Stiff Working

Seems that I'm no longer young nor have my health so a job is just what I needed. Just one day on the books (snicker) and I feel the satisfaction that the "working man" feels and it's my own brand of Miller Time and probably more satisfyin' but I neither compare nor despair but, rather, repair. Atta boy, Clarence. Dingaling. Check me out, I'm givin' out wings but without the zesty sarcasm. Jimmy Stewart's poetry is so bad... it almost makes you wonder if he was just lucky to get those parts in those great movies but I prefer to remember him volunteering to fly missions over Germany in WWII when he could've sat it out, a la Sinatra. I know, I'm a dead man now.
Das Boot has become an acceptable torment and I often nearly smash something with it out of reflex but I'm still my own man, whatever that means. Ladies, let me be your man. Doesn't it go something like that? Nevermind, but I get more exposure out of just muttering "Fester, bester, tester" than I do with my cancer cure which the big oil companies don't want released, for some reason, so I peddle my papers elsewhere which I always accept as a great journey. At least that's the way I grasp things at the moment so I'll probably load up my mattress with hardtack and if anyone can explain the significance of that I'll cough up a dollar but I won't eat a bug, no matter how it's served. In Hollywood, they serve insects. And waiters are constantly heard to apologize for them. It's truly a spectacle but if it's just one case then why isn't it a monocle? Good Christ, I've gone George Carlin and resorted to philosophical "bit" humor. My mom took me to the fabulous Fox Theater to see GC when I was fourteen. I knew he'd be funny but I wasn't prepared for the bombardment of energy that came from the enormous live audience from which he fed and my face hurt from almost two hours of staying in the same stretched chortle contortion. Truly it was one case of the show surpassing the billing. I look back reading this and see Good Christ right in front of George Carlin. GC, in this entry, is George Carlin. We didn't see Good Christ or the total enormity of it hasn't hit me yet. Damn, I hate non-clarity. Also, really there are very few bugs in L.A. You know, comparatively speaking.

Now it's traffic school
Gain or loss of faculties
Psychotic symptoms

Anyway, if the thunder don't get you then the lightning will, as they say, so I just make it a point to groove, always. Take a trip, yes, but cop out, never, says I. The growling prowling of the helicopters only enhances the experience.

Sure Flow

Sweet, merciful crap is the first thing that comes to mind on this night and the moon needs to go black, already, and get this party started. If you had a pebble in your hand I might snatch it if it would give me wisdom but it seems a little rude so I quietly collect rocks and the lessons pile up and I must be absurdly brilliant by now. It's a cozy 85 degrees of farenheit at 1:01 in the a.m. according to weather.com and rolling blackouts may well be in the future at any moment which would make it emergency time and the regular rules wouldn't apply, leaving me to wonder when this weather will break. I hope when we speak of the summer of '06 years from now that the crazy heat will just be a freak memory. Hope, hope. Speaking of Pandora, whatever became of the days of the psychedelic free-for-all when promises were broken to be made?
Well, I don't have a hover-car yet like I was promised in the World of Tomorrow and I'm beginning to wonder if I'll make it to the moon like a certain third grade teacher told me and the class that most of us would. I don't even warrant a hover-boot (patent pending) which would be covered in most health plans on civilized planets in the better galaxies which is where we all want to be. Still, my AIRCAST brand came with free mind control with evil/good switch setting. Under the circumstances, I was lucky to get it.

Take this job and restaff it!

