The Crass Menagerie

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Location: The Promised Land

This is my triumphant return to the lifestyle I've always furthered and forwarded in my heart, at least, so let's blast off. The first half of my life has been incredible and the second segment will include more splendors than any Ottoman Sultan could ever have wished for in his golden repose. Anyway, fasten your laughter belt cuz you're on a collision course with wackiness.

Thursday, August 31, 2006

Knocking on the Ninth

Our labors earn some of us a three day weekend and we mark summer's passing, even though there are three weeks left on the calendar. That is the case, more so, I believe, in southern California where the dusty days blaze away long after the rays linger in the haze with no relief for the dismayed. Bone Jour Boutique
Sit up! Speak!
Beware of Greeks
Let the fat man wet his beak
If you honor the winning streak
Things will be better next week
And you dig it, you little freak

My spirits rise with the moon which is a comfort I can't explain
Survival is different in the west
I'm learning about trucks
When the next rain comes, I'll drink champagne
or the Spanish equivalent
Time to manufacture some runs
Moderate brilliance is nothing for which to apologize
Breathe deeply, when you're able
Dodge a bullet or tempt a tiger
Those are my words of life, Ten Bears, or my words of death
Maybe I should rethink and reload


At the turn of a coin I am enlightened
The best women increase my opacity
But I accept the danger
Before thinking a few moves ahead
With a Latin intensity that would please my forefathers
I can only suppose
So I fight the good fight
And remember the working man
Without resembling him too closely

Monday, August 28, 2006

Calling Squiddly-Diddly

This was my conspicuous entry in to Santa Clarita, a Stepford-like community tucked away in the hills above Los Angeles and the neighborhood that claimed my tendon. Still, I held no grudge and a fine time with family long absent was had and there should be more pictures here instead of the freakshow that follows but I'm not an octopus, I can't do eight things at once. In fact, show me an octopus that can perform multiple tasks at once. Where are these helpful arthropods? I could use one.
Since squids have ten legs, wouldn't they be that much more efficient? Or is it absurd that an animal could perform ten tasks at one time? I leave that to the scientists. I'm no politician, thank God. But it seems, certainly, that there is something more romantic about the octopus and the number eight but in honesty I think the ladies, if pressed, would say they prefer the line and design of the ol' squid. As always, we welcome all comments here at TCM. Hyuk, maybe I'll get confused hits now.
Beyond that, what are the questions of tomorrow and who will ask them? All answers lead to more questions but conundrums aren't my business so I'll look for a bigger picture as I start the next cycle and adapt like a cave fish and my eyes will fall out and I'll never miss them because we're all in the same dimension when you play it that way. Who needs to see where there is no light? Well, some people I know but there is a choice for every being and the way we approach that choice is what gives us identity and higher standing in the eyes of mother earth or the hairy thunderer or miscellaneous. That's great.
Perfumes tie a man to a time and place in his life like few other fragrances and sometimes the rush of memory can be powerful to withhold and withstand. A candle now makes me think of a hotel where I lived for a month, over seventeen years ago. It was an excited and happy time and I like the transportation ignited by flame to wax. That's s what the spectre of Luke does to me, and some Christians but I can be benevolent as well if not more so, by God. Hail Mary.

