Didn't go, didn't get the goddamn shirt

Goddamnit, I was supposed to be at BlogHer but circumstance confounded me (Grace losing her dad, for one) and I wasn't able to finally meet the true owner of my heart (though, I understand she hooked up HUGE). It's not like they needed me there, running around in my speed-o and spilling rum and cokes over everyone but still, it would have been fun to piss on the baby leopard at the chicago zoo and pound on Amy Sullivan's door at 4 AM screaming about her aborting our baby, especially after all the acid we'd done together. The bitch was insatiablee on acid, would go all night, wake the goddamn neighbors. C'mon Amy, PLEEEEEEZE.

Oops - Amy Sedaris. Shit. That's uncool. Too many rum and cokes - sorry. After security would escort me outside (and what an idiotic mistake - Sedaris being so much finer than Sullivan), I'd have stumbled back to the zoo to piss on the baby leopard - again, mama leopard be damned.

Cuz I roll like that, yo. Mamacat awed by my huge schwang waving around, pissing on her babies, wide-eyed and afraid, wondering if I'd hit her over the head with that monster and dead to the ankles afraid I'd poke her. Hard. Pissing on kittens and unafraid of getting clawed and bit. Especially by Amy Sullivan, not Amy Sedaris.

Another reason they kept me away from coming to BlogHer

David Brooks, are you Harvard educated kids in Iraq?

Well, Scarlett wasn't ready and we never made our visit to the MBS villa. On Tuesday night (on my way to gather my brood), the alternator belt snapped; after I replaced the belt on Yuesday, the fuel pump went yesterday. I must have some kind of karma because when I intended to visit MBS before, my Audi decided to start overheating and once it was in the shop, I learned the timing housing was about to go. As much as I want to (and need to) get to where MBS lives, the universe has been clear about what I needed to do to prevent being stranded on some desert stretch of road. Still, that hasn't prevented me from feeling worthless for not being able to get to MBS, and my karmic coincidence hasn't come without a psychic cost. We can equivocate about how well it worked out that my cars have taken a dump the day before I was about to hit the road (so didn't die somewhere miles from nowhere) but I nonetheless can't avoid the thought that something is holding me back.

Maybe it's just poverty; that certainly makes sense. Despite what the useful idiot David Brooks says, this isn't a smashing, rockin' economy. Those of us who are struggling to just get by (or know those who are), we're not interested in knowing that the top 1% are living fat. If everything's so fanfuckingtastic, where's ours?

Bug-B-Gon No Mo!

In the continuing saga of this marvelously charmed summer, my long-time toy has come home to me.


She (“Scarlett”) and I have been together for 19 years and have traveled all over, often on bailing wire and snot, duct tape and spare rubber, mostly with me chanting, "go Scarlett, go," a mantra that works, sometimes, but usually it involving me and my scraped up knuckles rammmed against hot metal, me growling against her and her pissing brake fluid and attitude, rattling ass in that proprietary Veedub chitter that announces a bug like a cicada. In the bonnet (not trying to be some pretentious anglophile prick but I can't think of a better term for it) is still a bedroll, tarp, cooking & fishing gear, sundry survival items (i.e. pipe fittings and faucet screens), and a WWII surplus camouflage net: I can pull over almost anywhere (and I did, many times), throw the net over her and shove in some branches, find some solitude, get a huge buzz on, or just create a quiet place to rest my head. Before the kids, it was more often than not that I'd let her spontaneously take me somewhere into the mountains where I'd never been, a couple days and nights free, me free, everything free but gas and beer and a package of hotdogs. With the engine in the rear and the incredible amount of torque that goes with that, she took me places no regular car (or even trucks) could go. We've made it up many jeep-trails and never once was I scared we'd get stuck.

Today, as we drove north, Lilly asked if Scarlett talks to me. Feeling the vibration of the steering wheel, the torque flexing as I shifted, I had to say "yes," she does, she's happy, tickled that the children who played in her while she stood idle and broken are now enjoying the wind rushing through her windows. I talk to her, she talks to me and I think, for most things, we understand each other.

A couple years ago, I dated a goth girl for about five minutes. She needed a car and I foolishly lent Scarlett to her, believing her when she said she knew how to use a shifter. Some small part of me believes Scarlett was miffed at my promiscuous palming her off but whatever the reason, she refused to move, her clutch flacid and worthless. Two years of slave-wages had her silent and still in my driveway, weeds growing around her tires and through her bumper, sad and forsaken, a plaything for my kids but not for me.

And now she's back, purring perfectly. We're taking her south this week to see MBS and her girls, a 4 hour drive through desert and mountains. I'll pack a lot Capris Sun, coloring books, and soft toys. We'll leave early to get through the desert while the day is cool, hit the mountains by late-morning. No DVD, no A/C, just us and some road songs and long looks out the window where imaginations run free. I'll post some pics later in the week.

I am a happy man.

Out of the Burbs and into the pit 7/8/07

...and you will know us by the mud on our Chucks

The universe was shining brightly Sunday as my Binary Star and I blazed to Denver for the Warped Tour. Almost sixty bands on five stages, none of them on the bill to induce a meditative mood. Considering the skull-smashing hangovers we were both nursing (resulting from the too-much-fun we'd shared on Saturday night), meditation was about as welcome as menudo (both the soup AND the band).

