MR.HYDE, FORD POS, MIDGETS, AND JIM BEAM

“Here's the first of the day, fellas! To old D.H. Lawrence.”

With that line Jack Nicholson made Easy Rider a movie for me. Never mind the “get your motor running head out on the highway" thing. Looking for adventure was just a swig away. And then Jack took a big swig from a pint of Jim Beam whiskey.

“Indians”

We have to remember what this has to be all about. What indeed? It seems that running around like a dickhead, with no purpose and no place, kind of gives off the idea that things are looking rotten in the state of Denmark. Speaking of fun loving rotten states, I’ve bought an ass pocket whiskey. It is Jim Beam, and in some circles, the Beam goes further than any sort of beer, whether on tap or bottled or canned, and sometimes, even further than a joint, a line, a fuck, a suck, a cigarette. All the good stuff, you know. The stuff granny said would make you go blind.

Tonight is nothing special. I’ve got work tomorrow and after careful examination of what I can be doing with this life, granted I was thinking in a more present sense – as in RIGHT NOW, the options were rather limited. It looked like two were on the table. To drink or not to drink, that is the question. Shakespeare is spinning in his grave. The answer was always to drink. But once in a while, the latter becomes more viable. Not out of some weird righteous trip, but out of the pure fact that this can’t go on forever. It gets boring after a while. I mean ignorance is bliss and all that jive, but fuck – how silly can you get? Not to mention having breakfast with your liver next morning.

It was time to take the reins of this life. I’ve said that before but I wasn’t sure that I meant it. The kicker, the slammer if you will, was that the filthy “World’s Finest Bourbon” stared into my eyes and with practiced bravado uttered “Who are you fucking kidding?” You bought it you drink it.

Sad truth it was.

But this waste of breath on mediocre meditations about the futility of humanity was not at the helm of this trifle. Far from it my well scrubbed, well bread friends. This was about the lazy summer evenings followed by painful summer mornings. And we were stuck in the middle of the fiery pit! Soon the blood hounds would come out and twist and charge at our ankles. And we were wearing loafers. What the shit? Painful memories come out.

Bastards!

Faster you bastards! Drink that pit poison and get ready for Mr. Hyde. Yes – even in this day and age we struggle with that Robert Louis Stevenson story about leading double lives. The drink, of course, that Dr. Jekyll should have been drinking was Jim Beam. That wouldn’t produce Mr. Hyde, but rather Asshole, the man-beast with razor sharp claws, and a healthy slur that puts the desperate housewives of America to shame. Or Mr. Snide – the fuck-mouth of this generation; the crazed lunatic who jumps through hoops from nine to five, but after dark he puts on that wife-beater and lets the remote do the talking, amongst other things. And when Columbo comes on – this man is toast.

Sorry with the Columbo references. It must be that fucking POS (Piece of Shit) car he drove. What the fuck was that? Like a dilapidated junk 1959 Peugeot 403 Grande Luxe Cabriolet – or so I’m told. Geez. “Denis Leary and Peter Falk walked into a Starbucks and shot 27 people, without any announcement whatsoever.”

I had my share of bad cars. And all the men out there have that one beauty of a car that they lose by sheer stupidity.

There was a Ford Festiva – which was basically a go-cart with a hood. Geez, that car was small. That was back in HS. And while everybody else drove decent rides, I was taking hairpin turns and danced on the hood of the beast on every occasion that I had. Hey it was a FESTIVA. It was a car so small that midgets would laugh at it – and not to have anything against midgets – hey they have high standards – and God bless them. (I don’t go for that little people thing. They know what they are. Midgets. Bless them and their little hearts. There should be a Gidget Midget)

Then we went to Mitsubishi Galant. Sure it was good – but my pops rode the fuck out of it, so by the time I go it, it was dilapidated. Just like Columbo’s car. Fuck that car – it froze to death during some hellish winter ice storm, after I parked it in some questionable neighborhood, because we were “shoveling snow for cash.” Yeah right.

They say that beauty is in the eye of the beholder and owning a 1976 Plymouth Volare rubbed me the right way for a change. Geez – I loved that car. It was not a muscle car – but it felt like one and looked like one. It had that nostalgia factor sprawled all over it, so I loved it. Ted Nugent and Stranglehold on a 1976 FM radio with dual speakers and a love seat that was used frequently – dude – it didn’t get better than that.

So I crashed it into a parked SUV. Lesson – don’t get attached to material things. Especially if they are a kick ass beautiful awesome eight cylinder gas guzzling thing of metal beauty; as you can see there is some resentment about that deal.

Now I have “just a car” - nothing more nothing less. I treat it like I treat my toothbrush. It has a purpose and it better fulfill it. Otherwise Oral B is a store away.

You know you’ve hit rock bottom when you make Columbo references. In a way it’s like sucking dick for crack on the corner. Then again – maybe it’s not quite that bad. Not that I know about that shenanigan, but it seems like a pretty desperate and low thing to do. And for crack, nevertheless; not for something worth while you know – like rent, or tuition, or a car payment. Shit – if that would be a possibility cocksuckers would be everywhere. On second thought – we’re not that far from that parable. Cocksuckers ARE everywhere.

Oh yeah – in the store, in the parking lot, the backward cocksucker alley, the library, the expressway, the movie store, the record store, the hair salon, the bank, at work, on TV, in the three branches of government. Hell – there probably is some cocksucker blogging right now. Hey wait a minute….