A scorcher here in Hollywood as the mercury climbs and the sun has just reached the top of the sky and starts the daily fall into the ocean. The digits read 102 degrees of farenheit according to weather.com for this zip code and my abandonment of an afternoon nap after a sleepless night and rising at the crack of dawn to watch the British Open is my proof of that. I really hate that they (broadcasters and tournament officials) constantly refer to it as the "open championship" which I left lower-cased at my own discretion. This thing has been called the British Open for a century or so and all of a sudden, a few years ago, they started this "open" bullshit, like this is the only "real" open championship. Seems kinda stuffy and insecure to me to cop such a predictable attitude when so many children are starving somewhere and the only items available are perishable but I'd like to know what isn't, really. They're even having record high temperatures in Liverpool which makes it seem like the whole world is roasting in its own juices but then again it's always hot in Saudi Arabia where colorful robes are often seen stuck in the doors of Mercedes Benzeses and the children laugh and have their left little toe cut off for their insolence.
I guess the boot is getting to me again but it's too hot today to fight it and I yield to the dark side of course of force and try to stop the spinning... I pull out just in time. Sorry for the soft core pretensions but these are desperate times and I haven't figured out just which measures I'll go with but be assured that the journey will be its own reward, whether you collect or whether you pay. Just think, if'n I weren't holed up with a bum leg then I'd have to be out in this crap tryin' to hustle a livin'. I should just see the day for what it is: a blessing. Clearly.

Arise, Darth Hawkins

So now I am the man in the iron boot while my evil twin struts around like the cock of the walk, hated by everyone. He'd better be living it up, wherever he is. The boot has infiltrated my central nervous system and has set up communications with the cerebral cortex, which might be bad. So far it's not too serious. Strong in the ways of the dark side I find myself becoming. Break me a fucking give, to quote the New Yorker (David Denby or Anthony Lane, I can't remember which bitch). Almost zero hour, late, forty-seven minutes until the TNT coverage of the British Open begins. I have chosen Guinness for the occasion but I haven't opened the first one yet. This will be the best thing to fill the void left by the finish of the World Cup, but the Braves powerhouse roll has been a riot and long overdue.
The boot fills me with insane desires, many of which go unfulfilled for the moment. I am a different being with this expensive contraption strapped on to my extremity and must accept the inevitable consequences that go along with it. All right, it's 3:04 in the a.m. and I think I'm going to pour a tasty beverage and report on the taste. Wow, I guess you could say that it's "Guinntastic!" patent pending. Are you looking for the perfect computer for back-to-school? Damn salesmen. Say a prayer for Ernie Johnson Jr. who should be in Liverpool but is in Atlanta recovering from cancer surgery. The boot speaks:

Given a lovely cage
I inject myself
with Stockholm syndrome
I am a collection
waiting to escape
That's the fair thing to do
Hoping the world waits for me
Accept the reward
with grace and relish

Earlier, in the back yard

Fig leaves rustling
high in the twilight
Make me want to get naked
and put one over my penis
Marching around the yard
on my crutches

All right, time for another Guinnesscapade. I like that one.
The boot swallows my dignity as I swallow stout which harms no one with a level head. But my head begins to sway.

Why DON'T we do it in the road?

Creme soda is a beverage I enjoy while I'm on the shelf but I would like to put whisky in it if anyone can get me some. Have 'em rap it up to look like toothpaste or sumthin', you know, this young doctor has an idea he wants to keep me alive. I feel like the subject of an experiment to see how long I can stay confined in this controlled environment before I shrivel of malnutrition but I'm eating what I normally would which is bad. The room spins but it's not as fun as it sounds.
Not to be gross but I washed my left leg for the first time in a month and a half and it was like some effect from a Universal horror film or like the true identity of the real leg was stunningly revealed at the last moment.
It's to be two more weeks of crutches, you see, and that makes me growl but I'm doing the time that was required by the certain crime that I committed which was some sin, I suppose, so I'm doing that time and then when my sentence is up I'll try to come back better prepared for the battle of everyday existence. I hope that doesn't come off as wishy-washy. Meanwhile, the density of the atmosphere presses me into the davenport and Tina warms a spot on my already molten lap. This may be my mission but it sure as shit is Tina's house. The world seems very small which is a sudden opinion to have just after flying back from the southern hemisphere. But having my leg, alone, out of wraps and in water felt liberating, like I was on my way. Putting one foot in front of the other... Everybody sing. I would like to swoosh to the stars and I'm in Hollywood where the elite meet to eat treats on neat seats. In a few days we start British Open coverage which will be my first from the west coast of the United States so viewing will begin at 3:30 in the morning so what a fine time to be holed up in a shack with nothing but a little insulted micro fiber optical cable something or other. My early pick is Stuart Appleby so it's official and in the record. Anyhow, I'll hold off on opening the Guinness or Boddington's til near sunrise and then settle in for the drama. They're playing in Liverpool so I have to choose between the Guinness across the thin stretch of sea to Ireland or drinking the cream ale or "mother's milk" of Boddington's, the pride of Manchester to the north. Either way, a marvelous dilemma to have and I accept the danger that goes along with it. After all, I have Inquisition style rehab ahead of me so I accept one last swig of madness to keep me to the next summer day.