A perfect punk vibe, all DYI and seat of our pants: the tix hadn't arrived in MBS's mailbox by Saturday (we had to arrange for alternates at Will Call), we woke up late (see above, RE: near-fatal hangover), when we arrived at the hotel the room wasn't ready, it took FOREVER to get a cab and MBS missed one of the "must sees" on her list, Tiger Army (I took a punch in the shoulder for that one). Intrepid orbs us, we plunged headlong into the crowds and had one of the best times of my life, ever.

The first stop was the beer tent (overpriced watery crap) to take the edge off our hangovers. Since necessity breeds desperation, we drained a couple of plastic cups without complaint - hell, it was with a sigh of relief. Got a couple more cupfuls and headed off to see the tail end of Big D and the Kid's Table set, a ska/punk outfit. Wandering some more, we finally made it to The Line-Up Board
where we were finally able to get oriented as to who was where, when and all that (though I admit I was pretty much disoriented all day). You can probably blow the pic up and see most of the band names; short of that, I can tell you our next band was Pennywise which, two songs into the, the producers shut down due to the impending thunderstorm.

The skies opened up and really dumped. Naturally, we grabbed a couple of beers and took refuge from the pouring rain under a Miller

You can't see it in the pic but rain was streaming down the bill of my cap and watering down my already watery beer (note to Warped Tour people: get us some microbrew!). The storm lasted about an hour and people huddled where they could

although I'm not sure a tree is the place I'd want to stand during a thunderstorm, even if there wasn't much lightning. Needless to say, we weren't rained out and Pennywise took the stage again - probably my favorite band of the day.

Yeah, blurry (a phone pic ferchrisesake) but you can see I was right up on the pit and was getting jostled a lot. And yeah, this old man did go into the pit (during Bad Religion) and I have a scab on my elbow from getting knocked to the pavement. Two guys were right there to lift me up and throw me back into the eddy which was totally cool slam-dance etiquette and warmed my heart considerably. I didn't crowd surf, though; hell, I'm OLD!!!

The next few bands didn't do much for us so we spent some time walking around, checking out booths, drinking more beer. The place was a maze - and amazing - we

eventually ended up at the Pepper table where I got a shirt and CD signed for MBS. Their set was fun, punk-reggae from Hawaii.

More fun :-D MBS and me...

Finally, the headliners Bad Religion... again, too fuzzy but I think you get a sense of how much energy - LOVING ENERGY - was there for all to share.

And as the sun set on Invesco

we bid goodbye to one of the most excellent days ever...

....oh, but what a night!!!

"I am IRONY man...."

Doooo Doooooooooooooooooooo.....

Duh duh dadadada DUH dadada DUH da DUH DUH

Just wondering when children of privilege feel the least bit icky when they post Mission of Burma up on their site and not recall that the barb was meant for them.

Wot? Hello...

G Is for Not Just One George

Gilbert and his brother, plus the monkey,
Plus the Boy, plus the place to touch,
Plus the force in a high-speed plane at upper altitude.
Then there is the grape we learned to drink

And the gas we loved to guzzle and the nightmare
Of a president we suffered to the world
When he looked into the gorge between true and facile
And said, Bring them on. Sad, sad,

Sad going world nowhere.
"They" say curiosity is what keeps us going.
(The girl who only repeats what she hears
On the NPR smacks her gum

And fingers her Hop-along gun in its holster;
She purchased it in August on eBay.
Graphic novels are all she'll read, she says,
But she's lying. At night she reads Goethe

And studies the German way
Of saying her gutturals.
Get your hands out of the gutter, Girlie.
She doesn't dare look his way but only spits

Out her gum into a tissue. She has "issues"—
Obviously.) And Gandhi, who can forget him?
Although clearly some have. And an earlier war's grudge.
Does anyone's mind go there anymore? The jungle

Heat, the endless night cicada cacophony.
The sick whir of the rotors, men clinging
To landing skids, sweat drizzling down
Along every subtle pattern a spine can possibly make,

The hovercraft adrift, pirouetting above
The American Embassy. Yes, Virginia, it is Saigon
I'm speaking of. And, yes, you're so right.
After a while, the mind goes silent.

Even though there's always a bid in, and the crying
Of another proffered lot. Another other voice echoing itself
As the gong of the inevitable "Going, going, gone"
While someone crumples over somewhere and—

We gasp, as if we didn't comprehend it would end
This way nor what Dylan meant years ago
When he played guitar
And said we wouldn't need a weatherman.

Get it going on for our friends and family who never served, say you? I have plenty friends and family serving who hate this war (and our retard president) who are kind of sick of them, separated by degrees, yet not doing one goddamn thing to get them that sacrifice out of the sandbox.