Thursday, August 24, 2006


California is the Golden State and Nevada carries the name of Silver. I just passed an anniversary of the first time I ever saw the Grateful Dead which took place on August 22nd, 1987 at the Calaveras County Fairgrounds made famous by frogs and Mark Twain. There were hundreds of events that randomly led up to my running across the Dead that summer, most of which was spent on a cross country spectacular with world renowned artist, Joe Peery. Loaded in to a convertible 1970 VW bug, deep pumpkin orange, we set out from Atlanta and shot west with few set destinations, mostly National Parks and geographic oddities. On the road we had a nest egg and after that it was either get jobs or go home but we were camping mostly and had family sprinkled all over the country and could pay surprising visits and get clean and rested and full.
To move on, the bug collapsed in San Jose, California but luckily we were ensconced at Joe's brother place and could relax and work on the car which meant totally rebuilding the poor engine. Having happened upon some deadheads in a VW bus in northern Nevada we had found out about this festival that the Dead were playing and Santana was going to open(what a double bill!). Joe's brother, Ray, loaned us his car which was a nice new 280 Z which we were flabbergasted to be driving and roared into San Francisco at about 115 up US 101 on Friday night, the 21st. We looked for some live music in North Beach and found a little blues club that was a cool place to down some beers and then ate chinese takeout on a sidewalk 'round Chinatown before heading back for a few hours sleep. We forced ourselves up on a Saturday morning and popped in the Sex Pistols to get the blood up. We had precious little to smoke but kick started the long journey ahead and we were flying over the rolling golden hills with giant wind mills reaping the winds that coasted down through the valleys. Our destination was Angel's Camp which was just south of Yosemite and north of Bass Lake and it was my job to plot the course east.
The roads dwindled from superhighway to four lane to two lane and the cluster fuck started. About twenty thousand of us were all pouring in from the same direction at the same time and, like Woodstock, the roads weren't built to handle it. We had a six pack of Dos Equis in the car and the last two were warm going down. Crawling along in traffic, I rolled up our last bit of beautiful California Green which had been a thing of such joy and beauty to us gawkers from the southeast.
At this point the horrible thing was not knowing how much furthur we had to go and the afternoon was starting to crest. Joe made a quick decision and just jumped out of the car and I had to hop out and run around to drive while he just took off running ahead, making better time. For a good half hour I just crept along and wondered what the hell was going to happen next as I choked down the last sip of warm dark beer. That's a good spot to stop off and finish tomorrow, just like an epidsode of the Wonderful World of Disney or Batman. You decide!

Sunday, August 20, 2006

Ham Handed Harpooners!

Sorry, my faithful little dinosaurs, but I'm in the hushed Hollywood hills now and using a Mac so I had to choose these cheeseball icons and I'm not really sure what they are so it's a crapshoot. They just come out with these file names so I picked a couple that sounded a little interesting but my expectations are not high since these little gizmos came with the computer. But let the mighty guitar and the blue dog drive me to greatness and keep my foot from falling off which is a tale yet to be told. Regardless, the hole episode is treptagorious, a word I just made up but means every bit of what it sounds, though I'm not looking for trouble on this occasion and I find no joy in pointing out that fact at this time.
What makes a man query what makes a man a man? It just irritates me but I go on be cause they do. They go on. Who can identify that quote first? It's tricky, just a fragment, like this crazy city they call Los Angeles and the Hollywood hills are highlighted like christmas trees, tapering up to the brightest stars.
And what doth a hollow body make? What maketh a body hollow? Which ghosts that enter the heart never find a way beyond? Shylock is a classy name for a scumbag but I say it stays in the picture, whatever the beasts at the Globe are howling over, return their two shillings if you must. Purpose eludes me at times and the debilitating injury puts it that much futhur away but damn these torpedoes, wherever they came from they can just go right back and tell 'em to tell their friends as a future warning to all civilizations, great and small, deep and wide, furrowed and plained, steeped and rotund, garbled and pointed, razed and featureless, and so forth. We will work with you. Hey, I've got a great headline if Michelle Wie ever wins the women's British Open: The Royal Wie!!! Patent pending on that one although I know fully well that it will anger certain readers that I made myself laugh with that last gag. It was a good laugh, too.
The hills are quiet and a Space interlude deadens the vacuous caverns of the mod house clinging to Saint Ives Drive, just a few feet out the front door. Alas, there are no ice cubes tinkling in my cocktail glass to echo down the canyon to the boiling humanity below but the stairs would make that a death sentence anyway and my survival at this point is certainly in question. Perhaps the river Styx didn't cover all of me when I was a baby. Curse you mother, you forgot the heel. You could've used tongs or something. Fuckin' irony. After all, tinkling ice cubes on summer nights are the mating call to the serial murderer so maybe I'm at least saved that disrespect. They wouldn't kill me, I look too much like one of them.

