Original Gangster *

My friends, I'm not your everyday type prankster. Sure, ten years ago, I used to listen to rappers flow, but since then I sat back, thought up a new track, and set the dial on the guide to whack. And upon being set to the aforementioned setting of "Wack," the Crazy machine hath wrought the following social foible:

The people who employ me have decided to send me to Reno, Nevada, for a 3 day session of learning.

Yes, dear Reader, this is a shocking development, as onto two statements it layeth the burden of proof:

a) There are people who employ me

and

b) These people think sending me to Northern Nevada is a beneficial experiment, towing the capitalistic idiom.

So there shall be a brief respite from this here narrative until such time I return from my journeys, replete with wisdom and pregnant with the promise of tommorrow.

Cause they got my back and I got theirs too.. Fight for the streets when I'm on Oprah or Donahue.

Until then, if you have any lucky numbers, leave them: Gambling does occur in said parts.


* All photos not taken by yours truly. In fact, yours truly longs for the day when he , like Bea Arthur, could ever be considered a "handsome woman."

Some Folk'll never lose a toe.. But then again, some folk'll.

Yes, the fecundity that somehow applies itself to thine own narrator has become.. incarnate. Much like some aspiring young North Eastern United States blog folk (and then again, some foke'll) doth aspire to be Gawkered, gazed and grazed upon by the digital tentacle of Le Grand Pomme, your humble servant hath been, in a word, CONSUMED.













Ironically, mine own comments, uttered onto the site of of one who creatively dissects, digests, and discards such detritus, hath been used in the very format of a Testimonial, fellating the capitalist mothership Gillette, whose stadium I doth adore, and whose products I utilize and vehemently prostelytize. Patriot, I.






On an unrelated note, I've been waking up everyday coughing like a young collegian. Februaryitis hath spread to my soul; Beer and a Bong Hit, Two Bits.

A Portrait of the Artist as Yours Truly

Spurned on by the silent retreat of a setting sun sparingly silhouetting a silver Mercury Sable, I recount, and thusly, relive the weekend past.

This not a tale, I daresay, of failure or regret. Following this weekend, dear reader, only feelings of redemption and salvation pollute my otherwise morally bankrupt thought stream.

Gumby had risen from his chair, ending a dissolute period in which he stared lifelessly at his plate, ignoring la nourriture before him, subsisting solely on beer and cigarettes. Alas, t'was near hour 144 when his inner motivator rose, like Sally Field in Norma Rae, begging, nay, demanding release from the shackles of sloth and indignant, wasteful relaxation therapy.













Recently, my sporadic Video Game Addiction once again reared it's ugly (yet personable) visage, tempting me with the opportunity to free a long dead (but personally betraying) King and lift the burden of his Seven Sorrows. As I am never one to turn away such charitable callings, I responded in the affirmative to his beckoning, and through Gauntlet: For PlayStation II, myself and three other warriors heard (and heeded) the call of, responded to, and ultimately made humble the aforementioned Sorrows, and all was free and clear upon the land. Mine own sorrow, however, is one to which I remain an unerring, enduring servant.

When battling life's real sorrows, one needs to summon ones' own inner warrior. Why stop at just one, when three other such fine specimens of warriordom are available?













In calling upon the three warriors, I invented a beverage entitled either the eponymous "Three Warriors," or the "Cherry Bomb," which may or may not already exist with such a name, but certainly not the combination of Southern Comfort, Rumpleminze, and Jagermeister, all straight from the freezer. And wearing capes, wielding straws and plastic flamingo stirrers with reckless abandon.

Summoning our own inner beasties made manifest outward expressions of this variable (but vibrant) warriordom.













Ellsworth, the driver, decides to saw the top off a keg.


















Achieving spectacular results.














I retreat to my inner artistic warrior's secret hiding place, Kadath, to create part two of the atrocity: Custom glass top piece..


















... To create a horrifyingly childish but wholly original gravity water pipe.


















Unfortunately, we are prone to Dolphin Abuse; and this poor fishy is on the receiving end. There's something about making a dolphin smoke out of a Gravity Bong that, well, contains elements of an unattainable, yet painfully sought for, earthly salvation, and for that reason, I endeavor to create and photograph such atrocities.