Brownish recluse

The California sun beats the house with a July fury that suggests the end of days but I am inside with cool air of fine manufacture. Might as well enjoy the ride, as they say but the fires o' hell leap and lick at bottom of my feet, such as they are. A "West L.A. Fadeaway" in all its searing irony and I take it because argument is best saved for the bigger fights. And what of Lazarus but I don't want to get into the death thing too heavy so I won't speculate on what he accomplished after he woke up and I want to live on Gumdrop Lane in a house made of Tirmasu with creme brulee used for sealant. Damn, I really do want that, sarcasm aside. Aw well, the vicious heat would collapse it on top of me, causing a sticky mess and only the first few bites would be enjoyable. And how do you win at tether ball? You see, these are the things I have to contemplate in the frozen moments of the summer of 2006 which seems to be going by in stunning black and white but I wear a red shirt as a symbol of protest!
Anyway, comforts are many and I just saw a girl running on plastic legs and she looked happy to be doing it so this is a fine spot to make a stand and let the storm blow over. What I want is to build my own big-mouthed burger and then I'll have it all. A signature three-cheese blend would be cool, too, but you hear a lot of shit when you're tied to the couch by an iron boot.... well, not the boot part. But what do you do when terms like "rib-sticking meals" are hurled at you non-stop and the cat looks like a little taco? What do you do?

The Four Winds Blow

Hollywood, USA and this part of the city has a low-lying buzz to it. "Rebels are we, born to be free, just like the fish in the sea." Truly, even on a Sunday night here, a low rumble subverts the cooling asphalt. In my charge is Tina, a winsome feline of black and white that has adjusted to the helicopters which are buzzing the neighborhood here on June St. This be a strange land of extravagance and adventure and something far below that but I prefer to think of the grand prix aspects in the realm of possibilities. The house is mine for a while and I am alone for the first time since my body began to fray. Ten minutes 'til two and things have mellowed. The day will be remembered as the day that Roger Federer won his fourth straight Wimbledon, defeating Rafael Nadal who will drive the standard ever higher. Also, Italia triumphed over France in the World Cup in a gorgeously memorable game with a beautiful light reloading over the stadium in Berlin. The Atlanta Braves won again the day before the break and we're ready for the heat of summer charge. Why don't you get on board for the big score?
In a relaxed moment, I don't have to think about the long distance I've traveled and I think forward to a fence to whitewash with two coats and I think of the sting of the sun in July in the south and the acrid smell of plant life. Instead I have the land of milk and honey and Hollywood with all the screaming souls.

Dark Star in the Park

Mr. B., that skeleton sure is a doosie! The Grateful Dead played Atlanta's Piedmont Park thirty-seven years ago today, 7/7/69. Give it a listen at http://www.archive.org/details/gd69-07-07.sbd.clugston.3116.sbeok.shnf Just another wave of nostalgia for the summer of'69. Meanwhile, it would be interesting to see worlds collide once in a while but that is a joy for another age so I'm shut out just before the All-Star break. One game, though, would constitute a winning streak and one is where life begins after, um, two, I guess and..