Hello?

Alright time to smoke a Marlboro and revamp the circuits and get ready for a brand new day. A day filled with…we’ll just have to wait and see. Cheers.

Where's the white glove?

I'm not one to use the term "media circus" lightly. With that said, what the fuck was going on in Santa Maria, California? And the tears ladies and gentlemen, the tears that flowed like rivers on the fans faces, as they hugged and threw confetti around when they heard the verdict. But now the media departs.

Some 2,200 journalists get to go home, away from the story that has ZERO relevance to the world. They covered what we wanted to hear. How fucking stupid are we for caring about this stuff?

Pretty stupid - I even watched the E! Trial. How dumb was that? I even watched Moonwalker because I found it in my basement covered with cobwebs. Just to re-experience Jackson before he became extra weird. I saw Thriller and realized Michael looks worse now then he did in that video.

But Michael is free now....

Let's take a moment of silence for that(and curse in our minds for a change)since every other lunatic and whistle blower already made so much noise it is tough to sleep.

"What about his next album?"

Yeah what about his next album? The Post acquittal Boogie? Stranger in Neverland - or the story that begs to ask the question - Where are the children? Can anyone differentiate between the artist and the media whore anymore? My dog gets less attention - and I LOVE MY DOG. Cute little thing. She'll look at you as if she understands your pain and is ready to swallow every inch of it in her cute puppy heart.

Has Justice has been served?

I don't know. It just seems that in this country the more famous you get, the better odds you have in court. "But Michael is innocent." Maybe so - but I still wouldn't send my kids to Neverland. That's why I like to call it neverland - the land that you will never go to Skip.

When O.J was found not guilty there was tension. A guilty person was found innocent. Martha went to prison and it was "poor Martha." Michael gets off and we're like - eww get that away from me. "It's black it's white." Hey Mike - you're right I don't know what color it is anymore. I don't care. The thought of you riding alone, in the front cart, on the roller coaster makes me a bit uneasy.

Michael Jackson will forever be included in the kaleidoscope of human behavior of the shit you don't do when you have a lot of money. One look at the 90's on and Jackson is tabloid central. Freaks of nature - Jackson returns from space. Dude - If Coca Cola doesn't produce an alcoholic drink and call it Jesus Juice - then someone is not doing their job. There would be winos from here to Kentucky, lining up to get some Jesus Juice.

Shit - you can get evangelists to push this shit on TV.
"And the Lord saith onto thee ... oh yeah today's Lord is brought to you by Jesus Juice by Coca Cola. A revolutionary and holy drinking experience. Goes well with the Eucharist."

And I know it's chic these days to spit on poor Michael. Ya know - maybe it's time for him to give up the spotlight. A lot of people have done that gracefully. Corey Feldman comes to mind. Even Corey Haim. Macaulay Caulkin has done it. Then there was that whole Party Monster thing - but okay - Macaulay can still come out and play.

Did you notice this? As soon as the news came out that he was innocent, CNN pulled the mugshot picture and replaced it with a different one. A more stoic and more innocent Michael Jackson. I guess that's to give the man some dignity back. If he would be guilty - guess what? Nothing would change.

There would still be people crying and hugging each other, and throwing confetti around. And the media circus would love it. Never mind the war in Iraq, and the other horrid shit this world has to offer, at some point in time last week, the world asked the question - is he guilty or not? That followed with "Because I'm sick and fucking tired of this guy." Beat It.

Torrents of shit jobs.

Not to be overdoing it a bit, but... FUCK! Summer is heating up, the ladies are on the prowl - doing their...well whatever it is they do in minimal amounts of clothing (let me guess - shopping) - and I'm already knee deep in concrete and fucking paint, and hammers, and tool belts, and grime, and cedar wood, and various kinds of saws, and compressors, and nail guns, and other things that they push on ya at Home Depot. Fun shit - for about an hour. Then you're like, fuck, even reruns of Columbo sound good.

The thing about construction jobs is that, granted, you do some things that others don't get to do. Drilling holes in conrete. Cool. Playing in the dirt. Hey I was a child once. And there are things most people know a little something about - doing things twice - well you don't see me jumping for joy!

"Take that apart."

"What do you mean?"

"You did it wrong."

"How?"

"What are you a journalist? Just fucking do it." This usually follows with a combination of expletives not even making sense. Fuckitty Fuck Fuck type of things, or "Fucker fucked it up so bad we are all fucked like fuckers strung out on fuck day for no fucking reason - kiss my ass." Ya know - the world is my oyster when I have a hammer in my hand. What?

This type of work reminds of Multiplicty, with Michael Keaton.

"I'll hit you so hard, I'll kill him" - Doug 2

Listen to this. That's what a typical day looks like at the job in the summer.

Quotes.

Sometimes at the worksite, you do feel like there should be more of me running around. And I don't mean that in some harrowing version, where I slice myself in half on the table saw, and still work as if nothing happened.

"Do I get double time with this?"

Why would anyone want this shit job?

Building decks is pretty cool. Must be something to do with creating something from nothing. American Dream in action.

Yeah.

"The American Dream ain't what it seems, with lies they laced it, can't you taste it? See they've laced it" - KMK

Laced it with what? Embalming fluid?

Sho, shos.