Monday, August 14, 2006

Truckin' to a Higher Conciousness

I do believe that truckin' can lead to harder and better things and I intend to prove that in the spirit of Levy pants and I know that my own personal Night of Joy waits for me on the far side of tomorrow which is just right for a full time dreamer like myself. The world needs laughter, if you believe Mr. Spock or a Jewish comedian- wait, they were actually one and the same.
Meanwhile is a great word but be careful how you spend it because the things that are interesting in life are the valuable ones. Ideally, the little red rooster won't crow every day, even though I've never had any complaints with commonplace, another great word. Still, I have to watch the ditch diggers, even though I feel like lending a hand and putting my back into it, I have to be Dr. Smith and hobble off with the robot and Will Robinson which would be fine if I were a homosexual pedophile with a taste for the rough stuff but I'm not and my own brand of carnal desire remains shelved until furthur notice.
The world feels very quiet tonight which is relative but this corner of the cosmos has settled and a black throated wind stirs the palms. One less helicopter makes a bit of difference but it's something else. Jungle rhythms have silenced and there will be no snakes on planes, whatever anyone would have you believe, so I take the plunge because the season calls for it. There are times to be contrary but I don't believe this to be one of them, with so much added security complicating the bigger lies that were invented some months ago, so I YIELD. I knew it. No one was listening. Maybe Dr. Tongue.

Thursday, August 10, 2006


One of the things I love about L.A. is some of the oddball stuff you don't see just everywhere, like Felix here of Big Felix Cadillac and Chevrolet, just look for the Big Felix from the 110 Freeway! This is right around the corner from where I work, just south of downtown and I pass it at sunset, for now, as I start my northwest journey to Hollywood. I still get a kick of looking at the exit for the Hollywood Freeway and think, "Mmm, that's my exit." Goofballs, everyone. As I sit here tonight I only have satellite radio for music as my internet signal goes in and out like so much good love-making but bad for the music streaming, you see, so I have been listening mostly to the '40's music with the big bands and the Cole Porters and the Duke Ellingtons but tonight I looked up some different options and settled on a station with the dubious name of "Lifestyle" which nearly scared me away but the description was intriguing. The first thing I heard when I tuned in was Mozart followed by a pretty piece by Paco de Lucia, who I had the good fortune to see play live once, and then they played "The Knife" by Genesis, live. Well, I think I'll stick with this one for a while. Next they played a little number by Tony Levin. Not bad. Between this and Steve Jones on Jonesy's Jukebox on Indie 103.1 FM, which I admit is an amazing station and had given up hope that commercial radio would ever be this good again, I have a nice music blend around for a fine soundtrack. Now I must survive the latino CDs they play at work but I actually am able to shut the sound out so it's just like sitting in a Mexican restaurant for six hours a day. Back when I airbrushed t-shirts at Six Flags over Georgia we had three different stores around the park and whichever one you were assigned to was the one that you'd have to hear the looped soundtrack for that area for the duration of the shift so some were more desirable than others. Usually the third time you hear a song in a one hour period is the one that sets you off but after about four hours of it you don't even hear it and process other junk. There were also times when we would take "breaks" down by the tombstones where the railroad went through and these respites kept the beach scenes and the color schemes fresh and fruity. I can't believe I said that.
But, Felix, indeed. I tried to capture Cadillac Felix but he came out blurred as I was in a car in the dark and I couldn't just hop out in my condition. No, my hopping days are behind and before me. May we all have that bright a future! Anyway, Chevy Felix below will do just fine in a pinch and I'm sure he'll tell us what to do. Which would make a better name for a son: Cadillac Felix Aguirre or Chevy Felix Aguirre? They're both pretty fucking good names.

