Concert at Vampire Beach

I'm sitting on a haybale near the summit of a tall grassy hill.In front of me the hillside descends steeply,cliff-like for twenty yards or so, before abruptly becoming a long, gradual sandy slope.At the bottom there's what must be an absolutely gigantic stage, (although it's tiny from this vantage) backed by what has to the Pacific Ocean. Overhead floats a block-long dirigible in the shape of a cartoon pig. I wonder if this is a Pink Floyd concert from the Animals tour. I hope so. That was a damn good show.
Whoever's playing, I must be Hot Shit to get seats this good.

"You must be Hot Shit", says a familar blonde vampire using a fake British accent, "to get seats this good."

Damn. It's Spike from the old Buffy the Vampire Slayer series. He's reclining on a chaise lounge and drinking out of a brown bag. What's he doing here?
Wow. There's lot of people here. I'm glad this isn't one of those "omigod, I'm naked!" dreams.

"Well,"I reply,"It is my subconcious. I don't remember inviting you 'round".
Oh shit. I'm speaking in a cheesy Brit accent too. I hope I stop.
He doesn't seem to notice or care.

"Fancy a snort, mate?", asks Spike.
"No, thanks. Trying t' quit."
"Suit yerself", he says, swilling away, "y'wanna know something? Just between us?"
"What's that?"
He wipes his mouth on the sleeve of his trenchcoat, muffling his reply.
"Beg pardon?"
"It's all bullshit", he repeats, clearly this time.
"Bullshit?"
"Yeah. This bloody vampire crap and all the muddleheaded idiots who get all gooey reading Anne Rice and sleeping in coffins and the like. You won't see me sleeping in a coffin, nooo...not enough wiggle room ,ya know", he finishes by nudging me and winking.

"Spike", I ask,pointing upward at the blazing sun, "shouldn't you be on fire or something? You know, the sun and all that."

"I told you it was all crap. Here hold this a sec if you will," he says, removing his coat and handing it to me,"I'll show you."

With one hand, he grabs his forehead and removes his face. It's just a mask.
Underneath, it's the guy who played Jesus in Mel Gibson's gay torture movie. He's wearing what looks like a diaper. The bottle is gone.
Too bad for that, I think, suddenly ready to start drinking again.

"Excuse me", asks the imitation Christ,"but which way to the stage? I seem to be having a spot of trouble seeing."
He's got blood in his eyes from the crown of thorns he's wearing. Given the sunny weather, a ballcap would be more practical and a lot less painful.

I notice that Spike/Jesus' trenchcoat has changed into a clump of tissue paper. There's a wet spot on it. I don't think it's snot. Gross.
I get ready to throw away the sticky mess when I remember bloody-faced Jesus. I'm not a believer, but I'm not a monster. I'm not gonna let this poor dude wander around a cliff half-blind , son of God or not. I find a dry section of the kleenex ball and wipe his eyes clear.

"Thanks, man", says Jesus as he heads downhill.
"No prob." I'm left holding a nasty kleenex that's soggy with the blood and jizz of Christ.
I am going to make a fucking fortune on eBay.

A few minutes go by and Jesus walks past, this time heading uphill.
"Forgot something", he mutters.

A moment later he passes again, downhill, only this time he's got a cross on his back. It looks like he's fake-staggering under it's weight, like it's a styrofoam prop. At least no one's whipping him. Someone presses something to his mouth, but from here I can't tell what. It might be a sponge, or maybe a pretzel. The soft kind that's good with mustard.

A woman's voice calls my name.
It's Willow, also from the Buffy show. (What's up with that?)
"Hey. I've been saving a seat for you" she tells me , patting the empty side of her haybale.
"That's hay alright", I quip stupidly, sitting down.
"Everyone's here", Willow informs me, gesturing with her arm. Sure enough, the whole Buffy cast is scattered throughout the crowd, along with every character on every show I've ever watched, including Ultraman-the real Ultraman- and Joe, the fugitive German Shepherd from the short-lived Run, Joe, Run Saturday TV show. (Joe's real name was Heinrich)

Willow passes me a perfect joint. Oh, yeah-that's the Pacific down there alright, I think as I briefly vanish into a sweetly skunky haze. As my head rush subsides, I wonder who's playing.
I ask Willow.

"I dunno. I was hoping you were."

"Really? I was hoping you were- that musical episode was funny as hell."

"Ooo...look!"