Wave that flag, wave it wide and high

One of the bursts from Red Mountain

Picking myself up from yesterday's full-on psychotic ramble, we strolled down to the park for barbecued buffalo flesh, balloon animals, and a park full of over-priced crap. It was a perfect 4th of July, probably the best Independence Day I've ever spent; music and love and children running wild for whatever moments they have left as innocents in their here and now, all that which we'd sell our souls for, just to possess a fraction. We danced, we dipped our toes in the stream,

climbed to new heights,

and danced together as local bands played folky/swing stuff in the midst of a hail storm.

I hope your fourth was as full of love, fun, and free of the shit that Bush/Cheney have sunk our country under, participles dangling withstanding and Constitution compromised.

Oh yeah - here's me:

(via http://www.simpsonsmovie.com/main.html)

Tomorrow, tomorrow, I love you tomorrow

Happy time, yes, as I said yesterday, summertime and the livin’ is easy, everything sweet as pink lemonade. Tomorrow will be a blast (of course, please excuse the pun) and our hoard will be terrorizing my tiny town, making the sidewalks sticky with spilled soda and tufts of cotton candy. Manitou Springs sponsors a big buffalo barbecue in the park and we’ll be there, enjoying the day, waiting for the fireworks, celebrating another year of our great country.

Happy time, yes, and yet I am furious, enraged by the lawlessness of Bush and enraged by the Eloi stupidity of our Washington elites and bovine press corpse. Patting themselves on the back for looking out for themselves, their well-connected pals, and how that's been achieved on the backs - and the blood - of honest Americans.

A little over 13 years ago I made a stupid mistake, I was busted for possession of a small amount of meth. For that I received a felony that has haunted me ever since. Fortunately, my current employer only asks about crimes from the past 7 years so it was overlooked (aside from speeding tickets, my record is spotless the past 13 years). I didn't lie to a grand jury, I didn't out an undercover CIA operative, I did my time like a man and put my past behind me. Fuckwit Bush did not commute my sentence.

Before I collapse into a shrill and incoherent rant, I'll let what Keith Olbermann said tonight speak for me:

And now, when just one cooked book gets corrected by an honest auditor…

When just one trampling of the inherent and inviolable “fairness” of government is rejected by an impartial judge…

When just one wild-eyed partisan is stopped by the figure of blind justice…

This President decides that he, and not the law, must prevail.

I accuse you, Mr. Bush, of lying this country into war.

I accuse you of fabricating in the minds of your own people, a false implied link between Saddam Hussein and 9/11.

I accuse you of firing the generals who told you that the plans for Iraq were disastrously insufficient.

I accuse you of causing in Iraq the needless deaths of 3,586 of our brothers and sons, and sisters and daughters, and friends and neighbors.

I accuse you of subverting the Constitution, not in some misguided but sincerely-motivated struggle to combat terrorists, but instead to stifle dissent.

I accuse you of fomenting fear among your own people, of creating the very terror you claim to have fought.

I accuse you of exploiting that unreasoning fear, the natural fear of your own people who just want to live their lives in peace, as a political tool to slander your critics and libel your opponents.

I accuse you of handing part of this republic over to a Vice President who is without conscience, and letting him run roughshod over it.

And I accuse you now, Mr. Bush, of giving, through that Vice President, carte blanche to Mr. Libby, to help defame Ambassador Joseph Wilson by any means necessary, to lie to Grand Juries and Special Counsel and before a court, in order to protect the mechanisms and particulars of that defamation, with your guarantee that Libby would never see prison, and, in so doing, as Ambassador Wilson himself phrased it here last night, of you becoming an accessory to the obstruction of justice.

Tomorrow I'll celebrate the ideal of what my country promises and try to forget what it has become under the corrupt leadership of George W. Bush. I wish you all a joyous Fourth and may God have mercy on our president.

No cure for the summertime blues

This has been a long time between posts and I wonder if there’s really any reason to post. Over the past few weeks, I’ve wondered if I should continue this – I’ve felt like I have nothing to say, that there’s no real reason for this blog. It’s not that I’m miserable or anything, Quite the contrary, I am happier than I have been in years, perhaps ever. The job I have now (although not in my field) pays very well, is employee-focused, and doesn’t send me home limp and emotionally shattered. I’ve been dating someone who meets and exceeds every quality I’d associate with the concept of “soulmate” (it doesn’t hurt that I also find her stunning, a goddess). So much of this blog has shown me whining about how dismal my life has been and I was all too ready to spill that out here on your screens. Now that things are one big ice-cream sundae, I have been tight-lipped, as it were.



Part of that is superstition. Funny how an atheist like myself will give credence to silly beliefs but honestly, I am afraid that I write about the good things, I’ll somehow jinx that by merely making it real here in the blogosphere. Maybe that’s from a deeper belief that what’s good in my life is merely a dream and that by writing about it will shatter the illusion but I’m circumspect about going into detail about those aspects of my life.



I’m also trying to write a novel and that seems to be drawing energy off of what I’d normally expend here at this little dive. As notes and sketches come together, I’ll give the three or four of you who read me a little preview.



And finally – is there a mixmania! Going on? I have to check my archives, I’m pretty sure we had a cool theme this time but I’ve spaced stuff out here (for reasons I mentioned above).



Hey, it’s summer – too nice to be inside on the web or composing blog posts. Enjoy the weather.