet, as it's sometimes called. Not the end of the world, the show was a last minute thing any-
way, and I didn't even know there would be any kind of pass with my ticket until I opened the envel-
ope. So I told my friends, who had the proper passes, to go ahead and I would sit around and watch
the tear down from the stage. The major flaw in this plan was soon apparent: the only bar was in the
trailer. But soon a couple of fellow freaks went by and one of them gave me a six pack string with a
couple of beers still hanging on it when he heard my tale of woe. I explained the meet-and-greet was
no biggie, seen one you've seen 'em all, and often the only reason you couldn't swear in court that
the artist in the room just wanted you to get lost was that they didn't say it out loud.
The beer guy knocked knuckles with me and moved on to pack up 30 miles of cable,
but his buddy sat next to me on the cold steel steps that led to the stage. We spent a few minutes bat-
ting around the ambiguous politics of the music business, the bizarre relationship between rock and
rock journalism, and why musician's are an interesting and lucky breed. He got up to go to the meet-
and-greet, and asked if I was coming. I said no, thank you, and he went on to play out the rest of his
"shift". And suddenly I was pretty glad I made the show. Of course, a 15 minute meeting of the minds
is always inspiring, and it's not like I got trapped in a well with Ghandi; if you had told me the day
before that a fifteen minute bullshit session with a rock star could make me feel pretty good
about being a musician, I would have laughed in your face. But for once, it did. That might make more
sense to me if it was Lou Reed or Zal Cleminson. But...
You never know who you're talking to.
Q:
TOB: A person as obviously confused about people as I am that doesn't find their own "music", some
whatever-thing that lights the ice capade with just enough soul factory glow to give them something
like a rope to grip so they can twist over the razor-toothed iguana pit a little longer than Earth on Earth's
terms is likely to allow is, almost certainly, measurably doomed. I know many of our fellow and fellowette
wandering followers are doomed anyway, confused or not (Schnapps drinkers and Wrestling fans leap to
mind as demonstrative fer-instances); but the sad army of fuckers like me who wish they knew how to
make something work in some meaningful way but are incapable of signing up for a losing battle because
of fear, insecurity, laziness and/or too many years already spent failing at it are particularly pathetic. Ask
anybody. But remember you never know who you're talking to. Inspiration has a very forked tongue.
And it's synonymous with incitement.
**************************************************************************************
John Lennon said "everybody loves you when you're six feet in the ground", and he was right. It's
something like a tragedy how completely we lose touch with the things that nurtured our love for our
families, partners and friends. Ultimately we love them still, but we are far more aware and seem far
more affected by their frailties and shortcomings than those things we once found so endearing as to
change our lives. Piteous we do not call on the qualities of those who once made us consider destiny
while they are still at our side. More's the pity that we sometimes jump the gun, but still move into
the future ignoring the realization we've made the wrong choices until the day we hear the voice in
the back of our skulls, whispering that it's finally too late. The voice is ours, of course; that's why it's
a whisper. We only hear it at full volume when it say's "One of these day's I'm gonna". I guess it's
our built-in resistance to the reality of passing time. Everything we are tells us it's a fact, but we still
act like the world is a day at Knott's Berry Farm, and when the latest turn on Montezuma's Revenge
comes to an end, we just get back in line for the next one.
***********************************************************************************
Q:
TOB: You never know who you're talking to. But you should try to. When you look at the
person who owns most of your active-brain time, who do you see? Is it the same person you used
to see, when it counts? 'Cause if the answer's no, man, you better hear it. We should try to hear
everything. It is our charge to recognize generosity, material or not.. and it is our charge to help
each other. I know that's impossible to live up to. God knows I can't. But that doesn't make it wrong.
I want to. That counts. Doesn't pay much, though.
Q:
TOB: I like people. For the most part, they laugh when you're funny, they don't torture
puppies, and they react to injustice with vigorous sincerity. But at the end of the day, a stunning
number of us are, at the deepest levels, 100% dedicated to ourselves.
Maybe it was a coffee stain on the cosmic blueprint, but far too often people will eat their
young if it means the pain goes away. Who the fuck wants to fight for a seat on that bus?
I've tried pretty hard, even to the point of exaggeration, to make it clear that I acknowledge
my abundant shortcomings in the movin' and shakin' department. It hasn't helped, because where I'm
coming from still gets thrown out the window at the first sign of disagreement. But there are many things
uglier than being misunderstood (find-a-grave.com <Steven Hugh Berry>), and of course, there's always
television. Trust me, that I am just not important isn't lost on me.
_________________________________________________________________________________________
Mid March. Afternoon, I think:
I deleted the final paragraphs of this entry (don't mention it). I did not keep a copy of them, even
though it took many hours to write them. I could have created a new entry for this, but doing it this way
felt more like a sacrifice, which is imperative to a meaningful gift.
And this is a gift, admittedly humble as the only expense is my time and drivel (or diatribe, a recent accusation from a disgruntled autograph hound with a flat tire and a sun warp in her git-a-long), which I
seem to have in abundance right now. But it's all I have, so hopefully, it counts. The targeted recipients
will never know anyway. It seemed the right course, because eliminating the punch line of the entry makes
it even more senseless; in this case, almost perfect symbology.
A somewhat legendary (in certain circles) name (as opposed to face) in rock n roll that I was having
too many drinks with in a favorite bar quite a few years ago let out an exaggerated moan when "More Than
a Feeling" began playing on the jukebox; not because he didn't know it was a nearly perfect rock record, but
because we were jokingly arguing the merits of any and all things related to the Billboard charts (and
"corporate rock" in general). Of course, I began preaching the rock n roll gospel according to me, daring him
to name a Crystal's or Shangri-La's tune even nearly as capable of driving a murder of Harley scarecrow's
(he is a biker and Phil Spector nut) to the edge of misty nostalgia as "More Than a Feeling" can in it's first 30 seconds. (His answer: "He Hit Me (and it felt like a kiss)". As an A+ for quick wit, I said "touche" when the whiskey that came out of my nose stopped burning. Guess you had to be there.)
But he knew I was right. Even though many rock purists complain about it's "factory fresh" architecture
and saturated overdub's (you know- the kind of shit they started giving people people grammy awards for
when the 80's reared it's gruesome head), the first Boston record had a not-so-secret weapon that allowed
it's crystalline perfection to keep it's feet on rock and roll terra firma in a way none had before and few have
since: the amazing Brad Delp. It was somebody's stroke of genius (common knowledge says Tom Scholz
hired him) to put a singer with honest to God bar-blues soul in front of a sonic juggernaut otherwise built on
technology to drive those eight tunes not just into your ears, but also into your heart. My quick trip through
1976 had a number of freaky pit-stops, but I believe hearing Brad's highs in the opening of "More Than a Feeling" for the first time is the one that most definitively cleaned my musical clock that year. Obviously, several million others had a similar experience. For people like me, these things are the pad on which we
are written; they are among the things that made us who we are today, for better, for worse. If you are
sure that's trivial, relax. You're not who I'm talking to.
This is a gift 'cause I said so. It's for Brad's family, friends, and people like me that were pretty glad
he made his sound available to us. I never met Brad, like most of the people who admired him. I followed
the rest of his career only peripherally, but more than enough to know he was the thing that kept that band
a force to be reckoned with. And even though they'll never see it, I want to put it out there for those left
behind that for a large number of us, his accomplishment left "stardom" and the common perception of
celebrity visible only in his rear-view mirror. The cat could sing. I hope that before he came apart, he knew
how much that really means. That he played on an LP that is no less than timeless is a rare kind of justice.
I'm glad I got to see it.
Go easy, Brad. And thanks. |
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