Down by the stage, a group of people are dancing around a large bonfire. As we watch them dance, a wall of fog begins rolling in. The dancer's shadows get larger and more distinct against the mist as the fogbank thickens; in moments we are encircled by swaying, weightless giants. I have never felt more safe in my life.We are protected by beauty and power.

Willow says, "wow".

I agree.

Will You Marry Me?

Using a public forum for a marriage proposal is a strange thing.We've all seen it somewhere- some guy popping the question to his gal during halftime at Giants Stadium; renting billboards on his intended's daily commuting route; grabbing the mic during a papal address, etc.

I couldn't do that, even if I had the resources to do something like interrupting a football game.

I can picture it though- at halftime I'd have it all arranged: First off, Led Zeppelin (including a resurrected John Bonham) reunites and performs 'The Ocean', after which I lead my amazed beloved on stage .
One hundred white doves are released.
Jimmy Page hands me the ring.
I get down on bended knee.
She starts crying and whispers...

"We need to talk."

In front of 70,000 people and a live TV audience, she tells me that she's in love with the home team's quarterback, then dashes onto the field, embracing him.
The crowd goes wild! This moment is replayed over and over again on every news and sports show for days, nay, for weeks.. I am thrust into stardom using the Pete Best Method...

Nah, that's not for me.

Howzabout the Web? I bet that's been done before. In fact, there are actual for-pay sites that help you along with the virtual courtship process. Strangely, the methods advocated by this site sound eerily like cyber- stalking:


1)Create a website asking your beloved to marry you. She'll be able to share it with her friends, family, attorney and sex-crimes detectives.
2)Send her an eCard that will be delivered to her at work. Every day.
3)Set a reminder to popup in her Outlook every fifteen minutes and have it be a proposal (or a wedding date suggestion !). Better yet, download Bonzi Buddy and let it remind her. Watch her eyes light up.
4)Put it in her Palm Pilot. Heh heh.
5)Send a text message to her cell phone once an hour.
6)Send a wireless email.
7)Send her a text message on her cell phone asking her if she got your email.
8)Is she always working at a computer? Set up the screen saver to be the proposal, and be there when it pops up. To do this on a windows machine, simply right click on your desktop and select 'properties'. Click on the 'screensaver' tab. Select '3D Text' and then click 'settings' to change the text. While you're on her PC change all her settings to your own preferences. Read her email .Tell her she better get used to it. She'll thank you later.
9)If you are on an online message board, forum, etc, ask her in a post or put it in your signature.
If you are in a chat room , remember to invite everyone in the room , including Sexieyez363436.
10)If you met on the internet, propose via e-mail or instant message. Now is the time to explain why you don't look exactly like the guy in the photos you've been sending.
11)Encrypt your proposal into a Sony-supported computer virus for her to find when she turns on her computer. A yes/no window will appear. Clicking "no" will cause complete OS failure. So will clicking "yes".


There's gotta be a better way.
Skydiving comes to mind.
On the way down, I'll casually produce a printed note asking the Question.
If she says "NO" , I'll just unhook my chute and plummet to my death.

I'm kidding, of course. It's really hard to remove a parachute harness in free-fall.

It's a moot point anyway. I haven't had a date since my high school prom (1984). Actually, I didn't go to it. My girlfriend was older than me and we had better things to do, none of which included marriage plans, although I did receive several funeral suggestions from her dad.

Since then I might as well have been living in a monastery.

Still, maybe one day I'll meet someone special- as unlikely as that seems, it could happen. Before I got sick,I always used to think I'd just wake up after a five or ten year drug and alcohol binge and find out that I've got a wife , two kids, no job and a two-digit credit rating.

I've seen it happen. More than once.

Ask my brother if you don't believe me.

Three Pies

There were more pies than people at Granma's table this year. I think the good folk at her church consider pie a sacrament. I'm cool with this idea- it meshes well with my worship of The Great Pumpkin.
Many pies were delivered unto Granma this year.
I was her only guest, however.
Her youngest son went to his Florida time-share. I didn't know he had one. He probably doesn't, I bet he just said that so he wouldn't have to visit his mother. He doesn't like to visit because she can always tell when he's drunk and he's always drunk.
The oldest son, my dad, lives with his mom but has been MIA (Missing In Alcoholism) for five weeks. No one knows where he is. He's been doing this as long as I've been alive, probably longer. (He didn't know he had twin sons until a week after we were born)
A few years ago, I would have tracked him down and made sure he wasn't dead; nowadays I just don't care enough to bother. My Granma knows this and doesn't ask me to intervene. I'm glad of this. I'm in no emotional shape to waste my time with Dad's crap. Again.
She doesn't know that I almost died just a couple months ago, and I'm not going to tell her, but she can tell there's something different about me. She asks me if my job is alright. Am I upset about a girl? Is it my stomach?