The screech of the night
On the quiet summer air
Secret source of strength

Georgia sixty nine
The lights of my memory
Better than today

The dew drip south has soothed me and I'm glad for my time here, odd as it's been, and I feel the pull of the west and hope someone else shall yet wheel me to a plane and deliver me to another wacky devil-may-care escapade triumph tour de farce. Start your engines and get off your tractors because if you do the work quickly then the walkin' boss won't have anything else for you to do that day. I think a walkin' boss blocks my path to the future which, of course, is where you and I will spend the rest of the day. Let's' start small.

Back in the U.S.S.A

That's the United Swingin' States of America, can you dig it, weirdos? Some Quisp suckin' ebay bidder is buyin' my Freakies and that's fine by me. Just when I thought life might not get stranger, something utterly standard came to pass and I floundered and was left to squirm on the beach, drowning. Yech. Sorry, but it's been a really tough day since I landed at six this morning. At least the flight to Hartsfield was big through the hips, roomy. I think I might return to fallible which would be an upgrade. I'm not sure what tomorrow will bring but I've looked into the abyss and I'm still hanging around. Hemisphere's were exchanged but existence remains the same, for now. Mother American night take me and renew the contract with a signature or brains, that's a true story.
I notice the sound of crickets for the first time since ... I'm not sure and I let memories take me to 1969 which I think it was around this date when we moved into the house on Reed Road where I now sit with all her souls present. The Grateful Dead also chime on with their offering from '69 from Chicago and I feel warm inside while cool Morning Dew accumulates outside, while the Dark Star takes it's turn, while Jerry chooses a path. Church is now in session but this is no death bed confession. A peace sweeps over me now and I play the cards I'm dealt. I still dream of Chile and Dean Moriarty and Rosio Reeve and The Thin Man and angels on my shoulders and the devils in the casino and a space being cleared for the stage at Woodstock thirty-seven years ago in a plush field while men walked on the moon above and Robert Altman was filming M*A*S*H. Embracing summer is no problem for me and I am prepared to simmer and swelter to keep the machine spinning in greased grooves to borrow a tad from Steinbeck, or was it Irving Forbush? I'm no politician, thank God, so I'll imagine I'm playing golf and stay sharp for the day that has to come and I'll cash in for big big money. Now if there was just Pretty Polly.

Sugar Shock

This fabulous puppet show was followed by the power rock fusion of Spinal Tap!! Not really, and the puppets didn't even get a dressing room. These are photos of the grand fiesta to celebrate little Jacinta's fourth birthday. There were many kids and clowns and games and inflatable wonders and and lots of sugar filled treats, this being Chile. I ate a piece of the cake and nearly went into a coma but there was wine to cut the experience down to size. If you click on the pic below you can make out your humble narrator, propped up in the back row. I liked the horse. Jim, if you're out there, please tell us what that's from, or anyone can take a stab if they like.
After the chairman of the board spoke and put all the little dollies to sleep, we grown-ups were still wired and talked long into the night about philosophy, astral projection, sex, sexism in Chile, art, karma, and then watched an episode of Family Guy with which I am poisoning the masses. Two friends of Felipe, Ignacio and Carolina, had seen Family Guy before and I asked them if they had seen the episode where Stewie sings Rocket Man, a la Shatner. They had. Then I asked them if they knew why he did this. They didn't know so I pulled it up on YouTube.com and showed them the original from Captain Kirk himself back in 1978. They didn't quite know what to make of that one but I had given them knowledge and they were grateful.
Today we regained a little sanity and by night were ready for a movie. Felipe and I met Flaco (the Thin Man) and his sister at the cinema where we saw La Corporacion (Le Couperet), a film by Costa Gavras. The chick at the ticket window assured my cousin that it was in english with spanish subtitles. Well, we sat down and a barrage of french came our way but it was very easy for me to make out the story even though it was complicated and I laughed at the funny parts, right along with everyone else. Meanwhile, when I heard I'd be meeting the sister of El Flaco I couldn't help but picture a woman seven feet tall with sideburns and a five-o'clock shadow. Of course that wasn't the case and she was stunning and delicate. I wish I had a photo of her to display but I don't think that will happen. Anyway, I'll be dreaming of her for a while which is a good thing.