Because it's been that kind of week (or three), another creation fell through the tubes into the oft erratic womb of universal birth, and from fire and earth was made:


















Aforementioned Ellsworth the Driver waxes philosophically (and, of course, lyrically) about his newest culinary creation...













Hot slop, which fortunately for us, brings forth the conditions of redemption, gastrointestinal cleanliness, and not just internal but overall unspecific excellence.













Pasta.. Beans.. Vegetarian Chili.. Bread.. Pizza Crust.. Cauliflower.. Carrots.. Blue Cheese Olives.. Two Year Old Frozen Homemade Turkey Soup..

Harbringer of Hope, Solemn signifier of a day gone by but pregnant with the promise of a dawn yet to come and dreams made possible to fulfill, the waxing colors of dusk fade fast, a streetlight it's sole witness, discreetly mimicking a New Gibbous moon, itself a lunar charlatan.

96 Hours Later

The Rhyme of the Ancient Mariner

Gumby in the morning,
Sailors Take Warning..

Gumby At Night,
Sailors
Delight.

The Constant Gardener

.. is not me.













The Constant Gardener.. IS HE.














Accepting said statements as truth, Our gardening protagonist knows one or two of life's basic tenets:

Digging holes..














.. And using tools..














doth a harvest yield. *














He also ascertained through sheer Darwinistic and Karmic Social Evolution that dealings with Well Dressed Men, such as those demonstrated in the following photograph, lead to one inevitable, and unenviable veracity:














Dead men tell no tales..














.. but can still remain au courant vis-a-vis their accoutrements with only a tasteful black tie and accompanying captain's hat.

* Actual Tangelo harvest from back yard.

Steppin' Right Along Like It Ain't Nothin' Baby

Will the wealthy, sleeping denizens of the "Hotel Del," as they call it, arise from their vaguely satisfying slumbers to find the bloated, salt water filled corpse of Conor Oberst lain before them, slain by an erratic, unintentional byproduct of malaise: thine own true author?

This is but one possibility suggested to me by one impressive young commenter, straight out of Dixie. Or at least North of Dixie. But as a certain Robert "Robbie" Robertson once suggested, nay, sang, Dixie was driven down.



Ain't no "Sherman High School" in Virginia.

But if there is, I'd like to shake the hand of any man who attends, stare him deep in the eye, and, with bucolic airs of theatrical disdain, grimace, uttering only these words: "Thou art not a man; you forsake your very heritage. Your ancestral pageant shamefully turn their backs, staring silently downward, bemoaning the fate of their own progeny's progeny. "

I once spent time in Richmond, VA, at that time the murder capitol of the United States. Of America. My old friend, an alumnus of the University of Richmond, lived in a three bedroom with four others, one of whom lived in the unfinished basement, on a cot. He ate chicken backs, because they were the cheapest food product going, purchased from the local Grocery chain, Ghetto (community) Pride.


The most common point of suicide in San Diego, CA, is the Coronado bridge. You can see why. To me, I don't know, it doesn't make me want to end it all. But like they say, San Diego may be pretty, but (alledged suicide hotspot) Ithaca is GORGES!


You Cornell / Ithaca peeps are loving that one. Lighten up already. Step away from the gorge. It'll be alright. Might be cold, though. Bundle up.

The Loss of Greatness, the Realization of Dependency, the Fight to Keep it all Together; The Awareness of and Hope For Love, Acceptance, and Victory.

20 cans of beans, corn, or vegetarian chili. One loaf of high fiber, whole grain bread. Box O' Triscuits. A cumulative total of over 200 grams of fiber, veritable cornucopia of cleansing power.














This is what it's going to take to cleanse myself of this wasteful weekend, to purify the putrid essence of failure currently tainting my tasteful sensibilities.

As a lover of colonic functionality and regularity, such efforts are los very lynchpins to mine own existence. And speaking of exodus, movement of Ja colon, how about the fucking ShitberBowl XL? And Extra-Large bowl of Excrement, for thine own bemusement? Perhaps a side helping of Balls Across the Nose?



Even Gumby decided to expand his potential range of defilement.


Radio London reminds you. Go to the church of your choice.