No, I assure her, I'm fine.

And then it starts.
No, I'm not fine. I'm sick and tired of my Dad dissappearing and leaving his 89 year old mother to fend for herself. He was too busy drinking to be a father and now he's too drunk to be a son.
Granma says he's depressed because his Social Security is almost zero. That's what happens if you never have a job.
You should have thrown him out years ago, I tell her.
The words sound cruel to me.
I wish I hadn't said them.

Amazingly though, she agrees with me. He's never learned to be a man, she admits.
It's just the two of us and it occurs to me that it's been a long time since I've been alone with my Gran. Usually she's got an audience of church folks and/or distant relatives I never recognize, no matter how often I see them. Not conducive to intimate talks.
Tonight, she talks to me as an adult and we work out some stuff that needed working. It's a realistic , pragmatic conversation about what the dead require from the living and why it's important to her that certain things are done in certain ways.
These certain small things would mean nothing to anyone else, but they mean a lot her, so they are important to me.
I tell her I'll do whatever she asks me to.
She knows I mean it.

Driving home, I feel really good. Dark country roads and loud music playing. For two hours I don't think, I just watch the road and let the music do the driving.
It must have been speeding, because I'm home before I realize it- a 140 mile trip in just over two hours.

Tomorrow, I'm gonna play guitar and I'm gonna play it LOUD.

It Must Be True

According to Morgan Quitno Press, via CNN, there are only four cities in America more dangerous than the one I live in. To prove it, they produced this list.
My old staggering ground, the city of Balmur Merlin, is #6.
NOLA is placed at #8, but there's no indication if Katrina is a factor.
Chicago is not even on it.

I wonder how they came up with these rankings?
Where's the Windy City?
And who the fuck is Morgan Quitno?

The answers weren't very hard to find. Here's the methodology , along with a bizarre sidebar that begins with this:

Morgan QuitnoÂ’s annual rankings of crime in states, metro areas and cities are considered by some in the law enforcement community as controversial.

They are? Why? No shit?
Is this a disclaimer of some sort? The list relies solely on crime report data released by the FBI on six basic crime categories- murder, rape, robbery, aggravated assault, burglary and motor vehicle theft.
I wonder if this is the same FBI that apparently only has 200 computers powerful enough to run Windows? Did you know that there is a lack of Web connections at many FBI field offices ?
Personally, I'm glad to hear that last bit- I wish the government would stay the fuck away from the internet-but I can see how the lack of internet access could hinder legitimate operations- such as gathering crime statistics.

Well... of this list I'm quickly becoming skeptical, to say the least. And Chicago? This explains it's absence :

"Chicago and Other Illinois Cities: ...Submittedd by cities in the state of Illinois have not met the FBI's Uniform Crime Reporting (UCR) guidelines... According to state statisticians, the state of Illinois tracks "sexual assault," which includes not only female rapes, but also offenses such as male rape, sodomy, etc. For these reasons, Chicago and other Illinois cities once again are not found in this year's Safest City rankings...In the past, our award has received criticism because it omits Chicago in its rankings. While we understand this concern, it is our view that it is more important that rape be considered an important crime and kept in our methodology..."

This is just plain odd. Are they saying that "male rape" is less significant,statistically or otherwise, than "female rape"? It implies that "male rape" was not counted as a crime in the rankable cities. Does the presence of non-violent "sodomy" arrests skew the stats for the Quitno list?
Strange. I didn't know Chicago enforced sodomy laws in consensual cases(ask Jack Ryan) There shouldn't be many, if any , "sodomy" busts.
Says the University of Illinois:
"According to Illinois law, sex crimes involve the use of force or threat of force to sexually touch or sexually penetrate the victim’s body or forcing the victim to touch or penetrate the offender’s body. "

So a sodomy arrest in Illinois is a forcible sodomy arrest, which is really a way to say raped in a non- biologically reproductive manner. It's still rape and should be counted as such, but the Quitno folks seem to think that only "traditional" rape- between a man and a woman- lowers the local standard of living. Who are these Quitno fuckers anyway?