Monday, August 07, 2006

Der Zorn Gottes

Have I sunk this low or risen this high? Only time will tell with brutal and tendon-snapping honesty from which none can claim safety. There's no need for any "claim" and I do know what they look like and it wakes me in the night with sweat staining the pillowcase and if I wore knickers, truly, they would be bunched.
My left leg does a new trick every day and soon it will teach me the lesson. The magical rebuilding cells are repairing fresh new little tears and clinging even stronger to the newly reattached fiddle wire. Soon it will know strength beyond compare and will take a name before setting out on its own, looking for that special lady. Sydney or the Bush! Indeed. Hmm, that's the second Charlie Brown reference I've slipped in in the last two posts which I think is a good sign of positive horizons, if that makes any sense, and I welcome all to this theological seminary. Anyway, interesting that in this particular reference, the Bush is yet again a BAD thing and a place you wouldn't want to find yourself. Look deep within your SELF! That is a little hokey.
The lord loves a Working Man, I'm told, and I want to believe it but the Bush crime family loves working men too, minimum wage, minimum life support, minimum thread count, minimum of two drinks, et cetera. I didn't want to be Tom Joad when I came to Californee but one good twist of the extremeties has put me in that place where the little man cries out at night and I don't like it here with this crying little man and I want to go back to my stately pleasure dome, dammit. I'll find a way. This is the Golden State.
This has been a glorious weather week but the hammer of August will soon come crashing down and reawaken murderous thoughts and devilish considerations. Whatever. Still, this week was what every tourist expects to come here and find. The kind of days where I'd pledge my allegiance to the sun and full speed ahead but I'm not making the greatest time at the moment. So I sit and wait and watch and think and smoke and nod and scratch and shift and gravitate.
The moon is scalding tonight and bakes the shades behind me which is good because a chill tremor of a current floats through the room on its way to the back door and the arboretum beyond. I imagine the grapes hanging outside are churning in their skins and developing their personality which we pray will be complex. The figs and avocadoes and lemons out back are falling to rot for the insects and the smell of sweet decay hangs in the air when the breeze can't find its way through because of the traffic.
This is the edge of crazy but experience and quiet resolve keep me from the abyss and we check the reading on the old charcterometer and hope the numbers look pretty good and we at least get a finder's fee, even if this is my deal. There is much adventure yet to be had and I crave it here in my fortress of squallitude. Godammit, I like that.

Friday, August 04, 2006

Joltin' Joe Schlabotnik

Some days the sails don't stir and the equator takes its toll but you stay busy on deck and hope you don't look like a steak to a scurvy dog hauling a yard arm and you could just kill for sip of sweet gypsy bourbon and that fiery draft of the first good yank during a golden sunset after trials brutally endured but perfectly executed which favors the compassionate, just like Allah who (CENSORED) so the world shrinks and angry waters will be an indefatigable foe by the time the Tricentennial rolls around which I'm surprised they're not hyping yet, seeing as it's only seventy years away which actually frightens me for some reason, like pitchforks have a real and useful function but the word conjures an entirely different image
in the long hot days of late summer but LA has quietly enjoyed a bowl of JELL-O existence and may the forecast call for more of the same special novelty like the long lost semi-toxic super elastic bubble plastic which I'm sure would stick to your soul!

Tuesday, August 01, 2006

That's not the Goose

"What black magician conjures up this fiend?" It's fun to be right but you never imagine it could be as pure or as fun as this Mel Gibson insanity. It's so complete that I almost feel a little guilty, like this was so easy that it wasn't a worthy battle. Do Scientologists drink? Oh, if only. I know that the magic spin has begun but I can't wait to see how they're going to treat this one. Will they go with the predictable Barbara Walters exclusive where the commercials show her asking, "Are you getting the help you need?" or will this be the interview that puts Jimmy Kimmel on the map. Can't you see it, with Jimmy's girlfriend Sarah Silverman on Mad Mel's other side, on the couch and talking about the love he has for all races and creeds. I'm glad I have a good creed, not to get creedy. Then I remembered The Big Lebowski and wondered what the life of a Malibu cop must be like. I'd like to imagine one of them throwing a mug at his forehead but that probably did not occur, sadly. Stripped to the bone, the funny part is seeing the bully who hides in the robes of religion unmasked in the current reality show that plays on all four major networks and the news outlets so there is no escape for him or the rest of us. May God have mercy on us all. Enough of that for there will be more than we can swallow in the future where you are reading this at your leisure and possible dismay.
On this night there is almost a hint of a chill in the air... no, an actual cool flummox that eases the tension in the goonads which impedes casual activities and passions. My rehabilitation has begun and I now try to pick up pennies with my left foot which seems very cliche but this is Hollywood.