Witness the mounting of sea beasties by Claymation Royalty. Discreetly approve such activity.

The time has come.. my friends.. to talk of many things. The demise of favorite sites.. The love of others not reciprocated. The tangentinal referencing of those who will not reciprocate. The Utilization of a word twice in sequence, or at least the root of such a word? T’is unremarkable.. yet meaningful, at least for those who desire to comprehend, nay, understand, the missals which I emit. And do I emit missals? One could say. And one would be correct.

You see.. there came an interesting moment this evening wherein I heard a song.. that fucking song.. which I have heard too many times in recent days to dismiss as mere coincidence. That song was “We be going down, bitch” by Fall Out Boy, or at least that’s what I title said song, because in my universe, in which you all live, I control naming. And naming, what a subjective right! You are all named TED, NOW! Ted McfuckingGinley, of Married With Children fame! And I am getting wit’ Kelly Bundy, bitches! Can you stop me? Not in my universe! NEVER!

But I digress. And when there is a digression, there is a GLITCH in the matrix, NEO! Oh wait, no, t’is not the case. But that song.. I have heretofore ignored it, as if it were anti-thetical to my goals, life force, and general interests. But I found, dear reader, that there was a verse with which I found kinship. And that verse, I must say, contained the following words, “Sugar, we’re going down swinging.”

Admittedly, such an amalgam of letters is not usually quick to trigger my sympathetic sensibilities. But I thought it original, as if the writer, in a Neil Diamond-esque Brill building moment of clarity, stated, “You know, if we is going down, me brothers, us droogs is going down swinging. And in a blaze of glory, Bon Jovian, Samborian, and then thou shalt be laid down in a bed of nails.” And such spaketh the Bon of Jovi, Don of things.. futurisque.

Avocado and Hot Sauce Sandwich (on high-fiber bread) : Official Gastrointestinal PeaceKeeper of the New Centennial.

And so I made my peace with modern music. (DOLL STEAK!) For this evening. (TEST MEAT!) And in this evening, mis hermanos, so much has been.. subjective. I went to a local bar, which does happen to offer my favorite beer on this here planet, Pliny the Elder. And being a “Liberal Arts” kind of person, I was analytically attached to the progression of time. And I drank. And drank. And left, to return to my domicile.. only to find.. But one hour had passed.

Being so.. inspired after only one hour of consumption, I cracked a Becks and sat down at l’ordinateur, to determine the course of events passed, current, and forthcoming. And wouldn’t it be fitting that one Gordon Sumner, alias of Sting, spaketh such..

Tu ments.. Ma soeur.. Tu grise ma coeur.
Je pense.. tu sais.. erreur? Jamais!
Ecoute! Je parles.. Je ne comprends pas bien.
La belle dame sans regret.

And then there was a wall, Dear Reader, into which I ran. Considering my available options, I shook my head, smiled, and came to one conclusion. There was but one option to which I should myself avail: The Gravity Bong.

This has got to be the saddest day of my life. I called you here today for a bit of bad news. I won’t be able to see you anymore because of my obligations..and the ties that you have.. We've been meeting here everyday. And since this is our last day together, .i want to hold you just one more time... when you turn and walk away don’t look back.. i want to remember you just like this.. lets just kiss.. and say goodbye

This development inspired memories of a time not frequently acknowledged but nonetheless experienced: High School statements. And one which you will completely envision, and declare wholly true and thusly original, “Dad,” spaketh one young friend of mine, “You could have done better than Mom.”
“I know Son,” respondeth said paternicus, “I know.”

These utterances have I heard.

And so with the current champion of Green, inspiring visions unseen (and those… unclean) dominating the annals of perception

“(Marie’s the Name of) His Latest Flame” Elvis Presley, Some Fucking Greatest Hits Collection

suddenly entered into the realm of the Pod of I and thusly I was transported, nay, propelled into a moment of diffused ridiculum.

This girl was in my arms and swore to me.. she’d be mine eternally..
And Marie’s the name.. of his latest flame.


And suddenly all similar progressions and veritable transgressions were underdone, yea, baby love me.. yes yes she does, spaketh The Neil..


















And with a wink and a knowing nod, Gumby sayeth to all: Peace out. Thanks for the memories.