Not surprisingly, the people who rank the safety of our metropolitan areas are from freaking
Kansas.

What they do is collect information that is already free and in the public domain, repackage it and sell it for a profit. This is not inherently a bad thing- it's a useful service after all- but it is a for-profit company whose reason for releasing spurious "Safety Rankings" lists is clear: Promotion of the company's products.

Still, my beef isn't with Quitno- it's with CNN and every other MSM outlet that presents this sketchy list as "news" without bothering to check the background of the source. Or maybe they did, and just don't care. Wouldn't surprise me. (Check sources? That's sounds too much like journalism)

So thanks a lot, CNN. Now my grandmother is freaked out because her grandson (to her, I will always be 8-yrs old) lives in one of the most dangerous places in America. She'll probably call every night to see if I'm OK.

Maybe Sunday Won't Suck

Friday was supposed to be payday but it wasn't. The boss said payroll didn't arrive w/ FedEx because the plane had mechanical problems. It probably wouldn't arrive until tomorrow, which is useless to me since the office is closed. Boss hands me a print-out of the tracking# status.

I look at it. It says something about Airplane/Mechanical delay. Apparently my paycheck has to pass through Boston and Buffalo and a lot of other places I don't live before it gets here. Maybe the plane fell apart in mid-flight and my paycheck is scattered over three or four northeastern counties.

"What am I supposed to do with this", I ask my boss, "tear off little pieces of it and use them for I.O.U's ? 'Here you go- I'll pay you for the groceries as soon as I get my check-see, I got a fucking tracking #, so you know I'm good for it' ..."

Shit. I shouldn't have said that. It's not his fault. I actually like my boss, so I shouldn't yell at him, but I'm pissed. This is my fourth paycheck at this job and the second time that it's been fucked up. When is my direct deposit going into effect?

I had planned on buying lunch today, but I've got nothing to my name except a bus token. They're having some kind of reception or something downstairs, but by the time I find it there's nothing left but cheesecake, chocolate, tea and coffee.
I know that sounds good, but my newly-repaired innards can't handle a meal comprised of nothing but sugar, tannic acid and fat.

By the time I get home, I'm having pretty bad stomach pains, which starts me on a panic attack. I'm convinced that any second now, I'm going to start vomiting blood. I pop a bagel in the toaster and notice that my hand is shaking. I'm scared. No more hospital, I think. I can't go through this again so soon.
After some soup and a bagel , I feel a lot better. No blood, I just needed some food is all. Whew!
I eat everything that isn't labelled 9-Lives. I'm hungry.
I wind up eating nearly an entire jar of peanut butter for dessert.

I'd better get some rest-I've got a lot to do tomorrow.

Tomorrow arrives, becomes today.
I was supposed to meet and train a volunteer at the station, but they don't show up, call or email.
That's OK, I've got some work to do until our musical guest arrives.
The DJ tells me the band just called and cancelled.
No problem, I've got a dinner date tonight, so getting out of the studio early is good.

At home the phone rings. My date!
She has to go to her sister's house tonight because it's her nephew's birthday party.
Ok, so let's just go out later and have some coffee , maybe catch a band or a late movie.
Oh. A kid's party lasts that late?
How about next weekend?
What? You're seeing who? Since when? Yesterday, "officially"?
What the hell does "officially" mean, anyway? no... don't answer that.
Why'd you ask me out?
You weren't sure...great I just love being 'Plan B'...I'm sorry , I didn't mean...
No, no I'm not mad. It's really OK, you didn't hurt my feelings...of course I still like you...I'm happy for you.
Everything's cool. See you around, 'bye.

I'm such a fucking liar. I'm really angry and my feelings are quite hurt. I really don't like her new "official" boy and I'm not sure I still like her. I didn't expect this from her, not at all.
I'm not the slightest bit happy for her.

What to do? I guess I'll buy some food, since I ate everything in the house last night. Oh , wait. I'm broke. I didn't get paid yesterday.
Hey! I still have the cash I set aside for my date.

At the market I'm in in the frozen pizza aisle when I hear a familiar voice.

"Yoo hoo! Hey sailor, c'mon over!"

I turn around and there it is. Beer. Lots and lots of Beer. Winking leering Beer.
Demon bottles and devil cans.
Filler of Voids, Mother's Milk of Foamy Oblivion.
Beer.
One won't kill me, but six might.
Twelve would.
Let's look at it for a long time and have some unpleasant thoughts.
I wonder if this is how my uncle Steve felt right before he shot himself.
I hope not, because nothing that's happened recently is worth killing myself over. Not even close.
Whatever Steve's reasons were, they aren't mine.
I turn my back on Beer. I feel sick just thinking about the taste of Beer.
Hello, frozen pizza.

Maybe tomorrow I'll watch some football and eat leftover pizza. That wouldn't be so bad.

The Silent Type

I didn't feel like saying anything today, so I didn't. Still haven't. In fact, by the time I finish writing this it'll be 24 hours since I last uttered a spoken word.
I still went to work, had lunch and went to the market on the way home; I just did it all without talking. This was a lot easier to do than I thought it would be. It's almost easier than speaking.

A nod and a polite smile to the bus driver.
Wave at the receptionist.
Answer some email. Write some new letters.

I don't even have a phone at work. Only email. (It's pretty strange, but I like it, especially after working at Loan Hell)

The building I work in has about a zillion coffee/break rooms , so it was pretty easy to find one that was vacant. If I gained anything from my five-year career as an office temp, it was an uncanny knack for exploiting whatever resources the workplace has as far as fresh coffee, free food and quiet bathrooms go. My new favorite break spot is the coffee room on the Xth floor, which isn't even occupied by the firm I work for, but has a soda fountain.
I have a freight elevator key which lets me into every floor here(I don't think it's supposed to), and floor X definitely has the poshest digs- a plasma TV on the wall and everything! Very odd, but very cool.
The few people I've met there don't seem to know (or care) that I don't actually work there. I told one guy that I was in "Records", which was not only good enough to get me into their break room , but also into the football pool.
Every firm in this building has a Records department and no one ( outside Records) knows who works in any of them by sight. I should just put my email address on my ID. My work email address is someone else's name anyway. One day Automation will update it , but our IT guy never does anything except work on a project that looks a lot like Unreal Tournament 2004 to me. I've been using a brand new printer as a table for week now, but he's always busy. I don't care. I hate printing shit anyway. It kills trees.

I read while I ate and no one bothered me.

Some more emails. Emptied a physical mailbox. Put some crap in the courier basket.

Nod to the bus driver. Go through the self-serve checkout at market and walk home.
Whistle for the outdoor cat. He doesn't care if I talk to him or not, as long as he gets fed and petted.
No messages on the answering machine. That's a fucking surprise. Ha. Ha.
This no-talking stuff is getting easier all the time. I could probably go days or even weeks without saying anything.
Since my near-death forced me to quit booze forever, I don't go out anymore.
The only people I see by choice are at the radio station, and they are already used to me working with headphones on and communicating by pantomime because there's a live mic in the room. If there's a band in the studio, all I have to do is make a strumming motion and point at my ear (let me hear the guitar) or make a hammering gesture ( ok, now let's hear the drums) etc. Easy.

Despite all this,I'm fairly certain that I'll start talking again soon. I've been sort of strange since I got out of the hospital, but I think it's in a good way. I'm starting to actually enjoy my sobriety. A lot. My body feels different. It doesn't hurt all the time, for one thing. It also smells better.
I like my guitar and my words. I feel like being on stage again. (I'm much more at ease on stage than in 'real life')
Food tastes good.

Most importantly (I hope) , there's this girl that I keep thinking about. I met her at the station this spring and liked her right away. She's one of the kindest people I've met and she's got a powerful aura of wisdom that I am drawn to- she's very different than the aggressively manic-depressive alcoholic drug-addicts that I tend to attract. Drunks always wind up with drunks, I guess.
She deserves better than dating a drunken office grifter, so I never asked her out, but the last time I saw her she suggested that we get together. A beautiful woman asked me out? Perhaps this explains my speechlessness.
Today, plans were confirmed (via email, natch') ! I hope that this means that I am no longer a drunken office grifter. I'm trying to keep any other expectations minimal,
but I have a good feeling about her. She's the kind of girl who would never need to call you collect from the County drunk tank ("pick me up at 6am and bring $500 with you,please, waaah waahh boo hoo..."), which is a huuuge plus in my book.

I don't want to jinx myself with wishfullness, but I just had to say something to somebody, ya know?

The Playground Incident

When my twin brother and I were growing up, most of the advice we got from adults was bad , even harmful. Many poor examples were set.( I could open a can of beer before I could tie my shoes-this was before the advent of pull-tabs and pop-tops) The world that my first adults lived in was a dangerous and unpredictable place; utterly unsuitable for children and "grown-ups" alike.Chaos reigned. Cars crashed.
LSD and stupid Maoist hippies.
PBR and homicidal Confederate bikers.
There was also a war being fought overseas, which made life even more perilous for the adults, who sometimes just disappeared and stayed that way. One kid I knew in first grade lost his dad but wouldn't admit it-he just said his daddy "was so" coming home. The adults told me otherwise, so one day at recess I told him that everyone knew his daddy died in the war, so he should stop lying. That was the first time I'd ever seen someone destroyed by grief.

I've hated myself ever since then.

I don't even remember the kid's name, just the sight of him- curled up on the playground asphalt with his arms around his knees; his mouth so impossibly large and red that it seemed to swallow his face- as if his entire skull were opening and closing noiselessly, just a barely audible strangling "aaaaaaaaaaaa" sound. It was the death-cry of his lost, last desperate hope, the agonized end of his innocence, of everything in his not-a-kid's-anymore world.
It was my fault.
A pair of teachers ran over, looking worried. At first they thought I had hit him ( he was at least twice my size) but soon realized that something was seriously wrong. One teacher carried him inside. I never saw him again. Maybe no one did.
I told one of the teachers what happened. She looked angry, then very sad, sad looking like people on TV, except she was right there, big and scary sad.
She started crying and hugging me.

I didn't know why. It wasn't her daddy after all, and I wasn't her kid. I just stood there.

I've hated myself ever since then.

Looking back, I try to understand her sad-beyond-sorrow pain. Was she crying because she had also lost someone in that war? Was it empathy for the stricken child? Or was it horror that I, at the age of five, knew exactly what KIA meant, yet had absolutely no idea of what death does to the living? I'll never know.

I don't remember when it started, but at some long ago point I started feeling a lot like that broken boy. I didn't look like him or act like him, but inside I was a deafening, silent scream; crying for all reasons and confusing it for no reason, or worse, the wrong reason. Or something. Don't ask me to explain the parts of me that are so dark that even I can't see them. Some things are better left hidden.

More recently, I feel more akin to the weeping teacher than to the grieving child. Maybe there doesn't have to be any ONE thing that sets off the tear bomb, maybe it's just a long, cumulative process and a sudden calamitous result, like long years of snow and one transient, transcendent moment of avalanche.
But snow can also be beautiful and it never really melts forever, so I keep going on, season after season, because I know that while each day may very well be my last, tomorrow may also be the first day of Spring, regardless of what the calendar says.

I hope it snows this winter.

G.O.P. (Gassing Of Puppies)

When the right-wing whackjobs get desperate, they get crazy. Truly out of their collective think-tanked, oil-puddled minds crazy. Haldol crazy.
Pat Robertson, unhappy that Jesus has yet to assassinate Hugo Chavez, has recently condemned Pennsylvania to suffer god's wrath because its citizens refuse to acknowledge Flat Earth Theory/Creationism as valid science. Note to Flat Earthers: Evolution happens. Avian Flu, which is currently receiving a lot of airplay, is a great example of evolution in action.
-- --

Ahmed Chalabi, whose Iraqi National Council sold the Bushites millions of dollars worth of fabricated pre-invasion "intelligence" regarding Iraqi WMD, embezzelled $300 million from Jordan, delivered highly classified U.S. intelligence to Iran and is currently being investigated by the FBI, is given a Hero's welcome in D.C. "Hero in error", indeed.

-- -- --
Guess what? The decision to invade Iraq was a pretty unwise move. Shocking, eh? Well, don't you dare tell Bush that he fucked-up. He's drunk and defensive and keeps saying looney shit like:

"While it is perfectly legitimate to criticize my decision or the conduct of the war, it is deeply irresponsible to rewrite the history of how that war began."

-Der Chimp, re-writing history

Remind me again why we invaded Iraq? I remember the gassing of cute puppies. Something about chemical labs mounted on remote-control nuclear gliders blowing up and smoking mushroom gun clouds, Anthrax smokescreens and way too much Rumsfeld and Rice, but most of all I remember the Puppy Gassing. Over and over with the gassed puppy video. Run, Spot, run.

To Bush's credit, I haven't seen a single puppy gassed since he started his war, which I guess means that we won. When he says, "we do not torture", he is obviously talking about puppies. No dogs were harmed in the production of the Abu Ghraib photos.
Can we go home now?

-- -- --
Dildo enthusiast Bill O'Reilly accuses anyone voicing antiwar opinions of undermining our troops and endangering National security and then goes on to suggest, even invite, an attack on a very specific American target by a very specific terrorist group. Why does Bill hate America? Why does he still have a job?

"And if al Qaeda comes in here and blows you up, we're not going to do anything about it. We're going to say, look, every other place in America is off limits to you except San Francisco. You want to blow up the Coit Tower? Go ahead."

-Loofah Lad, commiting treason and pissing off firefighters

Section 3. Treason against the United States, shall consist only in levying war against them, or in adhering to their enemies, giving them aid and comfort. No person shall be convicted of treason unless on the testimony of two witnesses to the same overt act, or on confession in open court. ( I think a videotape of a national TV broadcast counts as two witnessess)
-The United States Constitution, rapidly becoming irrelevant

--- --- ---

Things at home aren't currently so great for the Neo-Cons , but since they are still in charge, they are making damn sure things really suck for the rest of us.
This mess of a "benefit" was an obvious disaster before it was even rubber-stamped into law, but who cares? We've already accrued enough national debt to bankrupt a yet-unborn generation- why should we take it easy on old sick people? If they need some help paying for medicine, they can get jobs at Wal-Mart. Have a yellow smile and a blue smock for your Golden Years, Granpa. It'll be over soon.

We can't take care of our own people but we sure as hell saved some puppies from Saddam.

I never supported the Iraq invasion. Perhaps you did. We all make mistakes.
Are we better off now than six years ago? Five years? Six weeks? Yesterday?
Two thousand lifetimes ago?
Do you still think it was worth it?

If you do, enlist today- before Michael Moore gasses your puppy.

Things Happening

Had to go back to the doc yesterday- got an antibiotic shot in the rump. I didn't know they still gave injections in the other cheek, but they do. I feel a lot better today in any case.
Having 4 more years w/ a Dem governor helps. I'm convinced that Bush's last-minute campaign rally/endorsement of Kilgore was the deciding factor in the former Gen.Atty's defeat. In 2006 I doubt many candidates will welcome the support of this lamest of lame-duck presidents.
If I were Bush, I'd switch parties and support next year's Dem ticket. It'd guarantee a GOP sweep.
Our Radio fund-raiser was a rippin' time, much fun and open-house excitement- WRIR really has a cool, funky eccentricity that is unique in our town and uncommon in the world. We now have 4 local programs in syndication on a community station in Halifax-yay!
All the bands were great and a lot of fun to work with- except the kid who asked me why he sounded like a chipmunk when he sang. I told him it was because he was 13, but don't worry, it'd deepen when he got older. Well, it's true...he does sing like a chipmunk.

Dustin, our News Boss, won First Prize in the Annual Brunswick Stew cook-off- no easy feat, especially for a first-timer! Kudos!

One of my best friends is moving away soon. I think it'll be a good thing for her in the long run, but I will miss her. A lot.

The Mayhem Vote

I think I got the bird flu. Maybe it's south Nile virus or Legionairre's disease. Could be early-stage bubonic plague.
I think it's probably just a bad cold w/ sinusitis, but I took the day off because I feel contagious.
-- --- -- --

It's election day. I used a touch-screen machine for the first time. I don't trust it. I tried to find a manufacturer's tag and check it for security safeguards, but a poll worker came over to offer "help" when I started opening the rear panel w/ my Swiss army knife.


Dubya was in town yesterday to support the totally corrupt GOP candidates (Kilgore et al). Actually, W was at the airport 15 miles east of here- after a hostile reception rained on his South American parade he was in no mood to stay and chat, I suppose.
Given Bush's hard-earned unpopularity, I'm surprised that his endorsement was welcomed at all.
If Kilgore wins, he promises to repeal the ban on the carrying of concealed firearms in bars and nightclubs. Great combo. Liqour, guns and crowds.
I've spent roughly half my life in bars and clubs and have never encountered a problem that could be solved by the use of firearms*- except for those times when I was a little short on cash.
Can't pay your tab?
Rob the bar.
You've got a gun and you're so drunk you don't care about tomorrow, why not? It would be like Norm robbing Cheers , but so what? Live for the moment, damnit!
I'm glad I can't drink anymore. It's one thing to exchange insults with other drunks, it's quite another to exchange small-arms fire with them.

*I did have a 1980's-era gig at a club where someone was murdered, but it was a quick knife between the ribs , delivered from behind with no warning. A gun would have been useless. No one saw it happen, the guy just fell down and died. Unsolved.

Liner Notes w/Songs and Pictures v1.1

Note: no more Microlimp license BS on songs that I own the copyrights to. Licenses are removed now. They're my songs and you have my permission do anything you want to with them, except make money. (Special thanks to Jerry, by the way)


I want to get another band together.
Right now.
And play live, on the radio and the web.
But I can't (until tomorrow,maybe) , so I'll listen to some old songs instead. Let's start with a 1998 (or'99, not sure) performance by my old band, Polite Society. This song was written in the 80's byBobby Crockin , the drummer of another former band , Electric Whip. He was a schizophrenic who spent a lot of time locked up in Central State Hospital. He wrote this song about a fellow inmate, a gent by the name of William Whitelowe. WW had a real weird-on for hands and feet - I don't think Bobby liked him very much.
Bobby was a great drummer and a good friend when he wasn't flipping out. I hope he's OK, wherever he may be.



William Whitelowe
( by Bobby Crockin )

Allan C: Guitar, Vocals
Jerry Henry: Bass
Blee Child: Drums

Recorded live at Twister's , Richmond Va, date uncertain, by Jerry & Allan. Mixed by Allan.
Special thanks to Neil Young for letting me (literally) steal his thunder, if only for a moment.

-- -- -- --

2000 was one hell of a white-knuckle year for me. I had a great job, lots of cash and a girlfriend, Alicia, that I was completely in love with. I also got arrested later that year-five (5) Federal charges for two (2) roaches.
Somehow, I convinced myself that Alicia felt the same about me as I did her, not realizing that I really didn't mean very much to her. I wrote this song for her, finishing it just a few minutes before she arrived at my house. I was going to give her a nice necklace and a song to go with it. (I may be a loser, but at least I'm a romantic loser) "I've got something to play for you", I said, starting the CD.
Too bad she had come over to break up w/me. We weren't as together as I thought.
Bummer.
A week later, on my birthday, she called and asked me to meet her at our favorite drinkery for Birthday Drinks. I went , but she never showed up. I went home and re-recorded the guitar solo and added the crazy synth break. I haven't seen Alicia since.



Mistaken
(by Allan c)
Allan: Guitars, bass, vocals, synth
Roland Arfive: Drumbot

Recorded by me on my 8-track, Sept 8, 2000.
-- -- -- --

Speaking of getting arrested, if you've ever wondered what my blog would sound like if it were set to music, it would probably sound a lot like this "song". Going to all those fucking meetings was one of my life's lowest points, but this song was a "cult" hit among a select local AA crowd. Now that my probation is long-over , I can attach my name to it.



My Recovery
(by Allan C)

Allan: guitars, bass, vocal, synth and programming
Roland Arfive: Additional Botbeats

Recorded on the 8-track, summer 2000.
-- -- -- ---
18 months probation was what I got for crime against society. My body was so saturated w/ pot that I tested positive 60 days after my sentencing. I was looking at 5 years in Federal prison, a stay I was unlikely to suvive. I thought this might be the last thing I that ever recorded, so I made sure to outdo myself on the guitar. This whole song was wriiten and recorded in less than two hours- two scared hours.
I managed to get my probation officer to check the level of THC in my urine- as long as it continued to decrease, I was allowed to remain outside.



In the System
(by Allan C)
Allan: Guitars, Bass, Vocals,Percussion
Roland Arfive:Drumbot

The ol' 8-track strikes again.

-- -- -- --

Finally, back to 1998 and Polite Society. This 80-second song was my way of saying "fuck you" to all the poser kids who say old guys can't play punk. In reality, old guys (and gals) invented it.
This is the shortest song I've ever written.



Crowdpleaser
(by Allan C)

Same band as Wm. Whitelowe.

-- -- -- --

I hope you enjoyed one or more of these cheerful ditties. Thanks for listening,even if you hated it and fled after 10 seconds.
There's a lot more where these came from. Maybe I'll post more, maybe not.